#they diagnosed me with medical ptsd and i just am so like. still shocked and it’s been months since my surgery and since they told me

[petyou]

realizing my situation is fr like probably the most niche thing fucking ever and i don’t think ill ever have someone like truly understand it or how im feeling and ive felt alone before but never like this idk

[joyfulinternetartisan]

First post....

I'll start with a little bit about me and who I am, just call me Lucie(: Then I'll talk about how I'm feeling tonight because I don't feel well. It's taking me so long to type this but I need a distraction.

I'm 25 (about to turn 26) and I live in a small rural township outside Midland, Michigan. I just moved here mid-August 2021 after spending my entire life in Las Vegas and barley ever leaving on trips. Moving here was (Still is) a giant culture shock, I'll have to talk about that sometime.

Michigan is really changing me. The transition is STILL a little hard and I'm not sure why. But I've improved, I actually have solid plans for a future here in Michigan. Not going back to Vegas, unless I visit. It's honestly better for me to be here.

I love cats. I have 5 kitty babies. I like reading, writing, and crafting, but I've lost my spark since moving here.. I'm really trying to get it back so I can craft again. I wish I had the energy to make something right now.

I'm diagnosed autistic (but mask it), have depression, anxiety, ADHD, PTSD, and schizoaffective disorder in my noggin. My body is messed up but I'm not sure exactly what's wrong. I need tests and need to see what the doctors tell me. I know I have fibromaylgia and RA. I was diagnosed and medicated for ulcerative coltis when I was a teen and young adult but I don't think of it as a problem anymore. And I have something going on with swollen lymphnodes and it's gotten unbearable. I need help. That's actually what I wanted to talk about, because it's really bothering me and right now typing this is helping pull my mind away from it. I'm sick af right now.

I'm going to dip into my life with the lymphnode thing in the next post. I feel dizzy and have chills. I need a few.

Have a lovely morning.

[silver-rings-and-rabbits]

Open Heart: Second Year

I don’t think I’m saying anything that hasn’t already been said before but this is bugging me like crazy. I don’t use Tumblr very often but I don’t know anyone else who plays Choices, so here I am (I guess spoiler alert for those who haven’t played Open Heart).

Open Heart book 1 is one of my favourite books, possibly even my most favourite. I genuinely couldn’t decide between Bryce, Raf and Ethan. I switch between the male and female MC and I’ve been able to give them different personalities. The book had strong writing and a coherent plot with probably three main storylines: Patient X, Panacea Labs, and Mrs Martinez, which all tied together beautifully at the end. Even all our patients came back in the last chapter.

And then Open Heart: Second Year. Where to start.

Obviously Ethan is our boss, mentor and colleague so he will have a vital role in the story, but why push the other LIs aside? Why can’t Bryce romancers steal a few minutes in the hospital corridors where Bryce gives you a flirty wink and a pat on the butt? Why can’t Jackie romancers sneak into her room every so often?

And let’s get started on Rafael. First of all....what the fuck?

I love a little bit of angst so I wasn’t initially too mad when Sora was introduced (actually I think it made me want Rafael more, because apparently I only like men I can’t have...and I’ve gone off Ethan because he would be too easy). But there was none. Sora appeared in chapter 2, where it’s described as ‘stings a little to watch’, but doesn’t appear again until the baseball game in chapter 8 where they cheer for Edenbrook a couple of times. The only kind of ‘angst’ Rafael romancers got was dancing with Raf at the music festival where Sora is briefly mentioned and MC closes their eyes and listens to Raf’s heartbeat (which was a sweet moment, to be fair). Are you seriously telling me that none of their friends acknowledged that he and MC used to date? That they wouldn’t have asked if MC was OK at least once? That they would have invited Rafael over to the apartment without giving MC a heads up? And when PB was asked about this they gave some crap about making things realistic and exploring the mature themes of a medical drama. If Open Heart were realistic, MC would have been fired halfway through book 1 (one of the dialogue options with Ethan in book 1 chapter 6 actually leads him to say ‘consider yourself lucky you’re even getting a next time’) but NO, we get ‘realism’ by losing a beloved love interest and character that people have grown invested in and spent money on, and then completely waste the opportunity for drama.

And then there’s chapter 10.

And going back to realism, they couldn’t think of anything else apart from vengeance and terrorism? Not, I don’t know, just a highly infectious patient which is probably more likely to happen within a hospital?

I do think that chapter 11 is one of the strongest chapters of Second Year, and the book has got stronger since then. But knowing that it might have ended with the death of Rafael leaves a VERY bitter taste. I’m very glad they rewrote it...but what on earth was the thought process behind that?!? Going back to realism again, if they wanted drama and emotions, why not have Kyra die of surgical complications? At least we’d have been somewhat prepared for that as she was introduced as being a cancer patient, and there would have been more angst (especially for Bryce romancers) as he would have had the guilt of not being able to save her when he promised MC he would, even if it was out of his hands. But sure, have Rafael caught in an assassination attempt, that makes sense. And it still doesn’t really excuse Sora, I mean, imagine the pain if he was still an LI and he and MC were saying their last goodbyes in that room??

I was happy with the rewrite to chapter 11 and the kiss between Raf and MC in chapter 12 was beautiful. And PB have actually made something of an effort to include Raf in the rest of the story; I was half-expecting to not see him again until the obligatory 30-diamond scene in the last chapter.

Chapter 12 was so emotional and it was so clear that each character and LI was struggling with the events. And the end of chapter 12 and the beginning of chapter 13 made it very clear that MC was terrified of returning to work. MC has butterflies in their stomach as they walk in to Edenbrook and then...nothing. That was that. As if they just needed to face their fear and they’d be alright again. Now I could be wrong, but I’m pretty sure PTSD isn’t as simple as that? It would go far deeper than ‘Oh, I’m alright, just taking it one day at a time’. And the narration specified that MC was uncomfortable at the idea of going back into the diagnostics room where the attack happened, but chapter 14 we’re back in there without batting an eyelid.

Someone (I don’t know who...if you’re reading this let me know!!) pointed out that Danny and Bobby could have been mentioned at the gala...there could have been some kind of ‘in memory’ and donors could have been guilt tripped by MC. But no, not a peep. I keep thinking that we could have had Baz, Zaid and Inez (I miss her) catching up with MC and asking how they’re doing and how worried they were. If you’re going to the gala with Raf there could have been a highly emotional scene between them about what happened in the room. Raf alludes to it in a line of dialogue but there was potential for so much more.

And how about the fact that a group of doctors cured the incurable OVERNIGHT and it worked without proper testing? NO ONE has mentioned that since! Surely there would be papers being published and deeper research being conducted now that lives aren’t on the line? We had a whole chapter about how a research grant would save the hospital but now...nothing?! Ed Farrugia hasn’t been mentioned since chapter 12. No one in the team is talking about how it was June’s idea to convince him to switch to Edenbrook. Surely that would be a huge elephant in the room? Wouldn’t she at least say something like ‘I never wanted this to happen, we went too far’? Something?!

The fact that there has been no follow-up to the attack suggests to me that it was purely for shock value. They just wanted drama and didn’t care about keeping it grounded. And assuming that Rafael died in the original, that’s more upsetting. I can’t believe that he was the least profitable character in the history of Choices ever. And even if he was, was it because no one bought his diamond scenes, or because he didn’t have diamond scenes to buy? I romanced Bryce in my first playthrough, but I remember choosing to assist on his surgery without even thinking about it, I didn’t even look at the diamonds it would cost. So a beloved character would have been killed, and it would have brought nothing to the story.

Furthermore, Sora would never have been explained. Rafael almost explained in chapters 2 and 12 but both times MC cut them off. If Rafael was originally going to die in chapter 11, Rafael romancers would never have got that explanation, unless they were to hear it from Sora themselves afterwards (doubtful). And it’s highly unlikely it actually will be explained. PB will probably say ‘it’s up to you what happened!’ like they’re doing us a favour by creating our own headcanon, but to me that’s just lazy writing; they wanted to write off Rafael and they didn’t care how they did it.

If Second Year hadn’t opened with a funeral scene we might never have been clued into what was going to happen and demanded a rewrite.

Aside from that, there’s Esme. She’s introduced as breaking Dr Thorne’s hand and then has to diagnose and treat him in chapter 10. Depending on your choices, he gets surgery and thanks Esme for saving his life and apologises for the bar incident. Otherwise she doesn’t run further tests and he messes up a surgery which eventually forces him to resign. And then Esme gets her plotline with Levi. If Dr Thorne wasn’t her main plotline, what was the point in introducing him? It’s another storyline that had huge potential--sexual harassment in the workplace, for example--but had little to no payoff and fell off the radar. If PB wanted to introduce MC and Esme the night before they both started working then MC could have just literally walked into Esme and either apologised, asked if she was OK, or told her to watch where she was going, and that would have affected how she greeted you in the hospital the next day. But no, we get this storyline hinted at which is then written off and replaced. Maybe it was a rewrite, I just don’t see why it would have been.

Like I said before, the main storylines of book 1 all tied together in the end, but the storylines we’ve had in book 2 have just felt like completely separate events, just a bunch of stuff that happens and is quickly forgotten. I think the balance of the LIs has been better since chapter 11; even when the gang went to Vegas, Raf romancers got a quick phone call with him. As a Raf romancer, I appreciated that, and it only goes to show how PB could accommodate for all LIs whilst having Ethan integral as our boss (see before, bonus scenes for Jackie romancers sneaking into each others rooms, bonus scenes for Bryce romancers having flirty interactions in the corridors). 

There is such a difference in dialogue if you’re playing Ethan’s romance route or not. I had him stay behind in chapter 11 and I thought it came across as a sweet conversation between a mentor and his protégée. But the other LIs don’t have anything close to that level of detail. Ethan romancers get pretty close to being official in chapter 17 but I’ve heard Jackie and Bryce didn’t get that. And Raf romancers didn’t even get caught sneaking back into the gala. I’m still holding out hope that book 2 will end with all LIs saying ‘I love you’ and being official with MC, but the inequality makes me sad.

