#that triggers her to have terrible post partum depression

[fishybehavior]

What do you mean only Kai can experience parentification??

I'm gonna give Jay so much- *gets shot*

[phoenixfire-thewizardgoddess]

Any tips for an aspiring social worker

+Be aware of any of your own trauma. Dont be one of the people who think they can do therapy AND get a degree at the same time. You will burn out, there are hundreds every year. Please dont be the person in lectures who takes yup 45 minutes crying over past trauma every session; you need to seek counselling for that from a professional who can help, not from your newbie classmates.

You may think its an exaggeration, but No. Unfortunately, no.

This ties in to your own biases, what you are likely to take to heart if the person fails, etc. You need to work with your supervisor around clients that may trigger something for you; or reconsider the role you are aiming for, etc.

+Have personal skills, you will be making and repairing relationships often. You can’t be someone who is super introverted and unable to start relationships with the clients; because often you are going to be the one doing the Hard Talks about difficult subjects. It doesnt mean you have to be a drill sargeant, but it means you need to have the confidence to talk with anyone.

If you’re a bit shy, work on talking to people and even looking into little courses. You’re not needing qualifications in public speaking, but you do need to have yourself in a position wherein you can talk to someone, even a whole family, or even lawyers, and police. Via phone, video, face-to-face, etc.

+Have work clothes and home clothes. Also court clothes, if you work in areas that need it.

Wear smart casual, you need to look presentable but not be like, dripping with diamonds and playing ‘rich person ministers to the Poors’. It happens, they get told off.

DO NOT WEAR SKIN TIGHT CLOTHES. Or ripped skinny jeans, or have your cleavage/buttcrack hanging out. Please. Strapless backs and short shorts also no.

Students sometimes turn up in this and it is dangerous. Especially the ladies. Sometimes you work with people who are very dangerous, who will interpret clothing for consent, and/or have incredibly low respect for women. When something happens, they will point to the workplace dresscode and absolve themselves of the situation.

Do not wear dangly earrings, scarves or thick necklaces/anything you do not want taken. And if in a hospital role, there are additional rules about what can and cannot be worn (bare below the elbow rule).

Also, enclosed shoes. IF you are in a service that assists families with dysregulated lives, or in the hospitals, etc, you will have strict policies about footwear for your safety.

+Get the flu shot. Trust me. Do it. You talk to so many people, by the time one catches a cold and you start showing symptoms, you’ve seen like twenty people and they all have families.

+Be used to working to tight deadlines. They are always there, esp in hospital social work where you legit have to account for every minute of the day and patient seen on this awful little system.

We are understaffed in most areas, and you will need to work hard.

BUT, self-care is imperative. Even if it is only making sure you leave before 9pm each night lmao.

+Be able to let insults go. You are going to be dealing with people often in the worst part of their life, be it mental health, in the justice system, having their kids removed, being disabled and persistently denied assistance, having significant alcohol/drug concerns, people who have experience extreme sexual harms or domestic violence, people who are being stalked, people in crisis etc.

At some point someone will call you some horrific things, or threaten you, or make nasty comments about you, etc. They may try to make constant complaints, etc. And as frustrating as that is, you have to understand their frustration and anger and fear.

You do not have to sit there and listen to them swear at you, that’s not what this means. It means that when someone is heightened and calling you a cunt, or something more inventive, you don’t give them the reaction they want; you can acknolwedge that they are upset/etc, or give them space by ending the call/leaving the room.

Think about when something happened for you and it was the Worst and you swore or threatened, etc. When you are calm, it seemed ridiculous, didn’t it?  But that was you processing big, complicated feelings in the only way that felt right at the time. Same for them.

+You need to be aware that some clients have done or experienced terrible things, but you need to be open to the individual within the trauma. For example, someone may not be showing their emotional distress or pain or grief etc in the way you think they should, so you might discount it. When, someone who has gotten to know the client is aware that they tend to do ____ behaviour when they are having flashbacks, which is not a behaviour normally associated with the trauma.

Also, biases again.  Just because someone is on drugs and denying to you that they have a problem, does not mean some part of them isn’t aware they do have one. Relapses are common. Soemtimes it is about discussing what was happening for them this week that made them use again, what they could try next time, if they are using their support networks. And never putting them in the Hopeless box.

If you are really struggling with a client, lean on your team, talk to your supervisor and see what else can be done or if there is another social worker with more experience who can be involved even for a short-term intervention.

+Don’t throw jargon and insider terms around when talking to clients, it’s rude.  Explain things, use pauses so they can think.

+Look into the primary populations of your area/the area you intend to work in. Are there a high level of Indigenous persons? Refugees? People whose first language isn’t english and may need extra help with engagment?

What are your immediate thoughts (learned stigmata/stereotypes) about these peoples? How can you learn more?

In Aus, we work closely with Indigenous communities and agencies around social work matters. Making sure everyone is supported, heard, and can understand the concerns being raised/what is needed to help the client move forwards. There are many people out there who see this as ‘coddling’ or ‘unfair to non-Indigenous people’; but it is simply making certain that Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people are on the same footing as any non-Indigenous client.

And that cultural options are put on the table, such as having a family member step up to take in a child whilst the parent is not well; or trying a community-focused approach to helping with a drug concern, and using the right agencies so that they have appropriate supports.

Would it be fair to have a non-english speaking client in a courtroom without an interpreter? Why?  Would you claim that they should know english and the entire legal system bc they were in your country? Of course not, that’s absurd.  But some people think that way.

Would it be fair to ask someone in a wheelchair to file a form on the top floor of a building with no elevators, by 5pm, or lose their home? Why? Would you think they are complaining or ‘lying’ if they were able to mobilise a few steps without the chair, on a good day? That they were being ‘lazy’ and ‘deserved’ to lose their housing? Of course not, that’s absurd.  But some people think that way.

When the military put men into service in the wars, they made anyone who could pass an english test an officer and the rest priovates who would die first in battle. Was this fair? Why not? Because it ensured the rich white dudes with private tutors got the best spots (totally unqualified) while the poor, poc and refugees were used as cannon fodder. Many could have been good officers if the test was about competence, but it wasn’t. Some people feel this was fair.

There are still people who think they ‘did the right thing’ whilst participating in the Stolen Generations; but then, they also thought taking babies from single mothers was appropriate too. That women couldn’t vote or be trusted with money, that is was ‘kinder’ to take a stillborn away and dispose of it without the mother ever seeing... rather than let her hold them, and say goodbye the way she needed to. Not to mention the english children shipped over to Aus to be used as little slaves and cruelly abused by Priests and Nuns and ‘upright christian citizens’. Not to mention lobotomies for when people were too emotional/refusing to play the game. Forcing hormone treatments on men and women to stop their homosexuality or sexually abusing them to ‘fix them’. Not to mention all the Twilight births nonsense where they tried to remove the pregnant person from the equation entirely, and it kept causing post partum depression.  Not to mention... Not to Mention... NOT TO MENTION...

We have a lot of broken little old men and women and nonbinary (who do or don’t realise it) now, because of these “helpful interventions”.

You need to be aware of the harm that has been done, and aware of your own practice, so this damage can’t happen again and again.

Understand that your perspective and the worries/concerns you hold are often different to those of the client, because you are individuals who grew up in very different ways.

And remember, being a rich white person in a high paying job with good social standing doesn’t mean you can’t be charged for drug possession or have child safety knock on your door about the bruises you leave. Never think people are Above being awful, and never Assume people are because they are poor, a different colour, have not had your advantages, or have a disability/poor mh or addiction.

Clients are people, like you. Never think that you are above needing help too, one day. We all do, humans are built to rely on the group, on the social bonds we make from the minute we are born.

+Do you overreact to things? Sometimes a client will tell you about something that happened years ago, but they may phrase it like it happened yesterday (because of how it has returned to their mind, etc), and if you were to overreact to that immediately it can break the relationship/cause harm. You could say, “I can hear that this is very distressing for you, thank you for telling me about this difficult event in your life. Would it be alright if I asked you a follow-up question about when this occurred?” Sometimes a client will disclose things to you, and the goal is to remain in the conversation. They do a lot of this preparation at university, but you also need to have a personal ability to not panic off the bat.

+Ask yourself, is there anyone I would refuse to work with... and then examine Why. How would you react if a person like that came onto your caseload?

+Do not become overly emotionally invested in a client. It will be said in training over and over again, but you need to have clear boundaries; and being too invested in their success can hinder your ability to provide appropriate assessments for the client. Meaning they are not getting the care they need; which can sometimes be a harsh conversation about how you can see they are trying, but have backslid recently, so what is happening?

+Look at any internal biases and prejudices you may have. Did you have extreme mental health concerns that may make you feel more sympathetic to a parent or client, and this could blind you to the other concerns present? Didyou grow up rich and now have unrealistic expectations of what is necessary to be a good person? Do you think that all ‘those people’ should ______ ? Why?  Question yourself. If you find yourself stereotyping or pigeonholing someone as ‘just another ____ trying to _____’ stop. Think about it. Where did you get that idea?

+Be aware of professional boundaries, do not be friends with the clients, but don’t be cold. Always let your bosses know about potential conflicts of interest to protect you.

Like, don’t loan the client $5, don’t hang out at the cinema because they’re ‘a great person’, etc.

And be aware that you have more power in this dynamic, so you have to be careful not to abuse it.

+You need to be good at record keeping, and honest.  Everything you do is documents, referrals, reports, affidavits, forms, and a million little notes for this and that. It is imperative you are accurate, use the format required, and be honest. If you saying “Have you tried not taking drugs?” to a client sends them into a rage, you don’t write “Client was heightened and threatened me without reason at today’s session” in the notes. That’s putting a knife in their back.

”Client was triggered when I, the practitioner, made an inappropriate remark (”Have you tried not taking drugs?”) today. They told me I am a “fucking whore who should kill myself” and threw their chair across the room before leaving the building. I have discussed this matter with my supervisor, and we are going to call Client at 3pm today, to provide a formal apology for this statment and attempt to repair the professional working relationship, as they have been making significant progress with this agency until today’s event.” Whole scenario, tells the real story. You will make mistakes, but it is about being able to accept this and move forwards.

Accurate documentation is a must, may be needed for court.

+You will need to have a good memory. A good way of keeping little notes to unlock the full encounter when you write casenotes and reports.

+Make connections. Every client will need a support system around them, and if you have an inroads with different agencies, it will help them out. For example, if your client has drug concerns, then being aware of the agencies and counsellors in the region broadens their safety net.

Knowing the practitioners gives you someone to ask for professional advice around, say “Good Morning Kim, I know your agency handles Centrelink application often for non-english speaking clients. I have a client who is new to the country and is struggling to complete the financial aid forms, they speak Language. Would I be able to refer them to your agency, or will they need a more specific agency who handle Language -speaking persons?”

You have, in a deidentified way, sought help for a client through a known agency and can now refer them pending the answer. Etc.

+If you are not sure about something, ask your supervisor. They have several years on you, and almost all areas of social work prescribes to one or another Acts (legal requirements) which they are required to have a strong grasp on.

Get to know any legislation in the area you are aiming for. This will help immensely.

+Doing a degree gets you two fieldwork practicals, in different areas.  These really help you identify which area you want to go for; your main goal going into a degree may not be the one you settle on. Many people have an idea where they want to work and change their minds after their placements, or really feel connected to a different area, etc.