I might have had some more to say, but this post has been longer than I intended and I don’t remember what that might have been. I really wanted to like Open Heart: Second Year. Book 1 will always be a favourite, but book 2? It’s like going from the classic era of The Simpsons where Homer was a lazy dumbass but genuinely loved his family, to the modern era of The Simpsons where nothing makes sense and Homer is a straight-up jerk. I just hope that, if we get book 3, they would have learned from their mistakes and Open Heart can be saved. It doesn’t deserve this.

Well, that’s my two cents. Sorry for the long post. If you got this far, thanks for reading.

[beautiful-disaster-93]

Chronicles of the chronically ill momma raising a special needs son 😰

I have had some medical issues for some years now, been through a lot of surgeries for being 28 years old I've indured quite a bit..

Early diagnoses of mental illnesses, many medications, therapies and so on and so on... Then at 17 or 18 was diagnosed with Degerative Disc Disease in my lower back, years later started having stomach issues, ended up with ulcers healed those with surgery and medicine... Then started having gallbladder attacks had to have emergency surgery by the time I had it done, It was dead and full of stones! Then 2 years later 2 weeks before Halloween my appendix exploded technically... Had emergency surgery at 5 am... Fast forward I kept getting ill and passed out ended up in intensive care with sepsis, went into septic shock... That was fun! (Sarcasm) then ended up with infection after infection so I had to have my tonsils and adenoids removed (as an adult) worse thing ever! Went into respiratory failure was in the hospital almost 2 weeks, almost missed my sons birthday, so I signed myself out of the hospital... Few years later I had my first foot surgery, that didn't work... 2nd, 3rd, 4th and now I've had a total of 7 foot surgeries in a 3 year span... Just to find out after that many I have very low vitamin d so they did a bone scan.. And at the age of 27/28 I was diagnosed with something that usually doesn't happen until at least early 40s, I have osteopenia (which means I'm a fall risk, and I can be easily fractured or broken) I am fragile to say the least 😂 well, now my back is worse, I am fragile... I have a low immune system due to having a skin condition, then 3 months ago I found out I have cirrhosis of the liver... And am having to travel 4 hours to see a specialist doctor to see what's next... Because of my skin issue, I am on a medicine I take every 2 weeks to help that issue, but it is known to cause my immune system to be weaker, so 3 doses later and I know have an infection in my throat, I haven't been able to eat in 11 days unless I force my throat to swallow then I'm nauseous, I can barely swallow water... I am on antibiotics for 10 days but I don't know how much longer I can handle the pain, as I also have chronic migraines, and chronic nausea and this infection is making everything so much worse! Ended up with covid, and covid pneumonia was sick as a dog, was so so sick... Still have complications from it and this was back in January it is now August so 7 months later things still taste weird, I don't like certain foods anymore it just changed me.... 🥺🥺🥺

My son is autistic, he has behavioral problems, mood disorder, adhd, ptsd and is starting 6th grade this year, his first day of middle school, and let me tell you he may be excited, but this momma is nervous... He has a hard time making friends because he is anti social some days, he can be demanding, he lies about silly things and just has other issues that I am not completely comfortable talking about, we went through a fire and we lost everything that was hard on him, almost lost our cats... It's been a rough few years on top of the pandemic..

I have had many female issues and due to that and having so many miscarriages they had to do a partial hysterectomy on me at the age of 27, to top it off I still have pcos, and some endometriosis left... Also had 2 herinas removed.. I've been through it.. So never think your alone, I got you always.. 😊😊😊😊

It's been rough, but I know god has me through all this, he protects me and loves me that is what keeps me going... I pray I pray hard...

No matter what the future holds for me I know it's all in gods plan 🙏🏼

[self-shipper-snowdrop]

you good snow? your vents had me a lil worried abt you

Oh yeah I’m okay! Like, generally speaking, I am absolutely okay.

(I talk a bit about mental health here so I’m playing a cut, but this is okay to like just don’t reblog please! Friends, feel free to send a message if concerned but I won’t just meet all my diagnoses out here.

In short; I basically got diagnosed with a few things, namely mild OCD and I’m having a bit of a hard time with it because I don’t know what this means for me.)

I just had an appointment today about mental health things and I guess I’m just... shellshocked? I don’t know still. My feelings are extremely complicated.

To be brief and not dump my medical history on people; I went in, mentally prepared for “the trauma talk” and see if I needed medication.

I walked out with three more diagnoses on top of PTSD, one of which was (mild) OCD and I am genuinely reeling from that. I know that probably  sounds nuts to people, but I am actually shocked. Thing is like... it makes sense, and I can’t refute it the longer I think about it, so I’m just. trying to process the whole thing, I suppose?

Anyway yeah, I am fine, just walking away with a lot more diagnoses than I expected and I don’t know how to respond. It’s genuinely extremely difficult for me, and I’m not fully sure what to say about it. I feel bad because it renders me kinda speechless, but I think I just need time to process and accept that just because I’ve been diagnosed with more than expected, that doesn’t change anything about me, and there is nothing wrong with me. That will probably just take me a bit and I’m going to have to do best to give myself the time and space I need to let this properly sink in and process.

[transephiroth]

an important post: abuse from friends, friend abuse. please read and reblog.

TW: abuse ment, bpd ment, ed ment, suicide ment, ptsd, trauma, death ment. gaslighting ment.

i don’t know what exactly what has compelled me to make this post at nearly 1:00 am on a school night just like every other, but i think the importance of advocacy of preventing, spotting, and stopping abusive friendships is to talk about them with the same respect as any other form of abuse.

i’ll give you a small overview of my personal experience with abusive friendships: when i was 16, my father committed suicide. i was not aware he was my biological father at they time and actually found out he was not my half brother, but my biological father. my father, who’s name i will not mention. i won’t even use fake names they’re hard to keep track of. i found out my mother, an abusive drug addict, slept with her husband, my apparent grandfather’s, adult son from a previous marriage consensually. one way or another, my father was forbidden to be involved in my life, and my grandfather raised me as his own. (in case you’re going to ask about inc*st, my father and mother have no relation, she is not his mother.)

the shock of learning this and grieving his death from the few negative interactions he and his mental health had on my family when i was a baby, was intense. i had no friends at school and felt incredibly lost and vulnerable. when i was in this place i met my best friend. we bonded over a shared hatred of my ex boyfriend, who was an abuser, who was dating her ex best friend.

this should have been a red flag, but i ignored it.

i took the first friend i could find after my ex took away all my friends in an effort to isolate me after my assault. this was probably the worst part of my life, and one of my first real suicide attempts was only days before my father died. the first friend i found, the first soul i recognized i clung to.

when me and my friend, who we will call P, were inseparable. but there was a very clear and distinct difference between us. P was a star in the band at school, she had great grades, tons of friends and was quite conventionally attractive. she was involved in a lot of extracurriculars and overall had a very nice demeanor.

this should have been a red flag. as harsh as it might sound, idealizing anyone is unhealthy. if someone appears to you as perfect, it’s not paranoid of you to wonder if it’s hiding something. it’s hard to tell when someone is being genuine, especially for myself with autism. nice words and a smile can pretty much fool anyone.

i, on the other hand of P, dropped out of band and just about every other activity after my assault, and was in and out of intense therapy and psych visits throughout all of high school. i never could go a school year without a visit. to this day i have gone a whole year however :)

I was an autistic shut in who quite honestly, cried a lot, smelled bad, was clearly poor, spoke funny and came to school drunk. we were not the same.

i don’t want to go over every painstaking detail, so i’ll try to summarize as best i can the first two years of our three year relationship.

P was diagnosed with BPD about a month into our friendship. she told me i was her FP/favorite person, and showed me videos to learn about BPD. i remember watching hours and hours of information about BPD to accommodate her the best i could. what i didn’t realize however, was that she was lying. she didn’t have BPD, or at least couldn’t be diagnosed because we were 16.

red flag. i knew this was a lie because i had been in therapy for years. it took me a long time to peace it together but i accepted it and beget told her, until this moment, that i knew.

i fucking knew.

months of friendship included constant easy to see through lies, fabrications, pathological rants, and pretty much changing her “back story” every day. it was draining not to mention it, but the few times i did, she got physical. i have scars on my right forearm from her nails, which were long and broke skin. she would tell me she would pay me back for things and never show. she would make fun of things i told her in secret to our friends, my trauma. my dad.

“dark humor”

over time, she convinced me to drop every single friend i had except for her. she had gotten me literally completely vulnerable and isolated.

when covid hit, my mom, of course, kicked me out. i moved in with P and her family. my time there over quarantine was very monotonous, but i’ll never forget that for basically 8-9 months, she never let me out of her sight. i felt like i had to just do whatever she wanted because her mother let me live there for free.

p knew i wanted to move away from my mother and the chaos of my home life for years.

right before quarantine, P got her first boyfriend. she had never had a boyfriend and had been to scared to get one. i was really happy for her, i encouraged her to ask him out while she was at a weekend school event.

P then began to manipulate not only me, but him. to this day i don’t know what’s become of either of them, but i really couldn’t care less anymore. when trauma heals, you get a sense of apathy.