+Mostly, be certain this is what you want.

Have your own support network.

Be aware that you must uphold confidentiality, at all times. No posting to social media people, please...

Be aware that in small communities you are likely shopping at the same place as clients. Ask them how they want you to react when you see each other in public (eg. please don’t acknowledge me, or happy to give a wave) so they feel comfortable.

Don’t disclose personal information to a client.  There’s a difference between “Yes, I can see that you are having trouble with baby; I recall they get quite fussy at teething time, have you tried a cold biting ring?” and “My son, Chadley, is eight but when he was two he used to just keep biting the furniture and his poor teacher, Mrs Allyways! At least he’s grown out of it now, but I just know Bailey’s going into that phase soon, the dangers of having kids a few years apart!”

I know who your child had as a teacher, and now the school as well, esp if its a small town. I know you have two children, their names, and your last name so I could go get them from school if I wanted to. I know you work until 5pm, and someone could pick them up.

Etc.

Mostly, be a decent human being who does their best and doesn’t walk in thinking they’re better than everyone, and you can do okay. Have a good support network, use them, and seek help if you struggle.

Uni is drawn out and a bit boring, but you will get a lot from it (even if you only see it in hindsight).

[nowis-scales]

Hoshido Royal Family Headcanons

I love the Hoshido royal family. Thus, I think about them a lot. As a result, I thought it might be fun to compile a list of varying headcanons for them! The list consists of eight characters total: Sumeragi, Ikona, Mikoto, Ryoma, Hinoka, Corrin, Takumi, and Sakura. I’ll admit I was tempted to throw Kiragi and Shiro in there, but the post was getting really long... So you’ll see some headcanons about them another day. Same thing for Azura — I want to do some for her with the Nohr siblings! For now, though, I hope you will enjoy the list I have compiled! 

Oh! And real quick: trigger warning for implied/referenced suicide, under the final bullet point for the 2nd character. Please refrain from subjecting yourself to anything that might hurt you, and stay safe!

Sumeragi:

‣ Despite having trained and worked to be king since childhood, Sumeragi could never say that he really liked the position much. He certainly didn’t mind it, but... Sometimes he wondered if he was born into the wrong family. There were several occasions throughout his youth where he would sneak out to do normal kid/teenager stuff. This often got him into some very hot water with his parents, who didn’t understand his desperation for normalcy.

‣ He loved to show off. As a child and as an adult. He loved to show off most while fighting, particularly if he was fighting in front of women (Ikona and Mikoto, while they didn’t get along all that well, could both laugh at the theatrics he did for them). Once he started his family, though, that was his new favourite thing to show off. Every time he had a new baby, he would bring it to Shirasagi Castle Town the first chance he got. He liked to make sure that everybody could see and appreciate the new princes and princesses. This created a bit of a trend in the town where the royal children get doted on whenever they come visit. 

‣ He was fond of the sword even as a child. There were definitely options presented for other weapons, but one look at Raijinto and he... did not want to use anything but the sword. It was very much a “gimme” situation. He actually got to know Ikona due to the fact that she came from a samurai family, and her background with the sword interested him.

‣ His favourite thing to eat when he was alive was unagi. He didn’t really care how it was prepared; he just always found it delicious. Ikona, Mikoto, and most of his children did not share his passion for the dish... except for Hinoka. He used to joke that that’s how they knew for sure that she was his daughter. 

‣ His ‘type’ as a young man were sweet, sort of ditzy girls. Though he was betrothed to Ikona from a young age, that didn’t stop him from trying to have some... fun while growing up. Prior to their marriage, he and Fuga used to visit the Red Light District in an attempt to pick up women. It usually didn’t go too well for them, as Sumeragi tended to pick fights with sleazy brothel owners, but there were a few who admired his bravado.

‣ Totally terrible with numbers. Seriously. He was a counts-on-his-fingers kind of person. The worst part is that he pretended to be good with them, even though everyone could tell that he had no goddamn idea what he was doing. His parents tried to get him mathematics tutors when he was still young, but even they thought that he might just be a lost cause. It was such a relief for him when he interviewed Yukimura for his position and found out that the man was at least decent with numbers. Such a huge weight off his shoulders, that was.

‣ Part of what made him such a beloved king came from the fact that he was a people person. Super sociable, good-humored, and genuinely loved being with others. Plus, he also happened to be more of an extrovert, so he felt as if he gained energy from being around others. Being around him was just a win-win situation for everybody. He made you feel good in his company, and you felt good in his company. 

‣ Sumeragi wanted lots of kids from the get-go. He himself grew up in a large family (three older sisters, two younger brothers), and wanted to have a similar experience of bonding between his own children that he had with his siblings. Unfortunately, as he grew up, his relationships with most of his own siblings were sullied — charming disputes over the crown being the cause. Still, he kept in good contact with his youngest sister Kazuno, and his eldest younger brother Hiromitsu.

‣ He was actually a huge softie. A lot of people thought that he might be somewhat stern, but it was more of a mask than anything. He was actually pretty sensitive and cried a lot. He cried every time one of his children was born, as well as the first time Corrin called him “Papa”. He cried when he married Mikoto, too. He even cried after Ikona passed, in spite of their troubles. And for the very brief time that he was left alive, able only to hear the sounds of Corrin screaming for Ryoma and Ryoma begging him to get up, he cried then too. Not that anybody could really notice it. 

Ikona:

‣ Absolutely did not want to be apart of the royal family. She’d been betrothed to Sumeragi from a young age, but tried and failed repeatedly to weasel out of the marriage. Her dream growing up was to be some sort of court musician rather than a queen. She had no mind for politics, but she loved to play the koto. Though she never did get to pursue her dream, she did choose to play the koto into adulthood. She tried to teach Hinoka, and was disappointed to find that she didn’t care for it. If she knew that Sakura plays, she’d have been over the moon.

‣ Being apart of the monarchy changed Ikona as a person. Though she must have seemed that way as the queen, she was not a harsh woman. If anything, she was a bit like Takumi. Kind enough, but altogether had a tendency to hold a grudge. She was also a bit like Ryoma in the sense that she knew how to manipulate people to get what she wanted. She didn’t care to do it, but sometimes, that was what it took to stay afloat in a court she hated.

‣ A hopeless romantic. Loved to read romance novels, even wrote a few as young girl (although she would tell you herself that they were not very good). Her favourite trope in writing was childhood friends to lovers, on account of her being in love with her own childhood best friend... A young man named Takumi Kawagishi, whom everyone tended to refer to as “Gishi”. She wrote letters to him all of her life. He reciprocated her affection, but could never be with her on account of her marriage to Sumeragi. There was... even a brief period where Sumeragi thought that Takumi could have been Gishi’s son, rather than his.

‣ She resented Sumeragi for trapping her in an unwanted marriage. As much as he tried to have a relationship with her and make her love him, she refused to budge. Their relationship did not improve until Ryoma was born, and even that took Ikona briefly considering suffocating her newborn babe just to get back at Sumeragi. Thankfully for the kingdom and baby Ryoma, she realized how much she actually cared for him and how wrong it would be to hurt him just to hurt her husband. From then on, she vowed to love him... which in turn facilitated things with Sumeragi, for they finally had something to agree on. They both loved their son very much. 

‣ She hated the way she looked in colours like yellow and orange. She had red hair like Hinoka, and thought the colours looked atrocious when paired with it. Sometimes, she even felt pink was pushing it. As a result, she liked to ask for cool coloured kimonos. She particularly liked the way she looked in sky blue. It was the colour that she felt prettiest in.

‣ Ikona had a harsh opinion of the Nohrians. Her father had been involved in the Hoshidan military for years before finally retiring, and had lost a brother to the Nohrian army. Thus, she didn’t trust them very much and thought them warmongers like most Hoshidans did. Interestingly, the reasoning behind her eventual marriage to Sumeragi was for them to gain his family’s favour again. Her own elder brother, Taiga, sold out the Hoshidans to the Nohrians about important military plans. He was tossed out of the country, and the Asano family scrambled to make amends by offering Ikona up as a bride for Sumeragi. Ikona had been under the impression that not much would become of it, but was surprised to learn that of his suitors, she was the one he wanted.

‣ In spite of technically being a noblewoman, she did not need much to be satisfied. She wasn’t so fascinated by the idea of being rich. In fact, back when she lived with her own family, she loved to spend time with the servants. They taught her how to cook, clean and sew. They would even sometimes gather around to listen to little koto concerts, and make requests. She missed them greatly after going to Castle Shirasagi, and struggled to connect in the same way with the staff there.

‣ Came from a samurai family, but was not a samurai. If she had it her way on the battlefield, she’d probably have been a shrine maiden. She much preferred healing people to actually getting into fights. If she had to, though, she would probably go for onmyoji. She probably had a preference for the rabbit and the snake spirits.

‣ Very good at remembering people’s names. Nobles, commoners, and servants alike were often baffled by how well she remembered people’s names. If she didn’t remember your name, she was most definitely insulting you. If she knew your name one day, and then forgot it the next... then something you did pissed her off, and you needed to figure out what the hell it was before things got worse.

‣ Ikona’s death occurred by non-natural causes. After Mikoto’s arrival, she felt increasingly isolated from the rest of her family. She was already struggling with post-partum depression after the birth of Sakura, and ended up fighting with Sumeragi a lot as a result. Ultimately, though, Ryoma and Hinoka are the ones who blame themselves for her death. The two had caught her during an argument with their father in which she claimed that she had never wanted them in the first place, and that it was he who pushed her into it. She knew she had grown to love them, but hearing such horrible words from their mother broke their hearts. When she tried to apologize to them for what she said, they refused. The two were horrified upon her death, and needed extensive comfort and caretaking afterwards. It was a horribly dark period in their lives. They both still feel guilty even as adults, but will not talk to anyone about it. Not even each other.

Mikoto:

‣ She was very good at appearing all calm and serene and stuff, but she... was not. She never was. Perhaps when she was young, maybe, but not in Hoshido. Raising Sumeragi’s children was the most rewarding and yet most stressful things she’d ever done in her life. She found herself constantly at odds with Ryoma as a teenager, and then fretted about his tendency to overwork himself as an adult. Hinoka spent most of their time together adamant about getting under her skin however she could, because she had coped with the loss of Ikona so poorly. She found Takumi to be sweet, but incredibly brittle, and like Ryoma, she worried about him a lot. They spent a lot of time together trying to work on his self-esteem issues. As for Sakura, well, she was not much of a headache, but someone so sweet...? Mikoto felt determined to protect her from the big, harsh world.

‣ If any of her outfits had pockets in them, you bet your butt she found a way to sneak sweets in there. Even if she didn’t have any, she would find somewhere to hide them. Her sweet tooth was uncontrollable and she tried to manage it at every single turn. Thankfully, this also meant that if anyone was ever sad, she always had a sweet to offer to make them feel better. (Saizo the Fourth, were he still alive, would tell anyone of how she kept offering him sweets after particularly rough missions.)

‣ Not much of a drinker. For a long time, people would offer her drinks, but she would usually only drink them to be polite. There is nobody, apart from her sister and Yukimura, who have ever seen her drunk. Even then, they’re not entirely sure if it was real or if they hallucinated it. She’s a bit of a loud drunk, but very affectionate and wise. If you ever want life lessons without judgement, ask drunk Mikoto.