P would frequently belittle me, mock me, kick, trip and slap me, force me to pay for things for her and her boyfriend on the spot, and steal from my purse.

eventually living with p, third wheeling with her less than charming boyfriend, who i honestly just didn’t mind. we weren’t friends, but i was respectful to him and treated him the same way i would treat a friend from school or something.

p has a family i won’t bring up because it involves minors, but her mother has a psychotic disorder and refuses to be medicated, so the house is full of ripped door hinges, holes in walls, smashed items and more. it’s really unsafe there, and during my time there i found i really began to internalize as a person. i developed an eating disorder and my ptsd and autism felt much more out of control.

i had been diagnosed with autism for nearly two years at that point, and living in that household made me realize just how damaging meltdown after meltdown without anyone understanding can damage your psyche long term.

i wanted to leave. i had saved my money from my jobs and got an apartment. p insisted on coming, saying she didn’t want to live with her mom anymore. i didn’t want her to come, but i agreed. she got a co-sign. i knew it was a bad idea because i heard what they said about best friends living together. i just can’t believe it really happened.

we talked about growing old together, raising our kids together. i was going to name my first daughter after her. we were going to be neighbors. her husband and my wife would be best friends just like us, but that’s not what happened.

we lived together from August 2020-November 2020

to give a quick summary of the inevitable end of this relationship, P and I had two kittens together. i asked her if she could put them away for inspection so they didn’t run out the door while i drove our third roommate, a whole other mountain of a story, to work.

she didn’t do it, instead slacked off to go to her boyfriends house. so i came back and had to put the cats away at record speed and our other roommate was late to work.

even if this was somewhat small, it was the breaking point for me. i grabbed my phone and texted her, DEMANDING she explain why she couldn’t do this one thing for me. i have never been that angry in my life. we had a phone call where i just lost it and unleashed all my anger and all my hurt about everything she had done. i was sobbing and barely making sense but i couldn’t just keep letting my life carry on this way.

i wish i remembered how the phone call ended, but all i remember was telling her “if the cats run and we can’t find them, then we are done being roommates.”

the next morning i woke up and she had blocked me on everything. i drove to the apartment and saw that overnight, according to block times at like, 3am, she had taken all our shared furniture, all my birthday gifts from not two weeks prior, all the gifts i bought her, most of my clothes, one of the apartment keys, my high school diploma, the paperwork for the cats, and not just our two shared kittens, but my third roommates cat as well.

cue search party with my partner and his friends and my other roommate for P and the cats. i found her at her house with her mom and boyfriend. i walked out and she was on the phone with my grandfather, telling him i was threatening suicide. i ask her where the cats are, she says they are at a friends house.

if we flashback in the story, we literally only had each other, so i knew it was a lie.

i managed to argue through to negotiate at least my other roommates cat, but only after P’s mom blocked us in the driveway and called the police saying we threatened her daughter

(reminder people in this group were black and asian ☺️ so she just calls the cops fall 2020)

luckily the cops saw the proof she blocked me so i couldn’t have threatened her, and let us leave.

that’s the end of the friendship. i could bore anyone who has read this far further by explaining the nightmare realm that is the legal troubles with the apartment, but the internet doesn’t need to know everything does it?

as the winter has gone on i’ve had months to basically remake myself as a person. i had to firstly face the damage P had done.

but before i get into that, anyone who is still reading first, ily, but also, if you’ve had ANY relationship that sounds similar to this, THAT IS ABUSE.

Plain and simple. It is abusive. Physically, emotionally, mentally, verbally. nobody deserves that. not P. not you. not me.

friendships can be all someone has. not everyone is born into good families with loving siblings and great parents and tons of cousins who live .3 milliseconds away. families are divided. families, like mine, are divorced. families are broken and families sometimes aren’t even families. humans need relationships, and an idealistic person who we think maybe could save us and fix the world, won’t.

you can be taken advantage of by the person you trust the most just as easily as a stranger.

it’s not wrong to face the abuse they put you through, know it was wrong, and feel valid that it is was wrong.

what i went through with P was horrible. the detachment of my only friend hurt. but i bounced back. i’m still undoing some of the damage, but i have great friends and a wonderful partner. i have two rescue cats who mean the world to me.

life gets better after abuse, but the bad days and the pain aren’t invalid because of this. i have trauma from what P put me through. abandonment like that is traumatic. but it’s not the end. feel what you need to feel to feel better.

if anyone read this far and wants to vent their own experiences, or share more advice on preventing these relationships feel free. it’s almost 1:30 now, i should go to bed.

it feels good to get that off my chest.

[teeforhee]

Fuck, I'm not sure I'll ever get over how much CAMHS (child and adolescent mental health service, it's the under-18s mental health service in Scotland) let me down as a kid.

It's like this. You're 11 and you're traumatised but you're scared of using that word, you don't know if you're allowed it, but you are traumatised. And you're so anxious you can't breathe most of the time, you can't sit down and speak to any of your friends, you can do your school work but you keep falling apart and everything feels like it's getting worse all the time. You don't fit in, you're weird and awkward but your schoolwork is good so you aren't worrying about your grades, you're not even sure why you feel this way (it's unprocessed trauma, but again, you don't feel like you're allowed that word). You're s/hing and struggling with suicidal ideation, and you're lucky enough to still trust authority figures, so you do what everyone says you should. You trust an adult. And she calls your GP, who is another adult you choose to trust, who you bare your heart to with all of these symptoms that make your feel sick to even acknowledge, and then they make you an appointment with CAMHS. You came in asking for treatment. They referred you to CAMHS. They did not explain what CAMHS was other than what the letters stood for. That's okay - it's treatment, right? They're gonna help. You can talk this through and they'll help- just gotta be careful you don't get institutionalised. You don't want that, yet.

You talk to a CAMHS worker. She's a psychologist. She says it's very likely you have autism to your mother after your first session. Your mother broaches the topic gently. You are overjoyed: there's an answer! oh fuck, this explains so much! but it's not treatment. It's a word. The psychologist puts you on a waiting list and you have 22 sessions of CBT with her, trying to unpack your trauma and trying to build up coping skills. So many of them feel like just denying the truth, so many of them feed into your magical thinking ("the one thing you can control is your thoughts, you must always control your thoughts, good things will happen when you control your thoughts and stop thinking the bad thoughts"), but it's treatment, mostly. You stop seeing her twice- once because you are trying to develop an eating disorder and having a mental health professional who wants to hear how you're doing is totally cramping your style (I wasn't actually trying to develop an ED really, I was trying to cope in ways other than s/h, in ways that felt honest to the situation and real and gave me a sense of control that "controling my thoughts" just wasn't doing). You come back for recovery. You tell her you want an eating plan. By the time she even considers an appointment with a nutritionist, you've moved past that stage in your recovery on your own. You stop seeing her again because you get into an abusive relationship who doesn't really like you having contact with people who aren't him, and he super super doesn't like you not being able to talk to him for a whole hour every week. That part isn't their fault: no one could be gotten me out of that until I decided to; believe me, everyone around me tried, and it didn't work until I wanted I to, the third time.

But I left, again, I was without support for 6 months, and when I came back it was after my father (the earliest source of my trauma) had died. They take 4 sessions compiling evidence as to what treatment i needed going forward, without telling me that was what they were doing (I was trying to build trust with an adult again after 6 months of constant reinforcing that I couldn't trust anyone but my abuser), and then an appointment with a psychiatrist and your mother and a new psychologist. They dismiss and justify the symptoms that most worry me, they have at this point turned down my request to be institutionalised multiple times (including after an aborted suicide attempt, I presume they thought that was fine because made it clear that I did want to live), and they say at the end of the meeting that they are going to give me an official diagnosis of autism and that after that CAMHS has nothing more to offer me.

They say that if after 22 sessions with a psychologist I am still struggling so much (bear in mind that probably close to half of those sessions I was concealing factors that were actively making my mental health worse and which were traumatising me) I clearly can't gain anything more from their service, and anyway, autism isn't a mental illness and CAMHS as a service can only help while waiting for/trying to get a diagnosis, or if you have a diagnosis or a disorder for which they could provide specialist treatment. My very obvious PTSD? nah, no big-T Traumas, and c-ptsd is way too hard to diagnose. I receive a hilarious letter detailing all of the evidence (I mean genuinely insightful but also fucking hilarious and I do want to note down funniest bits and post them hear at some point, stuff like "unusual speech was noted, (exclamations of 'wacky!' while describing his symptoms)") and then they refer me to a charity which, at time of writing, I have had 1 assessment phone call with, and am waiting for a call back for my next and first proper appointment.

They did not inform me when I was first referred that CAMHS is a diagnostic and specialist treatment service and if they did (this was well over two years ago now, I don't remember word-for-word what my GP told me), they did not tell me that meant that they would kick me out to a charity once they figured they couldn't label me with anything requiring specialist treatment. During our last sessions they were unyeildingly focussed on the trauma of my father dying and of the "shock" of my diagnosis (that I had been waiting for for 2 years. yes, very shocking/s) when those were not my biggest problems. My relationship with my father is complex and I won't get into it here, but suffice it to say that his death was the last step on a very, very long journey, and honestly one of the least traumatising.

I let them keep the focus there because I desperately hate talking about the actual, recent, debilitating trauma of being in lockdown with an abusive partner for 6 months. That shit hurts, I can't even say his name, but that is the thing that I need to unpack if I'm ever going to be able to go outside in the sun again.

Repeatedly ignoring the requests I made for specific treatment until past the point where I needed it anymore, not informing me how the service I was going to be working with for 2 years even worked in something so basic as "what is this for? what will happen to me if I get a diagnosis they can't give me specialised care for?", telling an 11 year old child that suicidal ideation is "not that serious", a fundamental misunderstanding of what I needed and wanted to hear ('normal' is not a helpful word. 'normal' tells me 'suck it up, everyone experiences this and they're all fine, you're normal, just think better' why are they all so adamant that I am normal? Not even considering my mental health I am an autistic bisexual gnc trans guy, we went past whatever 'normal' means a long time ago, fucking listen to me), at every single step of the way this system has left me in the same state I was before, the only improvement being through support from my friends, fucking Childline (gd fucking bless Childline volunteers, but still, I shouldn't have been getting so little support that that felt like my only option), mental health masterposts on Tumblr, chats with my (luckily) very nice guidance counselor (they're called pastoral teachers here but I know most folks reading this are American or are most familiar with the American school system) and what amounts to gritting my teeth and getting through it.

It was worth it, of course my life was worth it, of course I say the same thing every person who's attempted suicide says, I'm more grateful than words could possibly express that I survived, that I get to go home in a few minutes and feed my kitten and write and message my friends, but for fucks sake it didn't need to be this hard. And it doesn't need to be this hard. I'm not out of the woods yet, I'm still waiting on that second appointment with this charity, I'm still 3+ months behind at school, and I'm one of the lucky ones. My boyfriend has been hurt worse by CAMHS, left even more isolated than I was, even more traumatised by the way he was treated, and every single person I know who's been in this system agrees that it's deeply, deeply flawed.

I don't want people to have competitions over who's medical experiences are worse, who's country has the worst mental health system, who's been the most traumatised by their psychiatrists or lack thereof, please. Please don't make this the suffering Olympics. I'm just making this post cause I know, I know that other people have had similar experiences, whether with CAMHS or whatever their equivalent is. Mental health services need serious reform that puts patients first, listens to their needs and requests, that is well funded and well staffed by people who care about their patients wellbeing more than they care about controling other people's lives.