‣ Birds were her favourite animal. I’m not talking like kinshi birds (although she did think that they are gorgeously majestic, and begged Reina for a few rides on hers), but your typical cute chirpy ones. She used to have one as a pet when she was a teenager that she’d nursed back to health; it was a little finch. It died just as tensions began to grow. The finch’s name was Yue.

‣ Could not stand being talked over. That definitely turned some heads when she first started working as queen in Hoshido. Many of her male advisors did not take kindly to her interrupting the sentence they’d just started after they interrupted her, especially because it was just to tell them that she wasn’t finished. The bonus was that while Yukimura and Ryoma both did it initially, they eventually got to the point where they would cut people off, saying: “Excuse me, but Queen Mikoto had not finished speaking.”

‣ Liked spiders. She was actually never the type of person to kill them, but tried to make sure they got put outside safely. Most of the time, people were rather respectful of her intent to try and protect life where she could. The only person who couldn’t understand it was actually Yukimura, who would let her, but felt god awful and shivered as he watched her take it onto her hand. She’d sheepishly admit that she did used to antagonize him with them a bit.

‣ Missed her parents deeply. They both died long before the events of the main story, but not a day went by that she didn’t miss them. It was even harder having to live in Hoshido and never speak of them, but she would write little letters to them telling them about the events of her life. She would do the same for Corrin while she was gone. Really, though, it stung her heart to see her step-children to be living without their own parents. She sympathized with how they felt, and more than anything tried to be a good mother figure to them for that reason.

‣ Her love language was quality time. If you wanted Mikoto to know that you loved her, the best bet would be trying to spend quality time together. It could be tricky sometimes as she was very caught up with running the country, but she and her family managed. Sometimes she would even manage to have full-on conversations with them while working that made her feel like her day would be just a bit better.

‣ Hummed to herself. If she was walking around or doing anything in the day absent-mindedly, she’d usually start humming a little tune. The problem with it is that she annoyed herself with it. She didn’t like that she did it, and thus slowly grew aggravated with herself for sitting there and humming all the time. She did this since even in childhood, and her sister found it to be absolutely hilarious. Mikoto herself didn’t find it funny at all.

‣ A total busy bee, but not for any cute reasons. She often piled herself with work, sometimes just busy work, for the sake of getting her mind off of her dead and missing family. If she let herself think about them for too long, she would slip into a dark mood. It would often leave her unable to do much for days on end, where Yukimura and Ryoma would end up shouldering most of the burden. Sometimes, she wouldn’t even be able to get to sleep. She was just that distraught.

Ryoma:

‣ A scream-sneezer. For some reason feels the need to yell at some god forsaken volume as he’s sneezing. He makes Sakura jump every time. He’s definitely tried to make his sneeze a lot smaller and more princely, but that just usually ends in him managing to blow snot everywhere. As he deems this significantly worse than scaring everyone in the room, he’s decided that perhaps he’ll just have to stick with his frightening sneeze.

‣ Hates his long hair. Hates it. Secretly prays throughout Revelation’s whole campaign that someone will try to mess with him in a fit of xenophobia and just chop it short while he’s sleeping or something. He’s expected to keep it long for reasons have to do with both religion and being of royal blood, but he doesn’t want to. (He lets Shiro keep his hair short even after revealing him as the next crown prince for this reason — he is 100% living vicariously through his son.)

‣ If he weren’t a prince, he’d make for a pretty good writer. He grew up writing bedtime stories for his younger siblings, so he has a bit of practice. As an adult, though, he mostly writes for himself. Little tales of missions and adventures he’s been on, to keep them as memories. It’s why he’s so skilled at putting thoughts to paper when it comes to his wife.

‣ Ryoma is incredibly dense about romance. He can only tell his own feelings for other people; he doesn’t seem to register when other people are pining for each other or when someone likes him. He was surprised when he was young to learn that his father was harboring a crush on Mikoto. He was even more surprised when Saizo and Kagero kissed in front of him for the first time when they were dating, because what do you mean you’ve been obvious?! I haven’t noticed a thing!!

‣ Actively skirted around royal duties as heir by having a nervous breakdown. Technically, he was supposed to take over from Mikoto a long time ago. However, after his genpuku ceremony at age fourteen, he had a huge breakdown over becoming ruler. The advisors were so concerned that they had to postpone it until Ryoma felt he was ready, and as the story tells us... that wasn’t for a long time. He also managed to get out of political marriage and heir-conceiving due to everyone worrying he’d freak out again. He’s both embarrassed that it happened, and extremely grateful that things turned out the way they did.

‣ He doesn’t really show it so obviously due to his own struggle to express himself and let his guard down, but he really likes to nurture others and see them become the best versions of themselves. That’s why he took to Azura so quickly — he wanted to do anything he could to make her happy and feel as if she had a full life.

‣ Grinds his teeth. It appears to be mostly in response to frustrations, but others have noticed him doing it in times of anxiety. It’s sort of grating to listen to him do. Orochi likes to joke that all of that jaw clenching and grinding is why he has such a strong jawline. He... doesn’t really find that joke funny.

‣ While he is not so great with kids over the age of like... ten, he’s so good with babies. He has no idea why and neither does anybody else, but babies just adore him. If you hand him one, they will probably snuggle right up against his chest and fall asleep. Either that, or he’ll find some sort of way to make them laugh. Listen. We just don’t question the logistics of Ryoma’s effect on babies. They just love him, okay? 

‣  Treats Raijinto almost as a comfort object. He forced himself to give up his own comfort objects when Sumeragi died (deciding that he needed to be more mature with his father gone), and thus ended up becoming very protective of Raijinto when it became his own. Generally doesn’t like other people touching it, and prefers to keep it at his side most of the time.

‣ Constantly has chapped skin in the wintertime. He’s too busy to ever really think about monitoring it himself, so it often results in Sakura taking him aside to slather him in all of her balms to make sure that he’s not itchy or in pain. Otherwise, the skin will usually end up cracking, and his chapped hands will get blood on important documents. It certainly sends a message, but not always the one the royals are hoping for. 

‣  He actually has a bad leg from an injury he sustained that day in Cheve. It doesn’t affect him all that much physically, but it’s definitely noticeable if he’s worked it too hard. Some think that one of the arrows meant for Sumeragi missed and lodged itself in his leg. Others speculate that he tried to defend Corrin against Garon, and was fired upon to ensure that he wouldn’t try to interfere with the kidnapping. Nobody, not even Mikoto or his siblings, knows for sure how it happened. Just that he came home injured, and spent a decent amount of time trying to overcome and recover from that injury. If you ask him what happened, he won’t tell you.

Hinoka:

‣  Secretly, she’s a big old snuggle bug. Loves to cuddle. Family, friends, lovers, it doesn’t matter. Hinoka enjoys a good snuggle more than anything. Her primary snuggle buddy is Sakura, but when she was really little, she tended to curl up with her mother the most.

‣ Her pegasus’s name is Bashira. As expected of a pegasus rider, Hinoka is incredibly fond of her, often referring to her as her “best friend” and talking about her as if she were a person. Sometimes, she’ll even dress her up for holidays or special events. 

‣ Even as a child, Hinoka was always pretty athletic. She loved to race and wrestle and all of that. Of course, she was still very much a crybaby. Sometimes she would cry crocodile tears if she was bested, but most of the time she would cry if she’d been bonked a little too hard or jerked around too quickly. These interactions tended to distract people from the fact that the little princess was even engaging in rough-and-tumble games at all. 

‣ She likes to take walks alone in the forest sometimes to be alone with her thoughts. She finds she can get really get caught up in the rhythm of training and working to do her duties, and that she doesn’t think so much for herself. So she tries to take the time alone every once in awhile to ponder on life. It’s comforting to watch the world around her move.

‣ Very prone to nosebleeds. Nobody’s really sure why. She’s bitter about it because it doesn’t really happen much to her siblings. What’s worse is that it tends to ruin her white clothes! She doesn’t usually feel it coming until her nose starts dripping. Often has tissues with her when she goes on missions to help clean herself up.

‣ When Hinoka hits, she hits hard. She once slapped Ryoma so hard he had a hand-shaped welt on his face for two days. He was so impressed he couldn’t hold it against her. He also learned not to torment her after that, as did many others who thought it would be funny to antagonize the red-headed princess. The comments about her being an unfit warrior mysteriously tapered off...

‣ Due to all of her missions, she has a lot of scars. On the surface she tries to act as if she’s not self-conscious over them, but in truth, she feels a little awkward about them. Especially since so many men in Hoshido preach Saizo’s narrative, in which women must remain “delicate”. She worries what people might think of her as a princess who has so many markings. Often, she tries balms and creams to try and fade them. 

‣ Can curl her tongue. None of her other siblings can do it. She lords it over them like some sort of mysterious power. She’s so damn cocky about it that she almost always curls her tongue when she sticks it out at them, just to piss them off. It always works.

‣ Allergic to fish eggs/roe. Or perhaps it’s not allergic so much as intolerant. Usually ends up with a migraine and an upset stomach, but refuses to eat them at all costs. Sometimes will claim that she is deathly allergic to them just to make sure she doesn’t have to eat them.

‣ Worries that after the war/after Corrin comes home that she won’t know who she is anymore. She’s dedicated her whole life to being a soldier and fighting that she doesn’t know what she’ll do with herself when that is no longer necessary. Sometimes, she even worries that maybe she’s really only half a person. Usually, when she gets into one of these moods, there is very little anyone can do to talk her out of it. They simply have to wait and trust that Hinoka will find her own way to realize that even without being a soldier, she can still be human. 

Corrin:

‣ The most ticklish of all of her siblings. Not that she wants you to know that. When she was little, Sumeragi would tickle her sides until she squealed. It sometimes resulted in her kneeing him in the groin by accident as she tried to get away. He tried not to mind terribly.

‣ Likes rainy days. Since she could never go outside much at all, she loved to sit in the fortress and watch the rain fall. Rainy days were most definitely days with no training; she would curl up with a good book and some cookies to enjoy herself. Now that she can get out, though, she loves to dance in the rain. Sometimes she’ll even drag the other members of the army out to prance around with her. She’s so good-spirited that pretty much everyone obliges.

‣ Has a mole just like Mikoto’s! Well, maybe not exactly... It’s not on her face. It’s actually on her back of all places, towards her left shoulder blade. Naturally, it’s covered up most of the time. When she was little and visible, though, Camilla used to kiss it to make her giggle. If you do it now, she still does.

‣ Has a bizarre amount of hobbies. All of that time spent in the fortress gave her lots of time to try and practice different things, so she’s full of activities. Her favourites were playing the piano, painting, reading, and embroidery. Should anyone want to learn any of these things, she’s always happy to lend a hand.

‣ Constantly fighting with her hair. It’s super fluffy and requires a lot of attention. If she could recall her childhood, she would find a myriad of memories of squawking as Mikoto tried to brush her hair. It’s very prone to tangles, and thus her mother would braid it before she went to sleep. It’s a habit she ended up continuing into adulthood, having Felicia braid it for her.

‣ Full of restless energy. It both is and isn’t Fortress life talking. When she was a little girl, she spent a lot of time zooming around the castle and its grounds, keeping her nurse maids from having much of a break. She was especially fond of impromptu games of hide and seek, as well as tag. It’s... a bit of a game she keeps into adulthood, too. Most people find her energy so cute that they can’t help but play with her, knowing she’ll get back to work as soon as it’s done.

‣ Struggles to sit in a proper position in a chair for more than half an hour. She’ll usually end up contorting her body in some strange way. This occurs so, so often in war meetings. The others have tried to tell her that it’s inappropriate for an event like that, but they can only ever get her back into a proper position for more than fifteen minutes before she’s back to sitting all funny. Her Nohrian siblings have completely given up, but the Hoshidan siblings try to politely remind her on how to sit (despite knowing it’s a fruitless endeavour.)

‣ Heavy sleeper. Like a rock. Why do you think Flora and Felicia have to wake her up with their ice powers every morning? Without them there, a bucket of cold water would struggle to wake this girl from her rest. What’s worse is that she also likes to nap, but if you need her for something... well, bring one of the maids with you. Otherwise, you’re going to have to beat her with a pillow to get her to wake up. And even then, there’s no promise. Sometimes, people can’t wake Corrin and they honestly think she’s dead.

‣ Sings in the bath. Both made-up songs and ones she’s heard before. One she’s been singing since childhood is something she named “The Bubble Song”, that consists mostly of the lyrics “Bubbly bubble bath, bubble bubble, gonna brew up some... bubble trouble”. Hilariously, this song has caught on with anyone she bathed with as a child. Ryoma used to sing it to Takumi and Sakura when he’d help them bathe as kids. Silas has been known to sing it when bathing as well, but as a grown adult.

‣ Agonizes over losing her memory. She hates herself for having lost it, and has had a few breakdowns from trying to force herself to remember. If she gets especially angry about it, she’ll sit there angrily pounding her fists against her head and screaming at herself to figure things out. She knows it causes others to think that’s she unstable, but she gets so angry about it sometimes that she doesn’t have it within herself to care. She just... wants to remember her life.

Takumi:

‣ In spite of his humiliation at Ryoma’s hands years back, Takumi does like to use a sword sometimes. Not usually for battle, only really in training, but he likes the feeling of a blade. He just finds he prefers a bow overall, though.

‣ One of those people who is just always hot. He totally holds his heat, and often complains throughout the summer months about how hot it is. Alternatively, though, he’s pretty comfortable in the winter. His siblings sometimes even use him as a human heater when they get cold.

‣ If not in the company of his family, Takumi likes to curse a lot. He knows it’s not princely behaviour, but he doesn’t care. He mostly does it in the company of Hinata and Oboro, but every once in awhile he’ll let one slip around his siblings. If it’s going to be any of them, though, it’s going to be around Hinoka or Corrin. Rarely ever Azura or Ryoma, and absolutely never around Sakura.

‣ Takumi actually kind of enjoys being sick. He definitely doesn’t like being rendered incapable of doing basic things, or feeling like trash, but... he does kind of like to be fussed over. There’s something nice about being the center of his family’s attention for once.

‣ He is not aware of this, but he was named after Ikona’s lover prior to her marriage to Sumeragi. Given that she could not be with him but was still attached, Ikona gave him his name. Only Ikona and Sumeragi know where his name really came from, and Sumeragi was less than pleased to find out later.

‣ Likes to pretend that he can handle spicy food. He cannot. You could dare this boy to eat a spoonful of wasabi, and he would do it, but the end result wouldn’t be pretty. His whole face turns bright red, and there are tears streaming from his eyes, and he holds his mouth like he’s sucking on a lemon. Even with that whole production, though, you can never get him to admit defeat. The spice doesn’t defeat Takumi. Takumi defeats the spice. 

‣ Do not begin a sentence when speaking to him with “no offence”. He always takes offence. Always. He doesn’t know why people start conversations like that because it’s almost always something rude and uncalled for. It’s one of his biggest pet peeves, and it would just be better for both of you if you didn’t say stuff like that.

‣ Has very good hygiene and always smells nice. He tries to bathe every night, and washes his hair every other day with that schedule in mind. If one had to try and categorize Takumi’s scent, it would probably be a mix between morning dew and oranges. There were many women in Hoshido who used to swoon over him based on the way he smelled alone. 

‣ Like a true December baby, Takumi loves the snow. When he was little he’d beg his nursemaids to go outside for some time to play in it. Even as he grew older, he’d wrestle his siblings and friends out of their plans for the day to go spend some time outside in the cold. There were many snowball fights, as well as a whole bunch of wrestling. By the end of their outside time, they would usually end up piled on top of one another in a big dog pile. If you get him vulnerable enough, he might even confess that he loves the snow because it gives him more family time. His siblings, retainers, and other friends are all busy people, and he wants to spend as much time with them as he can.  

‣ His nightmares almost always revolve around losing someone important to him. In spite of not remembering Sumeragi and Ikona well, he finds himself dreaming of them regularly. Mikoto is also someone he dreams of a lot, usually of her death and his inability to do anything to save her. If the dream is really bad, he’ll dream of losing people who are still alive — Garon slicing Ryoma’s throat, Nohrian archers shooting Hinoka down from the sky, a commander snapping Sakura’s neck like it’s nothing. He often wakes up screaming and scares the others awake, and needs all kinds of comfort to even think about falling asleep again.

Sakura:

‣ Sakura is the member of the family who gives illnesses to everyone else. She’s the carrier. She will have a slight sniffle for two days, and then be fine — because she passed it onto the rest of the family, who will have a huge cold for two weeks. She’s always very sorry about it, and brings them warm soup every time it happens.

‣ Has the softest skin known to man. Nobody knows why this girl just has like... baby soft skin, but she’s always been like that. Holding her hand is an excellent experience because of it. Once she starts using a bow, she’s a little disappointed that she starts developing callouses on her hands, as they ruin the softness.

‣ Sweets thief! Well, not so much now that she’s older, but when she was little it was a huge thing. She used to sneak sweets from the kitchen a lot. If she were asked to count on her fingers how many times Mikoto caught her with sticky hands and a sugary face, she probably couldn’t. She’s a bit embarrassed by the memories, but everyone else finds it charmingly cute.

‣ She has dimples! For the most part she’s pretty shy about them, but everyone else thinks they’re really cute. Her siblings sometimes go out of their way to make her smile just so they can see them. Sumeragi loved them the most.

‣ Believe it or not, she has a favourite proverb! It’s “Even monkeys fall from trees”, which is basically just another way of saying that anyone can make a mistake. Given that Sakura is such a compassionate person, it comes as no surprise to everyone that this is her favourite. She wants to give people a fair chance, and doesn’t want to hold their mistakes against them (assuming that they genuinely are mistakes). 

‣ Thrives off of other people’s happiness. She loves to people watch in Shirasagi Castle Town to see if she can spot anyone who is out having a good time. Little kids getting a treat for good behaviour are definitely one of her favourite types of happiness to spot, but she also loves seeing shy young couples on first dates. Getting to see her country’s people so happy gives her the spirit she needs to keep doing her healing work. 

‣ Has really strong nails, for some reason? Nobody’s exactly sure why her nails are so deathly strong, but she needs help trimming them. Mikoto would usually help her manage that, but sometimes she’d get Takumi’s help if Mikoto was busy.

‣ You probably could not get her to admit it, but she likes the smell of freshly blown-out candles. She doesn’t quite like the scent of fire, but she sort of enjoys the smokiness that comes from a flame that has just been put out. For some reason finds her love of the scent embarrassing.

‣ Still a bit scared of the dark, even at her age. Her childhood fear of the Nohrians coming back for her led her to fear them wandering around in the dark, and thus she finds it unsettling. Depending on the hour at which she has to go the bathroom at night, she’ll ask Ryoma to escort her (if it’s earlier, as he’s usually awake anyway) or prod a sibling into wakefulness to take her (if it’s later).

‣ Tends to rehearse the things she says before she says them. Especially in war meanings, but also sometimes in regular conversation. She’s very concerned about saying the wrong thing and making a bad impression, so she feels like the constant rehearsal is the only way to ensure that she’s not going to cause any kind of trouble.

‣ So soft-hearted that she cries for her own family without them knowing. At night when trying to sleep, she can often think herself into horrible moods about her family’s pain. She can lay there for hours sobbing quietly to herself over the various ways that they’re hurting, even if they don’t want to acknowledge it themselves. She cries for Ryoma, who agonizes over being good enough for everyone. She cries for Hinoka, who has been a soldier all her life and may never get to fully experience that sense of normalcy. She cries for Takumi, who just wants to be noticed for once and feel like he is actually genuinely loved. She cries for Azura, who has been taken from home to home to home in a vain effort to fight other people’s battles. She cries for Mikoto who lost her child, for Corrin who lost her family, for Sumeragi and Ikona who lost their lives... Sakura cries for everyone.

[meet-me-in-the-kitchen]

Imagine: Bad Mothers Raise Sad Children (PART ONE)

11 and 15 from this list.

In which Harry asks for the reason why Y/N is such a terrible mother, and she doesn’t know the answer.

TRIGGER WARNING: post-partum depression, suicide attempt. angst**

(11. ‘“I can’t do this anymore”

15: “it hurts to love you”)

The one where it hurts to love her baby.

Y/N wishes the baby would stop screaming and flailing its limbs upwards.

She wishes everyone would stop crowding her and asking her if motherhood was faring her well.

Most of all, she wishes Harry would come home already.

“Shh,” she half-heartedly bounces the crying baby in her arms, trying not to cry herself as they once again spit up, the vomit missing the towel hanging on her shoulder and instead staining the loose shirt y/n had on, creating newfound smells to the already foul stenched article of clothing. The vomit quickly forms a dry, brown crust which mixes with the leaked breastmilk that had also stained the shirt.

“Please stop crying,” she sighed, feeling the throbbing her head grow stronger as the baby’s cries became more furious and intense, the little one’s face growing red in frustration, eyes squeezing shut as tears wept from the baby’s eyes. A dark feeling grew in y/n’s chest as the cries increased in fervor. She couldn’t pinpoint what to categorize it as— contempt? Resentment? Confusion? Or a lack of response to the cries she once thought would seize her ability to breathe.

As the sounds of familiar footsteps approaching their flat and the keys jingling as the door clicked open resounded, she let out a sigh of relief. As she turned quickly, she winced at her own reflection in the mirror: hair a bird’s nest, face dry and sullen, dark shadows underneath her eyes and cracked lips; unshowered body with what felt like leaking, swollen and hurting breasts underneath her shirt, because the baby wouldn’t latch on. A belly still too bloated and sore for its own good, her shirt stained with dried milk and baby spit-up and pee.

“What happened to you?” A voice in her head whispered. “You used to be gorgeous.”

She shook it off, reminding herself Harry probably wouldn’t care and these thoughts were only intrusive and not at all helpful.

“Look!” She plastered on an eager smile while speaking in a higher pitch to the baby, who had now taken to chewing their own fingers. “Daddy’s home. Finally.”

With the baby balanced on her hip. she slowly walks to the kitchen, where Harry is walking into, eyes glued to his phone screen. His eyes raise up, her heart sinking as they barely glance over her, quickly looking over instead at his daughter.