Austerity in the UK is a huge reason why this happened the way it did- my first psychologist left the service to go work somewhere that pays better, leaving just one newly-graduated psychologist that clearly had no idea what she was doing and didn't care to sympathise or show compassion for me.

This shit needs to change, because kids need help, and this is not good enough.

[insessionwitheleni]

LESSONS LEARNT FROM BEING DIAGNOSED WITH AN INVISIBLE CHRONIC ILLNESS:

29/05/2020

I received my Crohn’s disease diagnosis in May 2016, after experiencing months of extreme physical pain, emotional exhaustion & mental confusion (I was NOT having a good year!). Prior to this, as one should be in their 20’s, I was relatively carefree & quite active. Almost overnight, that healthy energetic person disappeared. Her place taken by someone scared & embarrassed. Suddenly, I wasn’t spending my free time with friends or at the gym, but sat in hospital waiting rooms surrounded by distressed strangers. I was being prescribed various medications with unpronounceable titles & terrifying side effects, & was expected to immediately begin taking these – no questions asked.

Fast forward to today, those dark times are luckily behind me (for now at least!). I am still popping pills on a daily basis – but have learnt to pronounce these by now! I also have to inject myself with a really scary drug fortnightly, avoid certain foods, & accept that my body will no longer allow me to be as active as I would like to be. I still get bouts of feeling very afraid of what the future may hold. BUT, things do not feel as bleak as they did back then. And I have definitely enjoyed holidays, night-outs, long walks & a cocktail or two in the recent years, so no need to feel too bad for me!

There have been three major life lessons my ongoing Crohn’s journey has taught me so far:

        LESSON (1) ---> ‘DON’T JUDGE A BOOK BY IT’S COVER!’

So many life-changing & chronic physical health issues are entirely invisible to the naked eye. Crohn’s, colitis, diabetes, epilepsy, fibromyalgia, asthma, migraines, food allergies, multiple sclerosis, to name a few. Need I highlight the obvious? Mental health issues are almost always invisible too. Depression, PTSD, OCD, social anxiety, personality disorders, post-natal depression, the list could go on & on. It’s so important to remember: ‘not every disability is visible!’

It still impacts me to this day how some people look at me when I’m being instructed to walk through for a blood test as a priority, or when I’m stood in front of them in the pharmacy queue. I am only presuming of course, but it does often seem like they are thinking ‘Why is she going first? She looks fine, I’m clearly more sick than she is.’ Why on earth am I made to feel like I am doing something wrong, just because I am not visibly unwell!? (Saying that, I could also be getting funny looks because of my daunting Greek surname, who knows?!)

My point is, be considerate & don’t judge people. The very same person who has just posted that gorgeous selfie on social media, may have been overcome with pure desperation just minutes later. The ‘rude’ person getting on the train may be experiencing an intense panic attack. That friend that keeps turning up unannounced may be in desperate need of distraction from their physical or mental health worries. The driver behind you that honked his horn the second the traffic lights turned green, may be on his way to a life-changing hospital appointment, or in desperate need of the loo!

So please be kind! We never really know what someone is going through.

         LESSON (2) ----> THE ‘SPOON THEORY’

Any of my clients reading this will know all about the famous ‘spoon theory’ from me waffling on about it during sessions. For anyone that hasn’t heard of this before, the ‘spoon theory’ suggests that healthy people have unlimited ‘spoonfuls’ of energy/effort/ability each day, however people with an illness or those going through some form of trauma, do not. Therefore these must use their numbered ‘spoons’ wisely as to avoid ‘burn-out’. As someone with an invisible illness, I thought I’d benefit from a personal reminder that some days are going to be harder than others, & so chose to get a spoon tattooed on my forearm!

I’m not suggesting you all get tattoos, don’t panic! I am however suggesting that you show yourself compassion when going through a challenging chapter. For example, if you are struggling with low mood at present or physical pain, it is literally impossible for you to be as productive as usual. So instead of piling more & more on your to-do list & feeling terrible for ‘failing’ at these ‘simple’ tasks, why not remove some items instead? Spend your precious spoons on the tasks that will benefit you here & now. In practical terms, if you feel you have 3 spoons today, you will not be able to use 10! It really is as simple as that. So adjust your to do-lists accordingly.

Tomorrow is another day, give yourself time!

          LESSON 3) ---> ‘GRIEF IS A ROLLER-COASTER!’

What has grief got to do with illness? Well…everything! 

There is a great & complex amount of loss that comes with illness. You are no longer the same person once you fall ill, especially if this illness is chronic. You can lose the ability to do certain things or go certain places. You can lose precious time at medical appointments or sorting through medications. You can lose touch with individuals that don’t seem to understand the magnitude of what has happened to you. You can lose faith. You can lose hope. You can lose independence. You can lose confidence. So OF COURSE you are going to be grieving!

The main theory around loss suggests that there are seven different stages of grief (feel free to explore further in your own time, it really is interesting). These are:

1)     Shock

2)     Denial

3)     Anger

4)     Bargaining

5)     Depression

6)     Testing

7)     Acceptance

As promising as the final stage seems, unfortunately bereavement is an ongoing process & definitely not linear. What this means is, once you reach ‘acceptance’, you don’t necessarily stay there. It is also worth mentioning that each & every individual experiences grief in their own unique way, & that external factors can massively impact this too. No wonder bereavement is such a complicated process!

What does all this mean? Well it means, if you have lost something, it is OK to feel angry about it. If you have been made redundant at work, it’s OK to not throw yourself into job applications & interviews the very next day. If a loved one has passed away, it’s OK to feel low about it 3 years later, or 5, or 10!

Allow yourself to feel whatever it is you are feeling. It’s OK!

[johnnyprofane1]

How to Get Diagnosed #ActuallyAutistic in Just 26 Years

First off, this is not a poor-me story.This is a journey to #AutisticJoy story…

I’m a singer/songwriter, pretend Rock Star with a decent following… after at least 5 other careers.

I’m also #ActuallyAutistic. Or my fave hashtag… #AutisticAF.

Two most frequent private-message questions I get?

Not about lyrics, my guitar playing, or even my mohawk…

1. Could I be autistic?

2. Should I get a diagnosis?

Well, here’s my way-long, way-detailed, way genuinely autistic answer…

I was born in 1953. Long before autism or Asperger’s were widely discussed in medicine or popular culture. More or less, just beginning in the 70s.

At least by 1957, at 4, I knew I was “different.” Family and neighbor kids told me so.

A lot.

In kindergarten, a teacher reported I was unusually creative, but “stayed to myself.” After 2nd grade intelligence testing, I was tagged “gifted.”

But my behavior was “odd.” Solitary. Formal in speech, a know-it-all. “Insensitive to context,” liked talking and playing in class. “Inattentive” to lessons.

I had one close friend at a time… In fact, only one I remember in all of primary school. In 4th & 5th grade. Jeff.

Wonder what he’s been up to the last 56 years…

My intelligence: uneven. My reading skills were off the chart, but verbal learning, most of education at the time, was difficult for me. Math tested high, but I was so impulsive on quizzes, I needed remedial classes.

Tests were a silly game to me. It was fun to be the first-one-done. I couldn’t have cared less about grades. I’m a process-, not results-oriented guy.

And most glaring? I was disliked, even hated, by schoolmates, cousins, perhaps even parents.

I was a target for mockery, hate speech, bullying, physical and sexual attack, and later molestation. And universal disappointment: “You’re not living up to your potential.”

A history of dozens of jobs, dozens of relocations, lost years in a cult, lost years in badly matched relationships…

And honestly? A history of causing great pain to others. Inadvertently perhaps, but not always. Then circling back to the couple of decades in what most would label a “cult…”

Something was just not right with this picture.

I first sought diagnosis at 17 following suicide attempt #1 in 1970. The experience was horrific.

I felt badgered by the therapist, “I know you have a secret you want to tell me.” I wanted so badly to please her. But had no idea what I was feeling, much less why.

As still happens under great stress, I temporarily lost language ability. I became mute. Which has several times been interpreted as “resistance,” “guardedness,” or even “passive aggression” by “helping” professionals.

I didn’t try therapy again until my first year in grad school, 1980. The psychiatrist summarily dismissed me without a plan when I didn’t respond to imipramine (an anti-depressant)– possibly I pissed him off. I seem to have a talent for stepping on therapist toes.

But in 1991, I entered the mental health system and essentially never left. Every new psychiatrist, psychologist, therapeutic social worker confidently diagnosed me… with something entirely different.

Between 1991 and 2016, I was diagnosed with adjustment disorder, major depression, type II Bipolarity, rapid cycling bipolarity, malingering, borderline personality disorder, dissociative disorder NOS (including discussion of multiplicity), PTSD….

There have been additional discussions of various anxiety disorders (especially social anxiety), attention deficit, schizophrenia, TIAs, stroke damage…

Pretty sure I’m leaving a few out.

With each new diagnosis, each and every professional confidently told me he or she had nailed it.

This time…

And they could help.

I was medicated accordingly with imipramine, Prozac and all the modern SSRIs, Welbutrin, Effexor, Lithium, depakote, tegretol, gabapentin, klonapin, lorazepam, respirdal, the occasional syringe of haldol, provigil and other narcolepsy drugs, sleep aids, supplements like fish oil, more I’ve forgotten….

And offered suggestions of Abilify, Seroquel, other anti-psychotics, electro-shock (ECT)…

As well as therapies including Jungian, supportive, interpersonal, analytical, psychodynamic, cognitive, task-centered, solution focused, dialectical behavior, cognitive behavioral…

I was myself a counselor from 2001 to 2011. Strange, but true.

Not one of these interventions helped me materially.

Not one.

And I experienced some very concerning side effects: tics, emotional numbness, difficulty thinking, feeling like a stranger in a strange mind. I totally gave up on treatment and medication in 2011. Bouts of suicidality ensued.

A very few friends and one wife threw the term autistic around over the years, but I never followed up. It seemed so unlikely. I was so bright. So articulate. Even somewhat successful… for a few months at a time.