“Hi, princess, hi baby,” he cooed, clapping his hands together after putting his phone away, inside his pocket. The infant giggled, raising her arms and wagging them about, gesturing she wanted to be taken by her daddy. y/n tries to suppress the childish dejection at how the baby never seemed to want anything to do with her.

“How are you today?” He asks her, bouncing her up and down in his arms, and this time she’s smiling brightly. y/n clears her throat.

“D-dinner’s on the table,” she murmurs, him ignoring her and continuing to make faces at the baby. Pushing down the hurt and anger in her chest, y/n also tries to shut down the voice reminding her how she’d almost fainted making that dinner. How her body hadn’t healed yet and she was tired, but it didn’t seem to matter or amount to anything. She shut down the voice that pointed out all he’d wanted from her was a baby, and now that he’d gotten that from her, she was utterly useless.

* * *

It was two in the morning, and Y/N wanted to slam the baby monitor onto the ground, crush it with her bare fingers as the wails of the baby echoed throughout the room at an uncomfortably high pitch. She had finally gotten some sleep.

“Harry,” she whispered, trying to shake him awake and only receiving a grunt from him. “Harry.”

“What the fuck is it?” He snaps, causing her to swallow as he openly fixes a harsh glare in her direction.

“The baby’s crying. I can’t get it,” she unconsciously moves away from him a bit, feeling fatigue weigh down each bone and muscle, while pins and needles stabbed at her stomach.

“You were already awake, y/n, honestly,” he huffed, shaking his head and rolling his eyes as he got up from the bed. “And change your clothes and take a shower, will you? I feel like there’s trash in my bed.”

Trash.

That’s what you are. Y/N blinked back tears, muttering a sorry while each step he took further away from her triggered an onslaught of dark self hate pouring itself into her chest.

Walking to the washroom tiredly, she peeled her shirt off, trying not to gasp at the horrifying sight underneath.

“Trash,” she muttered under her breath as she entered the shower. The word stuck in her mind as she turned the water to its hottest setting, the pain followed by the scalding hot sensation gradually fading into nothingness.

* * *

“For the love of God, Darcy, please calm down,” Y/N begged the wailing baby in her arms, twisting and turning and digging the nails of her small hands into her mother’s already aching sides. Short, quickened bursts of air fell from the infant’s mouth, her small body heating up. She’ll become sick, y/n worries, if she gets worked up like this, she’ll get a fever.

“Come on, Darcy,” she tries to coo, pulling the hysterical baby closer to her with one arm, while pulling the shirt she had on up over her chest, pressing the baby to her exposed breast expectantly. From the way she was crying and the fact Y/N felt as if she were about to burst, Darcy must have been hungry. She hadn’t gone in quite a while, either, so Y/N was very worried she was constipated, as well. Everything was in shambles, the debris from on room trickling into another, until the whole home reeked of panic and sickness and crying.

“Just latch on,” she hissed at the baby, anger growing inside of her. What kind of a mother was she? She couldn’t even provide proper food, sustenance for her child who needed it to survive. It felt as if there were something wrong with her, broken, as she shook the baby in a particularly aggressive motion in the process of trying to get her to latch on, causing her little mouth to open further and release more desperate cries, pushing her little hands against her foreign mother’s chest. Trying to get away from her. Y/N was horrified to look down upon the face that she had kept safe for nine months and find terror.

“Fuck,” she screamed, sobs beginning to bubble in her throat as the baby jolted some more, triggering the increase of the dark resentment she already felt for herself. “What’s wrong with me?”

“Stop crying,” she mumbled through her tears, again and again, definitely frightening the baby as she rocked them both back at an exceedingly fast rate, now on the floor and up against the wall. The baby’s cries were growing more intense, as she hunched over slightly, knees drawn up, tiny fists clenched against Y/N’s chest, body tense and scared. The curtains had been closed, not a ray of sunlight lighting up the shadowed room. “Stop, Stop.”

It become a mad chant through her beastly sobs, they both cried together. Scared. Confused.

* * *

“Jesus Christ,” Harry hissed, his eyebrows furrowing as he pressed his fingers against his baby’s small forehead as she slept. “Y/N!”

She made her way to the nursery after the incessant yelling of her name beckoning her to the room had woken her from the little sleep and peace she’d managed to acquire. Her legs felt as if they were made of led, weighing her down as her body moved similar to that of a zombie, suspended somewhere between life and death, her chest a hollow, aching cave.

“What is it?” She stared blankly at the tall body of her husband leaning over the baby’s fair bassinet, his hand on her forehead. When he noticed her dull presence in the room, Harry fixed a harsh, vicious glare in Y/N’s direction, his spare fist clenching with furiousness, body tensing. She stared back blankly.

“What do you mean ‘what is it’? She has a fever. She shouldn’t have this bad of a fever when she’s barely a month old!”

“Should we go to the E.R.?”

“No,” Harry sighed, stroking his fingers over his daughter’s wisps of curls, just like his. “It’s not that bad, yet. I measured her temperature.”

“Should I call the pediatrician?”

“No,” he snapped sarcastically. “Seriously, Y/N? Yes! Go, goddamnit.”

She nodded, face pinching slightly with worry, as Darcy’s irregular sleep pattern ensued as she woke up again, crying while Harry was quick to pick her up, rocking her gently against his chest.

“It’s okay, baby angel,” he cooed, rubbing his nose against her reddening one, pursing his lips in worry as she not once stopped crying to breathe properly. Her face simply crumpled up more as she kicked her legs up, before closing them around herself again, making those fists and clenching her tummy. “You’re not feeling so well, are you? Quick, Y/N! For fuck’s sake, it looks like she’s in pain.”

The worry was there, but it also faded away into nothing as she moved to grab the phone. All emotion had been becoming blankness, these days. Happiness was rare, but then again, pain also ebbed and flowed so maybe it was good to feel this little.

“Hi, I’d like to schedule an appointment for Darcy Styles,” she cleared her throat, surprises briefly by how hoarse and unfamiliar it sounded. “She has a fever. We would like a home visit as soon as possible, as it isn’t bad enough to go to the E.R.”

The receptionist confirmed the doctor would be there shortly.

“It’s colic,” the doctor stated, removing his stethoscope after listening to Darcy’s heartbeat. Harry cursed under his breath, hand against his face. Y/N stood by the doorway, unsure if she should enter. “The fever was just caused by all of the crying she’s been doing. You say she’s been crying for long periods at home, correct, Mrs. Styles?”

Y/N nodded swiftly, slowly nearing the bed, where Darcy was situated, a little calmer than before.

“And you’ve also said it’s been a struggle trying to get her to feed and there’s been constipation; all symptoms of colic. And look at that posture. Darcy’s hands are in fists and her stomach is tense. All symptoms of colic. It’s pretty common in babies as small of an age she is now, don’t stress,” the paediatrician smiled at Harry and Y/N knowingly, as Harry paced the room.

“It might be due to various reasons, but nothing too specific. Colic is hard to narrow down to anything, so please don’t blame yourselves. It could be anything from nothing to the baby being sensitive to something in your breast milk.”

The particular comment had Harry looking sharply in Y/N’s direction, face blank but serious while the lady pediatrician rummaged through her bag of materials and pulled out a pad of notes. Y/N felt instant shame. As if Harry had slapped her when he’d given her that one look. She directed her hurt gaze to the ground, pressing her tongue to the roof of the inside of her mouth as she urged herself not to cry.

“I’ll prescribe some medicine: some lactase and simethicone drops. Mummy should also avoid drinking or eating anything with dairy, if you’re planning on feeding her breastmilk. There’s no reason to worry: she should be fine within a week, and as I said, colic is very common in infants her age. If it gets worse, drop by the hospital. I’ll schedule an appointment at the clinic next week to check on her.”

Harry cleared his throat as the doctor stood up.

“I’ll walk you out,” he said, and she smiled at him appreciatively as the two walked out together.

When he came back, there was silence. She sat by the baby, hesitantly stroking her back and playing with her small hands, but it was forced.

Harry walked up to her, tense with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, arms reaching.

“Give me the baby,” he said. She did, and he lifted her into his arms, cradling her carefully while balancing a bag filled with blankets and pillows with his free arm. “We’re sleeping in the nursery tonight. You stay here.”

A pause. And then a quiet mutter:

“How are you such an unloving, incapable mother? I can’t believe you couldn’t be a mother to our own baby to the point where it became the detriment to her health.”

The door shut close.

* * *

It was morning, Harry was gone, and it was just her and the baby. She could finally hear herself think, and everything felt a bit lighter once the baby stopped fretting, now calmer and silent, leaning her head on Y/N’s chest as she slept.

In all of this, she hadn’t bothered to check her phone once, so she did then. She replied to all of the alarmed texts her mother had sent her, claiming she was fine, responded to her best friend and apologized for not doing so quicker, updating her on how the baby had colic, to which she got a frown back from her friend and a text suggesting they should meet up soon, because she was worried of how little time she spent outside of their home.

Then, Y/N made the grave mistake on going on social media.

There were the usual bodyshaming and insulting comments and retweets, which she ignored, but one particular tweet with many retweets caught Y/N’s eye. It was a picture of her, Harry, and the baby. Back from the first appointment, Y/N’s face sullen and tired.

Look at how upset she looks. Like she doesn’t even want it.

She’s not even giving the baby any attention! Leaving it all to Harry.

Many people had jumped quick to her defense, most of them new mothers as well.

She’s new to motherhood, and obviously tired. You twelve year olds don’t understand how hard it is. Dealing with the crying, the moods, the bodily pain and hormones... Harry’s helping her out. I’m sure she does so much at homes and babies cry! Just because Darcy is crying in this picture and Y/N isn’t holding her isn’t a sign that she’s abusing her. Leave her alone.

But one comment in particular stood out:

Of course baby Darcy is crying. It’s the result of, incompetent mothers who don’t give their children an ounce of attention once it starts to become difficult looking after them. Bad mothers raise sad children.

Her hand lifted shakily to her chest at that comment. It hurt. She felt as if she’d been stabbed, as her eyes flickered desperately down to her baby. What if whatever she was feeling would have an impact on Darcy? What if she’d harm Darcy in ways not as controllable and mild as colic?

At her mother’s distressed sounds, the baby awoke, crying loudly after having been woken up.

“Shh,” y/n rocked her soothingly, feeling the same horror she’d felt yesterday and the day before once Darcy’s cries became relentless, increasing in volume and intensity as she was unable to console her.

After fifteen minutes of this, and Darcy’s fever once again flaring, Y/N quickly called Harry’s cell, alarmed. She lifted a hand to her messy hair , stressed, as he finally picked up the call.

“What is it?” He asked, voice cool and unbothered.

“Darcy won’t stop crying. I don’t know what to do, she’s getting warm again—“

“Just give her the drops, Y/N. I don’t understand how this is panicking you. Can’t you handle this alone, at least? I have a meeting. Stop interrupting me and try to be a competent mother.”

He hung up.

* * *

“I’ll bring the nail polish I borrowed back to you. I promise, Gem,” Harry rolled his eyes in amusement after his sister had proceeded to scold him for theft.

“Good,” she paused. “How’s Y/N?”

“She’s fine,” Harry muttered, trying not to awaken the annoyance that had set itself in his chest for her.

“Listen. I think you should take her to a doctor.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I had a friend who was just like her after giving birth. Didn’t want to go outside, her moods were off and it seemed like she was sadder, until she grew downright miserable, although she loved her baby very much. She had post-partum depression.”

“Y/N does not have—“

“It doesn’t hurt to take her and check in on her,” she added, cutting Harry off. He sighed.

“Okay. I’ll mention it.”

“Good.”

* * *

Y/N was ashamed of herself.

Unable to get herself together and act as she was supposed to: as a mother. She was supposed to be warm and loving and a safe place for her baby to turn to, but had instead ignited terror in the innocent being, just because of the darkness that had sat itself deep in her rib cage, growing more gnarly day by day.

“What is wrong with me?” She whispered to herself, seated still on the rocking chair and blank, her bones weighed down by fatigue as she held the sleeping baby. “I’m supposed to be happy. What sort of a monster am I... my own baby makes me.. makes me sad.”

She suddenly felt an overwhelming surge of pity and sadness move through her as she glanced at the being in her arms. Only a baby, innocent of any wrongdoings, yet she’d been stuck with a failure of a mother as incompetent as Y/N. this wasn’t fair to her. She deserved a mother who could actually mother.

“I’m sorry,” she cried, holding the infant closer to her, burrowing her face in her little neck and inhaling the new baby/ baby powder scent. She felt her warm tears wet the fabric of her swaddle, but they didn’t awaken her. “I’m sorry I’m such a terrible mother...”

“I love you,” she choked, desperately trying to explain herself. “I really do. I love you very much. I’m supposed to be your mom. But it hurts. It hurts to love you. I’m sorry I can’t, I don’t know how to show it without feeling like it’s tearing me apart. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, I don’t ever want you to be sad, because of me, I don’t...”

She trailed off, eyeing the baby with all of the hope and sadness in the world, and failing to notice the figure watching quietly (sympathetically) from where he was leaning against the doorframe as she closed her eyes while hugging the bundle close to her.

I need to help her, Harry thought to himself, reaching up to wipe the tears that had slipped out of his own eyes after witnessing her silent suffering. Her shoulders were slumped, body posture helpless and cries unbearable. Her hair was messy, shirt stained with breastmilk and tears and fatigue. She clearly hasn’t been taking care of herself. He couldn’t even imagine the pain, the stress, and the overwhelming emotions she was going through and he had treated her like this. Filled thoughts of her being an incompetent mother into the already dark mix of them floating in her mind. How could I have not noticed...

He wished he could take it all back, but he couldn’t. All he could do was get her help, and get the mother of his child and the love of his life into a positive mental space, instead of neglecting and judging her.

Tomorrow, he’d research during work, and talk to her after coming home, then book an appointment with a therapist who specialized in post-partum depression. Tomorrow.

* * *

Bad mothers raise sad children. You’re a bad mother, Y/N. Look at you.. you’ve changed so much. You used to be gorgeous. You used to care. Do you care anymore, Y/N? Can you feel anything past your selfish, time consuming self-hate, resentment, and fatigue? Of course you don’t... Your baby, any baby, deserves better than this. She’s scared of you. She doesn’t want a mother like you. Incompetent. Detriment to her health.

Bad mothers raise sad children.

Bad mothers raise sad children.

Bad mothers—

These dark thoughts circled in Y/N’s mind as she sat further back into the scalding hot water which had filled the bathtub to the brim. She glanced over at Darcy blankly from where she babbled baby-talk and hummed nonsensical noises, sat in a baby chair Y/N had pushed to inside the washroom so she could keep an eye on her as she bathed. She seemed so happy, even without Y/N engaging with her. Especially without her deadbeat mother engaging with her.

She’ll grow up to hate me, she realizes, blinking back bitter tears. She’ll grow up sad and unhappy, and she’ll hate me. I can’t deal with that. I can’t take everything away from her. I’ve already failed to give her so much. If I’m sad all the time for no reason other than the fact that I’m a defect of a mother, it’ll ruin her childhood. I can’t do that to her.. What is my place here? I’ve not done anything other than giving birth to her. Harry doesn’t even want me around.. I can’t do this anymore. I should just...

..I should just.

She heard the baby coo and slap her hands against the chair she was in, playing with her toys to amuse herself. She sunk back further into the bathtub, feeling the soothing warm water wash over every aching crevice and area of her sore body. She played a game where she sunk in deeper and tried to hold her breath for as long as possible, before rising to the surface again. Y/N cooed back at the baby, who was also enjoying this different game of underwater peekaboo, cracking a dimpled smile just like Harry’s as she watched her mother in anticipation after she once again submerged herself under the water.

But, this time, her smile fell and downturned into a frown, lips wobbling before she released a loud wail, because this time: her mother hadn’t resurfaced.

The one where sometimes it hurts to love, and he doesn’t get there fast enough.

this ain’t edited, but when is it ever lmao

MASTERLIST | Requests are open!

there is a part two.

[devilsknotrp]

Congratulations, M! You have been accepted for the role of Sandy Silverman (FC:Nicole Kidman). As Mandy’s player, I was understandably anxious to find a player who could articulate the muddy depths of Sandy Silverman... I shouldn’t have even worried. Your application is absolutely incredible. Your writing sample alone made us both so excited, because something as simple as ringing the hotline for Brian is loaded with meaning and intent. We have to spotlight your headcanons. Fleshing out her backstory allowed us to see how much has happened to Sandy. The glimpses of Phillip (putting out a cigarette in his food: oh, God) were painful reminders of how complex domestic power structures can be. You have given Sandy such life. It will be truly wonderful to see her develop in game. Please have a look at this page prior to sending in your account.

OUT OF CHARACTER

Name: M Age: 24 Pronouns: She/her Timezone: GMT-5 Activity estimation: I have a full time job and other commitments but I’ll try to reply a couple times a week! Triggers: REDACTED

IN CHARACTER

Full name: Sandra Kathleen Silverman, née Moore Age (DD/MM/YYYY): Fifty five (08/04/41) – Leo Gender: Cisgender woman Pronouns: She/her Sexuality: Lesbian (closeted, even to herself) Occupation: Real Estate Agent, Great Lake Homes Connection to Victim: Sandy sold Linda the home in which the Goode family currently resides. She also sees Linda from time to time at PTA meetings – when Sandy manages to show up, that is – since they both have children in high school. And since Brian’s disappearance bears a resemblance to Pete’s disappearance years ago, Sandy feels an unusual connection with Linda. Alibi: Sandy reluctantly took Pete shopping in the morning, and dropped him off at home afterwards. She headed to the office to grab a few papers for a client and spent the afternoon preparing a house for its viewing scheduled for the following day. Faceclaim: Nicole Kidman

WRITING SAMPLE

The line rang three times before someone picked up. “You’ve reached the Brian Goode tip-line,” a man said, voice crackling through the phone line like crumpled paper. The voice was monotone. Sandy had clearly not been the first person to call this morning. She hitched her shoulder up, using the bony part at the top to press the receiver against her ear so she could take a sip from her coffee mug. A Michigan Nip, of course. 

“Hi, good morning, I’ve been meaning to call you,” she said. One week had passed and Brian Goode was still a ghost. 

Sandy’s eyes were focused on the phone keypad. If she looked hard enough, she’d swear that some of the numbers had been worn down just a bit more than the rest. All those calls, back and forth, twelve years ago. She practically had the department’s number memorized at this point. “It’s just terrible, isn’t it?”

“Yes, but we’re doing the best we can right now, ma’am,” the man said, and Sandy couldn’t contain the snort of laughter that came flying out. She was standing in very spot where she’d learned that her son was alive, and that her husband was dead. She’d never felt that the Devil’s Knot Police Department had done their best at just about anything. “Do you have any information to report?” he asked.

“Oh, yes, certainly. I was just calling to ask about the case, though. Do you have any leads yet?” Sandy asked the question matter-of-factly, and took another sip. After how long it had taken Charlie Taylor to botch everything last time, she figured the department owed her some goddamned information. 

There was a pause. “Ma’am, this is a tip line,” he said. The pitch of his voice rose at the end like he wasn’t sure if he should be asking or telling.

“I know,” Sandy said. “I thought the main line would be busy, and maybe I could get some information from you instead.” She heard shuffling behind her and turned over her shoulder to make eye contact with her son. “Just tell the Sheriff that it’s Sandy, he’ll understand,” she said, eyebrows raised, and shooed Peter away with a quick wave of her hand. The last thing she needed was for him to get re-traumatized, or whatever Dr. Shah had called it. She’d written some psychology buzzwords down a few years ago in case Sandy ever wanted to go to the public library and check a book out. In all likelihood, the piece of paper had gone through the wash in one of her pants pockets and disappeared entirely. 

There was another pause. Longer this time. He gave a sigh that crackled in her ear. “Mrs. Silverman, I – “

“Officer, come on,” Sandy interrupted, “Don’t you know what happened to my family?” Of course he did. Everyone did. 

“Yes, and I’m very sorry, but it’s ongoing investigation. If you have any information that you think could be helpful, please let us know.”

Twelve years later and apparently the department hadn’t gotten any better since Charlie Taylor resigned in disgrace. Sandy tipped the mug back and took a large gulp. The splash of whisky burned in her throat. “Let’s just hope you’re doing a better job this time around.” She looked down at her empty mug. The spiral cord trailed behind her as she took a few steps toward the counter to put it in the sink. “It didn’t take you a week to find my son in ’84. Do your fucking job. Good day,” Sandy said, and hung up.

ANYTHING ELSE?

Here is my Pinterest board for Sandy! 

Sandy grew up in a very traditional family. Her father was a physician, her mother a homemaker. She watched from a young age how the men in her life took up space; how they showed cruelty in the way they spoke loudly, making rules that only they were allowed to break. Irene, Sandy’s mother, taught her how to make herself pretty and small, so boys would like her. Her older brother was the pride of the family; all chiseled jaw and boyish charm, just handsome enough to get away with anything. The pedestal he lived on was so high she could barely see the bottom of it. She was just a girl, raised in chains, her parent’s Little Darling, unobtrusive and accommodating. Never enough, because she was never allowed to be. This disconnect deepened as she grew older – but if her parents wanted her to be a young lady, Sandy would be the best young lady in all of Indiana. She’d perform perfectly.

She was always good at getting people to like her. In high school, all it took was becoming cheer captain and giving out blowjobs after school in the parking lot. She was a good girl. Sloppy Sandy, they called her. It didn’t matter. They all cheered when she became prom queen, anyway. She went on to study sculpture at Moore College of Art and Design, and told the other girls that her family had been the one to give the school its name. Just to see their faces light up. Sculpting gave her permission, for once in her life, to stick her hands in the mud. When her mother referred to sculpture as a fine hobby, Sandy knew it was code for a pit stop on your way to marriage.

Phillip and Sandy met on a blind date. Irene introduced the idea during one of their mother-daughter dates at the beauty parlor. She waited until Sandy’s fingers were in the manicurist’s hands to inform her that Phillip Silverman would be picking her up that evening. Seven o’clock, sharp. Good genes, she said. Handsome. His mother had been crowned Miss Indiana in ‘22, after all. Irene had just been runner-up. Sandy agreed, of course, because she had to.