And without conscious awareness, I had become adept at hiding the fact I was actually dysfunctional… perhaps the majority of the time.

Plus, I could pass for “normal” by masking… when not under stress. I learned by junior high to practice my favorite classmates’ neurotypical behavior in the bathroom mirror. Hide stimming, meltdowns, panic attacks, the total autistic burnouts lasting sometimes months, years…

In 2011, the intimacy of the most successful relationship of my life forced me to look inwardly as deeply as I could in order to avoid losing my third wife. (We are still together, deeply in love, but live in separate houses a few hundred feet apart. She needs breaks from my intensity. I find even her company exhausting after a few hours.)

My now-third wife had a family member with “high-functioning” autism, what we used to call Asperger’s (and what we now call, simply, autism). Watching this young boy negotiate his world was like watching myself in a magnifying mirror.

We had so many behaviors in common. Mine were just somewhat better disguised. With my wife’s encouragement in 2012, I began reading articles, books, online forums…

In 2016, when we separated briefly, I finally re-entered therapy. This time, I contacted various experts in adult autism through Indiana University’s Indiana Institute For Disabilities Community (IIDC).

Bingo.

Every symptom…Explained.

Every “flaw” in my character… traced back to this pervasive developmental diagnosis.

I am making progress in a kind of task-oriented counseling. Working on strategies to accommodate characteristics that just ain’t gonna change…

But the key gifts that external, credible diagnosis gave me:

Accepting I really am different, with very different needs from neurotypical folks.

Providing for those needs, as I discovered them. For instance, understanding my “special interests” are not hobbies. They are central to my survival. My job.

Reducing stimulation, sensory & social. Accepting I will have few intimate relationships in my life and becoming cautious about “friendships,” only those few folks who take the long, long journey to know and like me. After a lifetime naively assuming each new stranger was a new friend, my motto became, “Don’t like me? Don’t hang.”

Spending unashamed time… alone. I have a radical need for autonomy, while simultaneous difficulty managing independence when any other human is present. As much as I crave intimacy, I must manage my time with humans. Say less than 5 minutes with a stranger before anxiety or panic sets in, maybe 2 hours with my wife. Which brings me to…

Over the last few years, I’ve not only experienced reduction in anxiety, depression, suicidality, dissociation, night terrors, meltdowns, panic… I’ve come to realize my natural state.

Finding love. My neurotypical wife and I respect, admire, encourage, and desire one another. Pretty much a first for me.

Autistic joy.

Not disease…

Joy.

When I’m creating words or music, walking alone in Nature, watering my garden, cooking, fermenting pickles, making bread, decorating, yard sale-ing, reading, loving my pets, meditating, even shaving…

I’m in the flow.

There is no time. There is no space. No surroundings. No memory. No pain. Just lizard-warming-in-the-sun…

Joy.

Everything that restricts that joy? Gotta go. Good riddance…

So, diagnosis?

Yeah.

That’s my story.

And this time, I’m sticking to it.

[dangerous-disposition]

okay I'm reeeeeally starting to get sick of some of the discourse around MAID esp discourse that paints ppl who opt into or support it as Inherently Ableist and twisting the SHIT out of the "death with dignity" phrase that often accompanies it.

a lot of the ppl who opt into MAID aren't doing it in response to becoming disabled (you can't even opt into MAID for merely becoming disabled), it's in response to being diagnosed with a terminal illness from which there is zero hope for recovering or leading a remotely pleasurable life. you have to be 100% on medical death row to even qualify in some places and in an advanced stage of said illness. and what a lot of ppl are ACTUALLY fighting for is to be able to opt into MAID while in hospice, bc they don't want to die at home. death with dignity means wanting to be able to die with your mind still clear, your voice still strong. it's about creating a time for family to make it and say goodbye, and being able to say goodbye themselves. it's about dying PEACEFULLY when you wouldn't otherwise.

and I've had it with y'all calling EVERYTHING ableist. an individual not wanting to become incontinent is NOT ableist. someone wanting to die instead of becoming fully paralyzed by a disease is NOT ableist. someone wanting to die while still mostly in control of their body is NOT ableist. stop projecting on TERMINALLY ILL PEOPLE.

yes, terminal illness results in disability, but MAID is not fucking about disability and stop MAKING it about disability. MAID is a PALIATIVE issue. not a disability issue.

and if ur fucking feelings are hurt by someone dying of prostate cancer wanting to opt into MAID, and one of their issues happens to be incontinence, that is a YOU problem and stop complaining when ppl rope u in with pro-lifers.

people opting into MAID are NEVER thinking "oh God I would rather DIE than be disabled bc disabled ppl are better off DEAD", they're thinking "I am dying and it is a horrible way to go, and I refuse to put myself and my family through that".

I had someone patronize me about MAID bc I was talking about how my dad wanted to opt into MAID, but the wait time was too long and we couldn't care for him anymore. his morphine and fentanyl doses were too high for non-medical professionals to be administering, so we opted into hospice and you can't choose MAID if u go into hospice! even CONSIDERING MAID is enough to disqualify u from going into hospice. she straight up said "well we should focus more on providing resources for families with dying loved ones instead of just offering euthanasia. disabled loved ones should never be considered a burden better off dead" and I was just..... fucking shocked and I don't know how to explain that my dad was SICK. yes, he was disabled too in the sense that he was completely paralyzed, had a feeding tube, and couldn't even TALK anymore, but he was SICK. like being disabled due to terminal FUCKING illness is not part of the disability discussion. u can't just rope MAID into ur fucking discourse bc MAID is only fucking available to TERMINALLY SICK PEOPLE who usually also happen to be disabled due to that illness.

and maybe it's a fundamental misunderstanding about what "terminal illness" is. if you are terminally ill, you will DIE of that illness. maybe something else will get you, but chances are, you're going to die of that specific thing. that's why not all cancer patients are called terminally ill. the label "terminal" is reserved for "you 100% will not survive this". not for a lack of accessible treatment, or lack of government assistance to live better while sick. it is a one-way ticket, no way to turn back, done.

my dad was diagnosed w a terminal illness in August 2016. they called it terminal THEN bc there was zero cure and zero treatment for what he had. he couldn't opt into MAID at that point bc his illness could progress slowly, and he could have possibly had years before his life was SIGNIFICANTLY impacted. there was room to argue that he could have lived happily and pain free, with only a bit of limitations and choosing MAID then was cutting that potential off at the knees. he progressed FAST and was dead the following September. and the biggest thing for him is he did not want to die at home, which is why he ultimately did not opt into it (added with it that we just couldn't take care of him anymore and the wait period for MAID was too long, he needed to go into hospice. we all had caregiver burn-out). and his death was.... traumatizing. the week leading up to it was literally traumatizing. like straight up my family has PTSD it was so awful

so yeah, I'm sick of ppl turning a PALIATIVE issue into a disability issue bc ppl are upset that others do not want to die slowly and painfully and potentially a-fucking-lone and they just happen to also share common symptoms of disabilities (lack of mobility, incontinence, drooling, inability to swallow, etc).

[smhtaehyung]

when all daisies disappear🌼 || chapter 4

• masterlist

• Pairing: taehyung x OC (mental hospital au)

• Genre: angst, fluff, eventual smut, romance

• Word count: 4.6k

• Warning: swearing, will contain themes such as suicidal thoughts, depression and physical violence. Some of the backstory for Taehyung’s character is taken from the BTS concepts during the hyyh era. if you feel uncomfortable with the topic of mental illness, I advise you not to read further.

•••

chapter 4 ➸ 478 🌼

As seconds, minutes and a full hour passed by, I found myself getting gradually worried. Living in this hospital, I've seen many mental breakdowns. But something about this particular one, with Taehyung, made my anxiety fly through the roof. I’ve never met a person with Haphephobia, let alone shared a room. This being Taehyung’s phobia, confused me because I couldn’t decide whether I should be harsh on him or not. Is it worth it?

Two hours ago they took Taehyung away to the to the emergency office calm him down. I sat in the interaction room, his fake letter still in my pocket. Jiyu walked past and I rushingly sent a worried stare her way. She waited for me to ask a question, looking at me as she asked patients how they were feeling. She did it on purpose, wanting to hear my rushed, desperate question. She walked past me, but I stopped her, jumping over the couch as I landed on my legs "Is he okay?" I whispered

"Why are you asking?" She asked in a curious tone. "I don't know. Probably because if he's feeling bad enough, they'll switch him to another ward, meaning I'm going to have a room all by myself." I lied in a exciting tone to which Jiyu just shook her head in huge dissappointment. I raised my voice saying that, so other people would hear me. But as soon as Jiyu walked away I quickly walked towards her and stopped her. "Ji, I told you many times to not be like that-" She started speaking but I cut her off, explaining. "I actually want to know. I'm worried." I said as we walked to her medical reception. "What? What game are you playing this time?" She asked, taking some medication out of the boxes and reshuffling them. She stopped all her movements for a second. "Really?" She asked. "Yeah, why? I'm not that mean." I spoke, trying to make my words sound casual. She hesitated with confusion of my words, until she sighed and finally told me.

"Due to his condition-" She started speaking, trying to avoid actually naming his diagnose. "I know he's a haphephobe and a germaphobe, but did his panic attack have to do something with his PTSD?" I whispered as Jiyu opened her mouth in shock. "How do you know-?" She asked in a overreacting confused tone. "I always know everything." I said but quickly spoke again. "But not now, Jiyu. Please tell me what happened." I said, resting my hands on the pult. She sighed again and continued, whispering. “He’s better now. He went through his episode and got scared. He remember what he had did, so it triggered his mind and led him to the feeling of paranoia. Us being there, trying to comfort him was an even worse fear for him. It’s hard to comfort someone with just your words.” She softly spoke, feeling sensible about his story. “What did he do?” I asked in confusion. She just immediately shook her head and looked down. “Tell me, Jiyu. Pease.” I said but she widened her eyes to something she saw behind me. I turned around and saw Taehyung. He was walking from the hallway towards the interaction room.

I remember thinking in that moment: Where are his white clothes? At that moment Taehyung wasn’t wearing his usual clothes and he wasn’t his usual self. His eyes were red and slightly swollen from crying. He wore a red cap that tried to cover his bloodshot eyes. He had on the t shirt he wore to breakfast, but it was almost covered by his all black tracksuit with little details. His look was numb, his lips didn’t move as if they were sculpted out of stone. His perky ears were peeking on the sides of the cap that in this awful moment, gave him the only charm he would get recognised by.

I moved a little to the side when I saw him approach the pult. Jiyu was inside, looking concerned. Taehyung ignored me completely, proving his point that I’m not always the main motive of the painting. Even as he coldly walked, the breeze tried to avoid him, so it hit me when he walked by. Not looking at me had me frustrated and overthinking every move I made. I looked up and down, each second different. Taehyung stood in front of the glass, looking at Jiyu, who was sitting down. “Came for meds?” Jiyu softly asked, speaking a bit louder so Taehyung could hear her through the sound slits. He nodded and slid a piece of paper that had his medication listed by his therapist, through the hole at the bottom of the glass. His fingers softy brushed the pult as he slid the paper in, looking down. He didn’t acknowledge my existence at all. As if I wasn’t there. Jiyu looked for the little plastic bottles. She put her gloves on and put a few pills of different bottles in a small paper cup. The way he ignored me made me so puzzled I didn’t know what to say or how to react. So, not knowing how to comfort people, I spoke the first thing that came to mind. Just so I don’t drive myself insane. "You look like shit." I whispered, trying to break off the silence. Jiyu’s eyes immediately found me, freezing in place after I spoke. But in a split of a second she continued and uncomfortably stared at Taehyung. Taehyung ignored, looking down to the hole. Jiyu slid him the paper cup with medication and a plastic cup of water. “I know.” Taehyung said, not looking at me. He downed the pills and drank the water in a matter of seconds. I observed his adam’s apple twitch as he gulped. He put the both cups down and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “Thanks Jiyu.” He said in a cold tone as she nodded. Taehyung only sent a numb glance my way and walked past me, incredibly far from me.

Was he always walking this far away from me, or am I just noticing it now?

I followed his movements with my as as he walked to our room. He took a napkin from his pocket and opened the door knob, entering inside. I quickly tried to follow him, but Jiyu stopped me. “Why would you say that?!” She raised her voice in sudden ridiculousness she expressed with her facial features. “I don’t know what to say to people when they’re feeling like that! This was the softest approach i came up with!” I yelled in a whisper, being angry at myself too. I tried to continue walking but she stopped e with her voice again. “Ji, your meds too.” She said already filling the cup.. Being in a hurry, and not wanting to argue, I quickly walked to the pult and as the pills entered my mouth I positioned them under my tongue. I put both cups down. “Open.” She said and leaned over to observe my mouth. In complete calmness I opened my mouth and she observed for a few seconds. “Can I leave now?” I rolled my eyes. She nodded with a sigh and I quickly walked down the hallway to our room.

When I got in front of the door completely stopped. The shiny doorknob left by Taehyung made my mind wander to many places again. He really didn’t leave any mark behind him. Only occasional daisy that would fall fro his pocket. But not today. Is the letter I carry inside my pocket the only thing that keeps and carries his touch?

I sighed and opened the door. Taehyung was sitting on his bed and this time, observing me. I quickly walked to my bedside and lifted up the heavy mattress. I pulled out the wooden box I made and unlocked it with the key I carried around my neck. There was at least a hundred pills inside, all of them being there when I didn’t need them. I spat out the pills I had inside my mouth in my hand and I put in in the box. I locked the box back and noticed Taehyung still staring at me. I lifted the heavy mattress and put the box back under it. “You should drink your meds.” He softly spoke. “They don’t help.” I said as I adjusted the mattress back onto it’s place, but I couldn’t get it positioned completely back in, some edges lifting up from the others. I tried to force it back to its place but that didn’t work too. “Not like that.” He said and voluntarily got up to help me. He kneeled down next to me, still keeping his distance. My hands instantly flinched as I got a closer view of his hands. He softly pushed the mattress further from himself and lightly pressed it down as the mattress softly slipped in back to its place. “Not everything is dealt with force.” He said and quickly got up to wipe his hands onto his antibacterial wipes he always carried inside his pockets.

“Thanks, rat.“ I said in an unusual endearing way that made the whole sentence seem completely ironic. A giggle escaped his lips that didn’t match his cried out eyes. He walked to the window as I subtly observed him the entire time, waiting fro him to notice that his “letter” is missing. But he didn’t look to his drawer at all. He was watering his daisies and re positioning them to fit the places his troubled OCD mind pictured. I sat in silence, pretending to draw. We did our own thing, separated. I missed his dumb questions and things he wanted to get my attention with.

We both slightly flinched when each of our concentration was broken by a knock on the door. It was one of the nurses, gently opening the door and peeking their head in. “Hey guys, some of us are about to take a walk around the garden  to watch the sunset, want to join us?” I looked at Taehyung, waiting for his response. He nodded in affirmation and got up. I looked at him and got up too. “You’re going too?” He asked. “Yeah, why? I want some fresh air, what’s the deal?” I asked, in a slightly panicked tone that desperately tried to stay stone cold. “Nothing, I’m glad you’re coming.” He said in a calm tone. He seemed quite distant, meaning the his pills started working. I sighed and followed him and the nurse to the hallway. We went down the hallway where Jiyu was, standing with a few of the patients on this ward. She was surprised to see me come to. ”I thought you hated walking in the garden, observing the sunset.” Jiyu spoke. “I do hate sunsets.” I lied, in a completely numb tone. Taehyung observed me with a stare I couldn’t really describe or know. Numb yet soulful, or perhaps casual but with a hint of a endearing emotion.

Everyone stared at me. “C’mon losers let’s go.” I nervously said, playing it casual in my head. Jiyu and her friend nurse let a breath out with a hint of a disappointed chuckle. Jiyu walked by me after she made sure Taehyung was okay. I walked with confidence. I pulled my cardigan sleeves down so I wouldn’t get cold when I get outside. And to hide a situation that took place last week that is yet for Taehyung to discover.

Jiyu unlocked the door where the staircase was and we slowly made our way down that same staircase. I glanced up where the way for the roof was and slightly smiling, in hopes no one noticed. But the one person I hoped the most wouldn’t notice my smile, actually did. Taehyung of course, who was still observing me like I was some painting or that garden I stared through the window almost every day when I didn’t want to go out to walk with these people. Then I moved my look away for him, explaining to myself that it’s only pills that are making him this way. I remembered how powerless he looked today, all weak and hurt. That Taehyung wasn’t looking at me right now. What was looking at me right now was a slightly drugged up version of Taehyung that didn’t know for many problems. That forgot how it feels good to ignore me and not give me attention I get frustrated over. This was a version of him, not his usual self. Kind of like I am. I am a hundred of versions of myself that come through every day. I am an emotion. A ton of emotion that got all mixed up. And after it got mixed up it got diagnosed, and labeled and people didn’t try to understand how I felt. They only tried to understand the definition of bipolar. Nothing more.

Then they only looked down on me upon hearing about my kleptomania, hiding even their useless things away from me. All I'm known for as a person is a thief and a unstable person. It amuses me how people these days find definitions and labeles for everything. They judged my past, present and basic emotion I showed and forced a label down my mouth. All these labels: BPD (Bordeline Personality Disorder), Kleptomaniac, Bipolar, Anxious and manicly depressed adolescent was the only thing they wrote on their papers and sent me off to someone knew, who knew even lesser of who I truly was.

The cold breeze hit my face as we walked outside. I observed the pink sky that was mixed with the previous blue colour of the sky. I walked on the stone path, following Jiyu. I observed in complete silence and let myself enjoy the silence. After a few minutes, Jiyu and a few patients sat on the bench, and the other nurse took a few flower lovers, like Taehyung, to observe many plants and flowers. But Taehyung didn’t come with her. In stead, he sat on the green swing that was under the cherry blossom tree that had plastered the entire ground around him with its petals. It was one of the most beautiful sights to see. I don’t think anyone knew I loved vividly visual sights like that, or knew that I was human. All my drawings represented vivid beauty but people seem to think I do not feel what I draw, which is quite an absurd thing to think about. Is Taehyung really the only one who realises that I’m hiding behind a tough character to not get hurt? 

I took a sigh and crunched his empty letter I gently held with my hands inside my pockets. I walked over to him and sat in silence, kind of disappointed he was drugged because of his medication. He observed me so carefully, his distant eyes staring at me but not entering my soul and piercing through it. The sound of birds filled in the silence before I figured a sentence out and finally spoke. “Rat?” I softly asked fro his attention, in an endearing way, leaving the question hanging in the air. ”Yes?” He whispered, his sculpted lips finally moving, breaking off the figurative stones that blocked his tongue from creating a word. “If you weren’t high on your meds right now, would you ignore me like you did before you took them?“ I asked in a slightly timid tone. His eyes fluttered in a slight panic before he looked away from me, looking straight forward. “It’s not all about you, again.” He said, switching to a more direct tone, still looking numb. “Not what I wanted to hear.” I rolled my eyes and got up but immediately heard his reaction. “No, please stop, don’t go.” He said and motioned his hands up towards me, keeping a far distance away from me. “I barely noticed you, today. I was afraid.” He said and looked down. I sat back on the swing next to him. “What were you afraid of?” I asked. “I don’t wanna tell you, or speak about it. We only know each other for a few days.” He said but I tried to prove his point wrong. “Well yeah, but when you look at someone the entire day and live with them, you get the sense you knew them for years.” I explained, looking up the sky. 