The following year, they were married. Phillip was a kind man, and everyone loved him, so Sandy did too. The word wife felt funny in her mouth when she said it out loud, so she put on an apron and shopped at Macy’s and picked up pilates. If she shaped herself into Woman incarnate, it made it all better, somehow. When she gave birth at twenty-five, the post-partum depression swallowed her whole. It left the dishes unwashed, diapers unchanged, and to-do list unchecked. She spent more time in bed than her infant daughter did. Phillip learned to bring the baby to their bedroom to breastfeed. More often than not, when she cradled their daughter in her arms, Sandy would start to cry. Bad mother, bad bad bad, she thought. Phillip seemed to think so too. It didn’t take long for the GP to write her a prescription for Valium. It helped. She started drinking more, and that helped too.

As Amanda grew, Sandy drank. Post post-partum depression, maybe. She didn’t have an excuse then; she just gave up. Sandy tried to fashion her daughter into a reflection of herself – dressing her in pink, putting her in cheerleading, teaching her to smile – but the connection felt irreparable. Thankfully, Phillip took over the bulk of the parental duties. He never let her forget it. At least the resentment was mutual; at family dinner, Sandy put her cigarettes out in Phillip’s food to let him know he’d eaten enough. No one was going to be fat in her family. Another child was out of the question, but sometimes, when Sandy was drunk, she forgot to take her birth control. The post-partum depression knocked her on her feet so badly the second time around that she got her tubes tied. After the procedure, she drove down to the beauty parlor for a manicure.

Sandy remembers very little of the two days her husband and son were missing. The panic was paralyzing. She was drunk when she got the call that Peter had been found; she drove to the hospital and took out two bushes in the parking lot with Mandy in the passenger seat. Her boy was alive! Later, when they found Phillip, grief was quickly washed out by rage. Why had he done this to them – to her? Everyone who’d called her the bad parent could kiss her well-toned ass. And they did. For a while, at least, when the frenzy was still about the poor Silverman family. A small part of her liked the attention. Finally, someone in Devil’s Knot gave a shit about Sandy Silverman when she was sober.

The rumors were relentless. Soon enough, the town was going to swallow itself whole. One morning, their dog Bonnie turned up dead in the front yard, blood pooling on the overgrown grass. Sandy got in the car in her silk pajamas, went down to the police department, and told Charlie Taylor just how badly he was fucking the whole thing sideways. Three months was too long. When they finally arrested Max Acosta, Sandy didn’t even care if he was guilty. She was tired. They asked her to corroborate the argument between Max and Phillip. She remembered the incident in a half-hazy way, but it must’ve been Fourth of July because she’d been drinking watermelon punch. Phillip must’ve started the argument, the bonehead. I have a sense about these things, trust me.

After the trial, she set Peter up with a psychologist because God knows she wasn’t equipped to deal with that. The children still felt far away, somewhere inaccessible to her, even after all that happened. Sandy tried joining the PTA, but that required sobriety on a Wednesday night, which meant her attendance was sparse. She got a real job, finally. Sandy Silverman, Real Estate Agent, Great Lake Homes. With a card and everything. Being a salesman is like being a woman: a test of how much you can endure. All the happy wives and mothers must be lying to themselves too, right? It’s just contest to see who can keep the smile pasted on her face the longest. Well, Sandy Silverman’s a professional, and she’s good at that too. She’s the best at it. And she’ll show you!

[stardustbabies-blog]

my birth stories

I have two beautiful, healthy daughters. They are so perfect that I don’t know how or why I am so lucky, so let me start with that.  But bringing them into this world was a trauma.  It doesn’t affect my love for them, but it affects my life and my mental health every day.  

I’ve realized I can’t really tell the story of my second delivery, the one that almost killed me, unless I tell the story of the first one.

In the last week of 2012, I was 36 weeks pregnant and spending my time reading books about natural childbirth, practicing pain management, talking constantly with my wife about how together we would deal with my pain and anxiety during labor.  We had been together for over seven years and she was well-versed in helping me through my mental health challenges, of which I had many. I completely trusted her to get me through it – I even looked forward to it as a bonding experience.  

That said, I am a big fan of modern medicine and never considered anything but a standard hospital birth.  I wanted to try to manage labor without intervention if I could, and my California hospital was friendly to that decision. Unfortunately for me, nobody checked my daughter’s presenting position until I was already full term, shortly after the turn of the new year.  At my 37-week appointment, my OB couldn’t find her head through the cervix.  An ultrasound confirmed that she was frank breech.  I tried everything on spinning babies, contorting my pregnant body into so many awkward positions that I gave myself migraines.  I found a chiropractor and tried the Webster technique; I found an acupuncturist and tried moxibustion.  A week later, I was headed for a C-section unless I wanted to try an external cephalic version (ECV).  

For a first pregnancy, the success rate of attempting to manually reposition the baby in the womb is about that of getting heads on a coin flip.  I read extensively about the risks, which seemed acceptable to me, and certainly not worse than those associated with a surgical birth.  My wife completely deferred to me on the decision; most other people uniformly disagreed with, or didn’t understand, my decision to try it.

I have terrible doctor anxiety, so the morning of the procedure, I was terrified.  They gave me a dose of terbutaline to relax my abdominal muscles, and it felt like an awesome caffeine jolt, a feeling I sorely missed after eight months of pregnancy.  But fun fact: ECVs hurt, a lot.  I was cursing and grunting and crushing my wife’s hand while two doctors pushed and twisted my huge pregnant belly.  Two tries were unsuccessful, and I was crying from pain.  They asked me if I wanted to try one more time.

“Baby’s okay?” I croaked.

“Ultrasound and monitor look great.”

“Go for it.”

I left disappointed, but glad that I tried everything I could.  They told me that I would schedule my C-section at my OB appointment the next day.  Wife and I grabbed lunch on the way home since I hadn’t been allowed to eat anything before the procedure.  On the drive home, I noticed a lot of discharge.  I worried that they had broken my water, but didn’t say anything out loud.  I could not acknowledge that thought.  

In the bathroom at home I learned that it wasn’t amniotic fluid leaking onto my underwear, but bright red blood.  On the drive back to the hospital I numbly thought, “Well, either they’ve damaged my internal organs or it’s a placental abruption.”

It was the latter, of course.  They occur in 0.1% of ECV attempts, and I knew that, and I’d accepted those odds.  After an agonizing wait for a doctor to examine me, I learned I’d be having a baby that day.  I told that doctor over and over again that no, I couldn’t today, I wasn’t ready, no no no.  But the baby was full term, and the placental abruption had the final say.  Seven hours later (because I’d just eaten a big meal and was considered non-emergent), my E.M. arrived by C-section, healthy and beautiful.

Pretty much immediately after her birth, I plunged into the depths of post-partum depression.  Looking back, I think that the birth experience was a huge contributor, and that I actually had undiagnosed symptoms of PTSD.  I cried every day all the way to and from work.  My panic attacks were on a hair trigger.  I couldn’t read news stories about anything involving violence without feeling it had just happened to me; the internal screaming was deafening.  And I knew – I just KNEW – that either my daughter or I was going to die.   I didn’t know how, and I wasn’t suicidal, but I would console myself by saying, at least you got to know her for three months.  

I had never planned to have more than once pregnancy.  We had planned that my wife would carry the second child and after that we would foster or adopt.  But by the time EM was four months old, despite my mental state or maybe because of it in some desperate cry for a do-over, I knew I wanted to carry another baby.  And I was already completely immersed in VBAC literature.  

In the spring of 2016, seven months pregnant with my second daughter, I told my VBAC class my birth story.  When the instructor asked what I wanted from my second birth I said, “I want the chance to try it vaginally, and naturally as much as possible.  But mostly, whatever happens, I want to feel connected to it.  I felt so out of control with my first birth; I was completely unprepared.  This time I understand that anything can happen… I just want to be emotionally present for it.”  

I understood that I could wind up with a second surgery, but I was okay with that if I got to hold her right away, got to feel excitement and positive anticipation about her arrival in my arms.  

Facts are facts:  1% of VBACs end in uterine rupture.  Of those, 6% of the babies die.  

If that were to happen to my baby, I knew I would never forgive myself.  But I trusted my hospital, my doctors.  It was absolutely crucial to my mental health, to my experience as a mother, that I give myself the chance to try.  

They had been concerned about my blood pressure the entire pregnancy.  At my first appointment at 8 weeks, my reading in their office was 180/95.  When I say I have doctor anxiety, I’m not kidding – my readings at home, well into the ninth month, were in the 120s/70s.  That did not matter when I clocked a 165/100 at my 39 week appointment.  I got sent to labor and delivery.

I had known that they were going to try to strip my membranes to trigger labor at that appointment, and so my older daughter was already tucked away at my parents’ house.  When I called my wife and told her to come to the hospital, neither of us was terribly surprised that the doctors felt it was time for new baby’s arrival.  My cervix was 1cm dilated, high, and not effaced.  I was given three options.  Go home and wait (not recommended, but ultimately my decision), have a C-section that afternoon, or be induced.  

Induced?  For a VBAC?  I was confused.

A “gentle” induction involves a Foley bulb to widen the cervix and a slow, low dose Pitocin drip.  I was told it could take days.  For all my desire for the chance for a vaginal birth, at that moment that did not sound like a marathon I was prepared to run.  But I didn’t want to go home; I wanted to have the baby that day. My daughter was taken care of.  My wife was there.  I was ready.  I wanted to meet my baby girl.  I was scared and the “devil I knew” was appealing and even, in that moment, comforting.  I told the resident I wanted the C-section.

One of my doctors, whom I had talked to extensively about my VBAC desire, heard about this decision and put a hold on the proceedings.  He sent in another doctor to talk to me further.  She was warm, empathetic, and extremely forthcoming about the procedures when I asked a million questions.  Ultimately, she confirmed what I truly wanted and talked me down from my anxiety-induced decision.  Despite everything that happened after, I am extremely grateful for that doctor.  I wish I had told her that when she visited me the next day in the ICU with tears in her eyes.  Now I don’t even remember her name.

With the decision made, they wheeled me into my delivery room.  It was around 3PM.  I hadn’t eaten since 8, so they let me order lunch, knowing delivery was a safe distance in the future.  I can’t remember what I ate.  I think there was pizza.  

The placement of the Foley bulb was the first procedure.  It hurt, much like bad period cramps.  She had to try it twice because she couldn’t get it to stay the first time.  When she told me I was all set, I smiled.  She said if I could smile after that, I was going to do great.

They hooked me up to the Pitocin, and the waiting began.  I watched the electronic trace of the contractions rise and fall on the monitor.  I couldn’t feel anything besides muscle tightening, and wondered when the pain would begin.  A few hours later, I went to the bathroom and the bulb fell out in the toilet.  There was bleeding, and my heart dropped to the pit of my stomach.  But my nurse was thrilled – it meant my cervix was dilated.  The blood was normal.  

More uneventful waiting ensued.  The contractions got stronger; I could feel (and see) my abdomen tightening.  Sometimes it would be strong enough that I would get a little breathless, but I still didn’t have any pain.