“You look at me the entire day?” He said in a flirtatious tone and I panicked and brushed it off quickly, and aggressively. “I talked about you, rat.” I scoffed and looked down. “I don’t know, you’re a very interesting person.” He randomly spoke. “So you just admitted you stare at me, a lot.” I commented. He nodded and accepted my words. “Dude, that’s weird.” I said with a disgusted expression on my face, praying to heavens I don’t blush. “I know.” He said and looked down. After many moments of silence I broke off the silence again. “Why are you like this?” I asked him. “What do you mean?” He asked in a confused tone that didn’t match his expressionless face. “Seeing you today, being that fucked up, why did you pick an act so bright and childish to usually go by? Why did you pick a character at all, if it doesn’t match who you are on the inside?“ I asked and immediately heard a response. “Why did you?” He asked, making me puzzled. “Why did I what?” I asked for explanation. “Why did you pick a character too?“ He asked, this time staring into my eyes with some emotion. “I didn’t- You do realise that I am mean and fucked up on the inside so when I act out it’s all part of me.” I said in a casual tone. In a sudden change of emotion I spoke again, trying to stop showing sides of me that were used to hidden. “I don’t even know why I’m talking to you right now, about this.” I scoffed, shaking my head. He adjusted his hair under the cap, his ears perking up slightly after I finished my sentence. “Maybe because I’m the only one you can open up to.” He calmly spoke, coming across as timid as his gaze piercing through me. A sudden panic washed over me. In one moment I was ready to tell I boy I knew for 3 days everything that was on my mind, but the other part of me was beating me to a pulp inside of my head, repeating over and over how it is a bad idea. How it’s a bad idea to open up, let alone open up to such a fool that wouldn’t understand my thoughts. “No you’re not.” I immediately spat out, sounding even more panicked. My chest started hurt as the two sides started to argue with each other inside my head. My breathing sped up and I couldn’t sit still. “That’s not a bad thing-” He tried to speak but I immediately cut him off. “Stop.” I raised my voice and got up, leaving the swing. “Hey, Jia. Stop, please.” He pleaded, realising he might have said something wrong.

That was one of the worst things here. If you managed to find a friend, saying things that would potentially trigger them was always a risk. Because how can you know their entire past without asking too much and making them feel even worse? So as soon as I realised a person, this time Taehyung, hurt me in a way, my only reaction would be self defence. I carried such a heavy shield around me and lashed it out onto people even if they tried to touch it. Even them looking at my strongly built shield over the years, made the provocations stir up in fear they would get close to it and tried to break it. Because to them, that shield might seem as a shield with the strongest metal or material in the world, but that shield is just made out of fragile glass, that could cut into me. It’s only painted on to seem strong and to mask the fragileness it carries around.

“Don’t go.“ He got up as we both realised we got unwanted attention from the others. “Stop me.“ I coldly said, frustration built in my eyes. “What?“ He asked in a confused manner. “C’mon, stop me.“ I said and slowly started to walk backwards. “Words can’t stop people, Taehyung.“ I provoked his fear of touch, moving away. “A touch can-” I continued speaking but got cut off. “Jia, that’s enough.” Jiyu warned me, trying to make me stop provoking him. “People grabbing people, or pulling them back stops them.” I said and continued. “If you stop me,you know, physically, I’ll stop. Because why would I listen to a rat?” I continued speaking the same way. Taehyung looked down and didn’t even move. After a few seconds, I spoke again. “That’s what I thought so. Don’t talk to me, rat.“ I said and walked past Jiyu, back to the staircase inside. She followed me back inside, trying to catch up to me when I was walking up the stairs. I rushed through the hallway and she stopped me by holding me by my shoulders, where she always holds me to calm me down. The only thing to calm me down.

“You didn’t take your meds, did you?” She asked in a worried tone. “I did.” I said in a hurtful tone. “Then why are you-don’t feel afraid, Ji.” She said and continued as I tried to brush it off and deny it. “Why are you so hard on him? Especially after what he went through, today?” She asked, stroking my shoulders. “He’s being hard on me ever since he came here. All his little analysing and trying to understand shit, IT’S NOT HOW IT’S SUPPOSED TO BE.” I raised my voice and she tried to shush me, and calm down my upsetting body. “I’m the one who does that! He should be scared of me and not try to get under my skin!” I continued speaking and felt my eyes water. I quickly wiped a tear away and whispered. “How can you all love him so much? How can he manage to get you all to adore hi by just his words? That’s ridiculous!” I said in a absurd tone. “He learned how to do that. That was the only coping mechanism. Ji, that boy went through a lot. He’s a very strong soul-” She spoke but I tried to deny it. “We all went through a lot!” I spoke and she nodded, trying to explain something else, but I was quicker. “I don’t want to fall for his pathetic fake charms like you all did.” I said and moved away from her grip. “That would be even a worse mess than it already is.” I said and walked away. She tried to stop me, but I quickly spoke. “I’m sorry Jiyu. I’d love to be alone right now.” I spoke and she nodded, leaving me be, something I greatly appreciated.

But when I entered my room to leave myself be, unfortunately it didn’t last for very long. I walked around in faster pace, trying to collect myself by facing away from those stupid daises that seemed to stare at me the same way Taehyung stared at me. A lot of thoughts went through my head as both sides still argued. I sat down on the cold  floor and covered my ears and tried to shut my eyes in hopes of protecting my mind from myself. What helped to slightly block the noises was the door that clicked open. I quickly removed my hands from my ears and tried to wipe away my wet cheeks, putting back the shield onto its well known place. I heard Taehyung’s steps as I blankly stared at hard and grey polished floor. Taehyung sat on his bed as the mattress left a few squeaking noises. He looked down at me and I just glanced at him and hid my head between my knees. “I can’t stop you. And I’m sorry for that.” He spoke and I tried to provoke but he was quicker to forestall what I was about to say. “You don’t want my apologies, I know. But I’m sorry if I tried to get too close to you. Mentally.” He said and I immediately responded. “Okay. I know. Whatever, it’s not bothering me.” I desperately tried to brush it off, refusing to apologise to him like he did to me. I noticed my response was bothering him, but this day being too awful for the both of us, we decided to just end that topic at that note, before we lost the remains of our less troubled selves.

As the sky got darker, the pink colour almost disappearing, I fiddled with some of my stuff out of pure boredom. I noticed Taehyung’s quick steps behind me, finally realising he’s looking for his letter. “Jia?” He asked in a soft voice. “What do you need?” I asked in a quite direct tone. “Did you see my letter?” He asked and my face froze upon hearing his question. I got back to my provoking ways to tease for a bit and answered his question with another question. “You mean the one from your girlfriend?” I questioned, laughing on the inside. A small smile escaped onto my lips but I quickly held myself contained. “Uh-y-yes.” He nervously spoke, panic plastered onto his face. “Did you perhaps take it?” He asked in a more directed tone before I provoked. “Oh please, why would I need an empty letter?” I said whilst focusing on what I was doing. I glanced at Taehyung who swallowed a hard lump in his throat. “Relax, you look like you’re going to pass out.” I joked, trying my hardest to not bomb him with the questions. “Uh-about that...” He tried to speak but I couldn’t keep my questions away. “My question is, why did you do that?” I asked, completely staring into his eyes. Taehyung somehow immediately switched from his panicked self to a more bright and lovable version we all knew and found endearing.

 “It’s kind of a funny one. Very random actually” He said and stroked the back of his neck. “Oh really?” I spoke, feeling my usual persona.He walked to some of his daises he kept in vases and rearranged them again. “I don’t have a girlfriend.” He spoke. “No shit.” I giggled. ”I did it to test you." He smiled, sitting down, counting some of the daises as I looked at him from across my bed. "To test me. Why?" I confusedly asked. "To see your reaction. And to see if you're interested in me.” He casually said, licking his lips as he lost his track of counting. A bad multitasker. “You looked so disappointed and pissed when you stared at me “reading” it.” He giggled and air-quoted. “I did not.” I immediately scoffed, shaking my head in disappointment."You're insane, why did you do that? Jiyu handed it to you." I asked in a confused tone. “Yeah, Jiyu helped me.” He nodded and continued smiling. I repeated his words out loud. “To see if you’re interested in me? Pfft- never in a million years, rat.” I answered, hoping I wouldn’t blush, once again. “Sometimes I like it when you call me rat. When it’s less aggressive.” He commented out loud. “Aggressive or not, rats are always disgusting.” I teased and got up, walking to my closet to pretend to look for something else.

“Touché.” He said as he pointed with one of his daisies towards me.

part 5

[justanoutlawfic]

Apologies: An August Booth Fic

For my beautiful wife @iamnotthrowingawaymyship, who shares the headcanon that both August and Emma have PTSD.

I wouldn't call this fic necessarily anti-Marco, but I feel that this is how he feels over the whole situation. There's no happy ending here, just a lot of reality. Mentions of past child abuse and current PTSD take place here.

Also on AO3

But he says it's crazy how love stays with me, yeah

You know and it hurts me 'cause I don't wanna fight this war And it's amazing to see me reading through this scene of love and fear And apologies, apologies-Grace Potter

 August sat in the back of Granny’s, stirring the milk into his coffee as he did his best to hide from everyone else. If he had one more person ask how he was holding up since being turned back into a man, he was going to lose it. It was weird, really weird. He could remember the past year of being a boy, all of the fun he had with his papa, though he had no clue of the old life he had lived. To be honest, he was glad to be back to the person he was before. Maybe that man was broken, but he was his own person, raw and real. All of the pain in his life had made him into the man he was. Maybe that wasn’t the best person in the world and he did have regrets (sending Emma to jail, lying to Rumpelstiltskin about being Baelfire), but all of that made him August Wayne Booth and not Pinocchio. He didn’t want to be Pinocchio anymore.

 His father was less than okay with it and he could understand why. After the curse broke, he got his second chance at raising his son, at being there for him. Yet, there was a part of August who felt that Marco didn’t deserve that. He loved his father, so much. He just didn’t think it was fair that he had gotten a second chance after all of his deception, while Emma and her parents had to struggle to build a normal parent/child relationship. Why did he get his shot at having a happy, normal childhood, when Emma never would? He knew she’d never choose to do things over, especially since she had her son, it just wasn’t fair.

 The jukebox switched up and a familiar song began to play, one that froze August in his spot. How Soon Is Now’s opening lyrics swarmed through the speakers and brought him back to the foster home he was placed in after he and the other young boys were caught on the run.

 I am the son And the heir Of a shyness that is criminally vulgar I am the son and heir Of nothing in particular

 The song played on the radio as the football August was throwing smashed into the vase.

 “Booth!” His foster father screamed. “What have I told you about throwing that damn thing in the house?”

“I…I’m sorry,” he stammered out. “It’s raining and I was bored…”

“You’re going to be sorry.”

 The man ripped off his belt and it collided with August’s face, not once, not twice but three times in quick succession.