Women who have VBACs are highly encouraged, though not required, to get an epidural.  I’d had to make peace with that months earlier, because in the event of an emergency, having an already placed epidural can be lifesaving when seconds count.   It can also provide the mother with the chance to be awake for the surgical birth of her baby instead of having to undergo general anesthesia.  By 9PM, I knew in my gut it was time.  I cried the whole way through the procedure.  I didn’t want it.  I was scared of the side effects, scared of the unknown.  But most of all, now I knew I was about to have my second baby, and would never get to feel a single labor pain.  The feeling of loss was immense.  It is not an overstatement to say that the feeling of disconnection from my body and the work it was doing was devastating.  

The epidural placement went smoothly.  The anesthesiologist was wonderful and tender with me through all of my emotions.  When it took effect, I was surprised to feel I could still move my legs a bit, that they just felt heavy and sluggish.  About an hour later, I felt like I had to pee.  The nurse seemed surprised, because usually the epidural takes away the feeling in your bladder, but she gave me a bed pan.  I couldn’t go.

The nurse said at this point, my job was to try to get some rest before things really got going.  Wife and I lay down, and put on the TV.  Ocean’s Eleven was on.  

As I lay there, sleepy but knowing full well the idea of actually sleeping was laughable, I felt a little nauseated, a little dizzy, and a little sweaty.  I knew labor could do that sometimes, and I knew I had drugs in my system.  It may have been normal.  It may have been a series of warning signs.  I’ll never know.

Around 11, I think, I felt my whole body jolt, like an electric shock had run through me.  That was followed shortly by a gush of fluid between my legs.  I threw off the blankets and looked at the sheet, and touched the fluid on my body.  It was clear – not blood, not greenish or brownish.  Relief.  I had to wake Wife up.  “Sweetie… my water broke.”  

I am so grateful for the classic labor milestones that I did get to experience.

But I was definitely not feeling well by this point.  Woozy, sweaty.  I have terrible anxiety and shit was getting real, so I chalked it up to that.  At one point a doctor came in and repositioned my fetal monitor, the belt of electrodes around my belly.  

“Is she okay?”

“She’s okay.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

I’m not sure exactly what time it happened.  It feels to me now that it was very soon after my water broke, but based on the timing of the birth it must have been at least an hour later.  

Out of the blue, like a truck hit me, I was enveloped by the worst pain of my life. (And keep in mind, I’d had an epidural already.)  It felt like someone had reached into my body and was pulling apart my abdominal muscles.  It felt like a vise gripped my bladder and twisted.  It coincided with contractions.  I became the classic “woman in labor screaming in the hospital bed.”  I curled up on my side in the fetal position to try to get away from the pain.  My nurse asked me questions, but I was in too much pain to answer her.  She told me I needed a bolus of my pain relief.  Wife put the controller in my hand, but I couldn’t hold onto it, and it dropped to the floor.  

I thought, “Well, I guess now I know what labor feels like.”  And that conclusion came with a bit of disappointment, because I knew I could never withstand that level of pain for hours, no way in hell.  

But… that wasn’t labor.  

The timing of the next events is hazy to me.  I know that I underwent a couple more of those excruciating contractions before the frenzy began.  I know that the doctor who had been occasionally checking me for dilation progress was called out of a meeting, and I know the room began to flood with people, some of them in scrubs, some of them with walkie-talkies.  I know now it was because my daughter’s heart rate was dropping.  

Suddenly the lights were bright.  The doctor sat down at the foot of my bed and reached inside me and I will never, ever forget the puzzled look on his face.  

“This baby is sky-high,” he said.

I’d read enough to know that the baby’s loss of station in the pelvis is diagnostically indicative of a uterine rupture.  

The doctor went to the monitors, scanning readouts, clicking on things.  “Doctor, should we get her to the OR, given her history?” a woman said.  

“Just get her out,” I said.  “I’m scared.”

Wife noted, and told me later, that at this point my heart rate was 155.  I was tachycardic and going into hypovolemic shock.  They had to wheel me to the OR without Wife, who had to get dressed and, I later learned, had to be held outside until the doctors were sure that our baby wasn’t dead.  As they wheeled me down the hall, I heard one of them say the word rupture.

“My uterus ruptured?” I asked.

“Your membranes ruptured,” she said.  She was protecting me, I know that now.  They saw me bleeding as they were wheeling me down the hall.  They knew.  Wife heard them call “Condition O” over the loudspeakers.  Obstetric emergency, all hands on deck.  

From the time the doctor was called to check on me to the time I was cut open, a total of nine minutes passed.  I was heavily drugged and woozy from blood loss, staring up at the ceiling, bright lights in my eyes.  Wife wasn’t there yet.  I noted that I did not feel the tugging sensation that I’d felt when they delivered E.M.  I didn’t hear the baby cry, either.  

I wanted to pass out.  My brain really, really wanted to go to sleep.  My eyes were closing and I had to fight it.  I kept thinking, “If you pass out, that is bad.  Don’t do it.  Stay awake.”

Every time I started to feel my head spin like I was going to faint, I would look up at this woman who was standing by my head.  I didn’t have to say anything; she would look at my face and know I was in trouble, and she would do something to my IV and it would fix it.  I still don’t know who she was or what she was doing.  Nobody has been able to answer me that.

Wife finally joined me, sat down next to my head.  She had tears in her eyes but I was a little too out of it to register at that time what she must have been through.  I cried and she held me, at least as much as she could while I was strapped to an operating table.  

The first time we saw our daughter C.J.’s face was in an iPhone picture taken by an OR nurse.  I remember gasping and sobbing twice with joy when I saw those pictures.  She was okay.  She was here.  She was real.  Her APGARs, miraculously, were 5 and 8.  

I was on that operating table for two hours, about three times as long as a standard C-section procedure.  I’d experienced a complete uterine rupture, which means that the contents of my uterus were open to my abdomen.  When they opened me up, the placenta spontaneously delivered, and C.J. was in my upper abdomen.  When I later asked how long she had been like that the answer was, “Well… it couldn’t have been very long.”

They estimated that I lost three liters of blood.  They did not give me a transfusion, but did give me two units of platelets to make sure I didn’t bleed more.  My rupture extended to the broad ligament on the left side, which is a long, flat, structure that connects the uterus to the abdominal wall.  When I get menstrual cramps now, I still have sharp pains in that ligament – a lovely monthly reminder.  

When they were confident they’d repaired the damage and the bleeding had subsided, I had some time in the ICU.  I know I got to hold the baby that night, but I don’t really remember doing so.  I was pretty drugged and actually slept a little; Wife sat in a chair next to me, crying.  The next day I got visits from some familiar faces, many of the doctors who had treated me throughout the process.  I don’t remember much about what they said to me. I tried to eat and drink but vomited everything back up.  I barely had the energy to hold the baby.  I felt numb.  

That night I got transferred to a standard recovery room.  On the surface that was great news, because it meant I was healthy enough for standard and not intensive care.  But it also meant I was treated like a standard C-section patient and not one who had undergone a life-threatening event.  It was one of the worst nights of my life.  My anxiety was nearly unbearable, I was shaking and in pain.  The oxycodone was the only thing that kept me from losing it.  

For all of that night, I was unable to urinate on my own.  I felt a terrible urge, but once I dragged my shredded body to the toilet, the muscles would not work to make it happen.  I don’t know if that’s because I had a catheter for 24 hours or because of the rupture.  Either way, it was nearly unbearable.  I would send for the nurse and then sit there on the bed in agony for nearly an hour before she would finally acquiesce and straight-cath me to empty my bladder.  Because the volume was too low to warrant such an extreme urge, she took me less and less seriously each time.  My wife, who is not confrontational by nature, had to demand that the nurse get me Ativan to rescue me from my torment.

It’s clear to me now I must have sustained some damage to my bladder or those muscles and that caused the feelings – it was the same thing I felt soon after getting the epidural.  In the morning, I was finally able to pass some urine on my own, although it would take minutes and minutes.  

I spent most of the recovery period alone in the hospital.  My family did visit for a few hours the next day, but for the remaining three days I sent Wife home to get rest and take care of our E.M. I needed her to be well rested so she could take care of us when we got home.  

In those bleary, painful, lonely days of recovery. . . when I held C.J. to my chest, skin to skin, it was pure bliss.  I was connected to her immediately, which was not the case with EM.  

Which is not to say I was okay.  I broke down in tears upon being woken up from a precious nap to have my blood pressure taken, and the technician chastised me sharply.  “With your blood pressure history, we have to cover our butts.”

The morning I was due to be discharged, the doctor who had delivered C.J. came to check on me, and I was curled up crying.  She was the first person to mention PTSD to me.  I was interviewed by more than one social worker about my support network and how capable I felt to take care of my daughter.  

The recovery at home was brutal.  When your body has been pregnant and realizes it no longer is in that state, it works to reduce your blood volume.  This is a reasonable physiological response, but when you lose three liters of blood and need to build up your supply, it is a counterproductive one.  I was weak and devoid of energy.  I needed so much sleep that my wife was practically a single mother for the first few weeks.  The guilt was horrible, but I couldn’t fight my physiology.  I literally didn’t have enough blood in my body.  I ate cheeseburgers and spinach every day to combat the anemia.  

The nightmares where I am being shot in a hospital parking lot, or torn open by wild animals, or holding a shriveled dead baby have only recently begun to subside.  

My daughter is a year old today.  I have a toddler again.  She is absolutely perfect, with big blue eyes, little curly flips of hair on the back of her head, four tiny teeth, a round kissable tummy, and rolls of chub on her arms and legs.  She dances like a maniac and shrieks when she’s excited, or angry, or bored, or about everything, really.  Sometimes I still don’t understand how she is with us, except to realize that my doctors and nurses may not have been perfect, but I owe them her life and probably mine.  

I am not religious.  My spirituality derives from the science behind the mysteries of life and reality – from physics, from neurobiology.  I am a human animal, and my connection to life, to nature, to evolution, is something I recognize in my rational mind and also in my gut… or in my soul, if you will.  If I am to borrow the language of religion, there is nothing more “holy” in my heart than making a human life.  It is a horrible, brutal, messy, terrifying, indescribable, transformative experience, and one of the most unifying components of being alive on Earth.  It is one that should never be undertaken lightly and never chosen by or forced upon someone who doesn’t unequivocally want to experience it.  

And for me, it is going to be a years-long, if not life long, process to accept that my experiences with pregnancy and childbirth have left me feeling disconnected from nature, betrayed by my body, and inferior to the mothers of all the generations before me.  In that sense I am processing a trauma on two levels – the physical near-death experience for myself and my baby girl, and a profound sense of loss.  The latter has left me unsatisfied in a very deep and spiritual way.  I do NOT glamorize the pain of childbirth, but I deeply wanted to feel a baby being pushed from my body. I wanted to feel myself accomplish that.  I wanted to be held by my wife while I birthed our child, whether it was in a delivery room or an operating room.  I wanted a bloody, messy, wailing infant to be placed on my chest after we went through birth together.  

And yes, I wanted us both to live.  My gratitude that we did doesn’t erase what I feel as a loss.  Those who would say things like “a healthy baby is all that matters” or “just be grateful, because 100 years ago you would have been dead” are of no use to me.  Those statements tell me that you don’t see mothers as autonomous beings separate from their status as a vessel.  You are no better than the people who would force a woman to go through this experience against her will.  And in that vein, while my healing proceeds, one of my greatest hopes is that we as an animal species can cultivate a sense of the vitality of the dignity of mothers, in pregnancy, in labor, in birth, and in recovery.