 August slammed his hands over his ears, finding it hard to breathe.

 “Stop!” He cried out.

“I’ll stop when I’m damn good and ready, boy! Now pull down your pants!”

 At the counter, one of the waitresses slammed down a drink for a customer, a little too loudly and it caused tears to fall down August’s face. He could practically feel himself being pushed up against the wall.

 The song was suddenly cut off and changed to something different, but August was already far away, his mind spinning. He felt a hand go on his shoulder and jerked away, about to fight back whoever it was, until he saw those familiar green eyes.

“Breathe, August,” Emma instructed. “Just breathe.”

 She demonstrated on her own and it took a minute, but soon he was following. Eventually, he was brought back to where he was. He wasn’t in that terrible foster home in New York, he was in Storybrooke, Maine. Granny’s Diner. In front of him wasn’t Cecil Morgan, but Emma Swan, his best friend.

 “I…I have to go,” he mumbled.

 Tossing down some money for his coffee, he stormed out the door with Emma following close behind. He leaned up against the building, still trying to remember how to breathe.

 “It’s okay,” Emma assured him. “I have panic attacks a lot.”

“I thought they were over,” he mumbled. “I control my triggers, I didn’t even know the Smiths were on that damn jukebox.”

“Storybrooke is still stuck in the 80s in some ways,” she said with a frown. “Bad foster home?”

“The dad was a huge fan, blasted it all the time. Especially to cover up our screams.”

“For me it’s AC/DC. My old foster mom’s favorite band, especially when she was getting drunk.”

He ran his hand over his face. “For a year, it didn’t bother me…”

“Because you didn’t have your memories.”

“I thought I was happy to be back to my old self, scars and all…”

“Except it meant your PTSD coming back.”

 Not too many people knew about August’s PTSD. He had been diagnosed at 19, after a breakdown on a trip to London, England. Emma only knew because he had one breakdown in front of her during the curse and she opened up to him, saying she had been diagnosed during her stint in prison. It was their own little secret, though now her parents and Archie knew about hers.

 “I wish it could all just go away, I don’t want to remember those things. I want the happy times, the traveling…”

“You have to take the good with the bad.” She paused for a moment. “Have you…have you talked to your father or Archie about this?”

“No. Papa’s going through a hard enough time with me changing back. The last thing he needs is to know that his son is broken.”

“You’re not broken, Auggie.” Emma put a hand on his shoulder. “Just…a bit chipped.”

He couldn’t help but laugh at that. “I think you’ve been spending a little too much time with Belle.”

“Maybe. Just think about it, okay?”

“Okay.”

 August reflected on what Emma said and knew that he needed to get back into therapy, so he did open up to Archie. It was good to get back to talking to someone about it, to get back on his medication for it. His panic attacks were lessening and Emma talked with Granny to remove the Smiths from the jukebox at the diner.

 Things were good…until Marco found his medication.

 He was coming home from another date with Tink, when he found his father sitting at the table. With Sidney gone, August had taken over the Storybrooke Chronicle and they had been able to move into a nicer house. Archie lived with them as well and chipped in on the rent, so it was far nicer than anywhere any of them had lived.

 “Hey Papa,” he said, throwing his jacket up on the hook. “What’s going on?” Marco simply held up the orange prescription bottle, causing August to freeze in his place. “Where did you find that?”

“Your bathroom, I was out of toothpaste so I was going to borrow yours.” He rose to his feet, walking closer to him. “I had Blue help me use the computer, apparently this is medication for PTSD.”

“It is.” August took the bottle and stuck it into his pocket.

“Since when do you have that?”

“I got diagnosed when I was 19. I never had a chance to tell you, because well…when we reconnected, I got turned back into a boy.”

“I don’t understand. I looked into this condition and it’s for people who have been through severe trauma.” He raised an eyebrow. “What trauma could you have gone through?”

 The comment alone made August’s blood boil. He knew his father meant well, but sometimes…he could be a bit daft. Snow and David hated to admit it, but they at least acknowledged that their daughter had been through terrible things throughout their childhood. David’s whole reason for wanting to go back to the Enchanted Forest had been because of how cruel the world had been to her. Marco knew all of what Emma had been through…could he really not connect the dots and realize so had his son?

 “Maybe because when I was 7 years old, you put me in a wardrobe and sent me off to protect a baby,” August whispered. His voice isn’t laced with anger, just honesty.

Marco paused. “But…it was for your own good. I didn’t know what the curse would do to you.”

“I was 7!” He exploded. “7 years old! Do you know what it was like? To show up in some strange land, with a crying newborn? I had no clue what to do, where to go! Finally, we were found but trust me, foster care is no picnic. I ran away, only to be caught and brought to even worse homes throughout my entire life!”

 He rolled up his shirt to reveal a scar that hung above his belly button. Marco’s eyes widened in shock.

 “This was from when I got beat with a rusty hanger,” he said. “It ended up getting infected and I got sick, really sick. I was in the hospital for 2 weeks and when I got out, I was put in a new foster home that wasn’t much better. Finally, I got away for good when I was 15, but the damage was already done. I have PTSD, Papa, because my entire childhood was a mess.”

Tears filled Marco’s eyes. “But you…you got a second chance…”

“I did. And it was amazing.” He reflected on the year he had as a child. “I got to be a kid, go to school, have fun. But as soon as I got turned back into a man, all of those old memories hit me like a brick. It didn’t replace the childhood I already had.”

A single tear fell down Marco’s face. “I thought I was doing what was best for you.”

“How was it best for me, to send me to a strange land, alone and taking care of an infant? You knew Snow wasn’t going through, you knew I’d be alone!” August’s voice broke. “You thought about yourself, you didn’t really think about me!”

“That’s not true! I wanted you to be safe! How was I supposed to know…” He shook his head. “This hasn’t been easy for me either. I got you back, my sweet boy, only to…to lose you again!”

“You didn’t lose me, Papa! I’m right here! I know I’m not that little boy that you stuffed into the wardrobe, but I’m still your son!”

 There was a silence between the two men as tears fell down their face and they breathed heavily. August looked deep into his father’s eyes, seeing his own pain for the first time. He couldn’t imagine what it was like to lose a child in the way he had, yet he still had him. If Emma could be good enough for Snow and David, even as an adult, couldn’t he be enough for his father?

“I’m still mourning the little boy I lost,” Marco said, finally. “I’m sorry, August. I love you. You’re right, you are my son. I just…I need some time to get over the fact that my little boy isn’t coming back.”

 So, I’m not your little boy anymore? I’m sorry I grew up! I’m sorry I wasn’t cursed like you were. I’m sorry…

 They were all words at the tip of his tongue, but he stopped himself. He didn’t want to apologize anymore, not for things that weren’t his fault. Therapy had taught him that much.

 “I guess I’ll go stay with Tink for a while then.” He grabbed his keys off the rack and pulled his jacket back on. “Don’t worry, I’ll still pay the rent on this place.”

 Heading out the door and slamming it behind him, he stormed to his motorcycle and sat on it for a while. He waited 5 minutes for Marco to chase out after him, but it never happened. He let out a shaky breath as he turned the keys in the ignition and headed off, his father’s words still radiating in his brain.

 “My little boy isn’t coming back.”

 I’m right here.

 But maybe…he wasn’t anyone’s little boy anymore. Maybe there’s a chance that he never was.

[thehiddensouth]

Shell

Crossville, TN

Shell: I just turned 50. I've been in the mental health system since the 70's when I was four years old. They diagnosed me with major psychosis and put me on antipsychotic drugs.

My parents, sent me to a special school for kids with mental health issues and I was raped repeatedly for three years when I was 12 by the director of discipline. He was like a vice principal.

Now my diagnosis is major depression with psychosis, borderline personality disorder, OCD, PTSD and eating disorder.I've tried to kill myself six times.  I hear voices. It's something that I struggle with every day. I wake up every day and I just try to get through the next moment.

I've been hospitalized many times. One time  I was in a mental hospital for a whole year in Kansas.

All kinds of things happened there. I had a reaction to some of the other patients because they  were aggressive and I was feeling unsafe. So they put me in the quiet room for a whole day, which is just a padded cell. It felt like punishment, like I was being punished for feeling unsafe.

Other times I was wrapped in cold wet blankets until I shocked out.

BW: What does that mean shocked out?

Shell: It's like a form of shock therapy. They wrap you up until you just shake and freeze and you just ... shock. You go into shock. They don't do it anymore.

Then, I had multiple personality disorder and I was in therapy. My therapist wanted me to stop calling her, so she told me to start calling a helpline. I called the helpline when I was upset and they called the cops and the cops came with guns drawn into my house. I was so traumatized with the fact that they came in with guns drawn that I was switching personalities. They put me in restraints  and retraumatized me. That was the time that I ended up in the Emergency Room strapped to a gurney for 18 hours. It took my parents two days to find me at UCLA medical center.

BW: How does it work when you have delusions?

Shell: I hear stuff, which is kind of ironic because I'm deaf. So that's how I know I really need help when I take my ears off and I'm still hearing voices, I know I'm in trouble. So it's kind of a good test.

BW: Is it the same message you've heard since you were a little girl?

Shell: Yeah, it's all negative self talk kind of stuff. But it comes from somebody else.  I get commands, hallucinations that tell me to kill myself and that it's a foregone conclusion, that it's compulsory, it's not a choice, that it's something that I have to do. So I get really dangerous and I've come close a couple times. I'm really lucky to be here.

BW: What do you think the best day of your life was?

Shell: The day I got married. [big smile]. June 20th, 2016.  My wife is  the most wonderful person in the world and ... she just ... she doesn't care that I'm mentally ill, she just loves me for who I am. And she just supports me unconditionally and loves me and it's actually a really cool story.

We met when I was 18, she was my first love. My parents actually disowned me because of her. I lived with her for a little while and then when I was in California my mental illness was such that I broke up with her and switched and didn't remember. So she was just gone and I didn't know what happened. 27 years later I got an email that said, "I just wanted to know if you survived."

I happened to be going through a breakup at the time, so it was perfect timing. We started talking  on Facebook. And then we were talking every day and so then I came to visit and I've been here ever since.  It was awesome. We filled the church, we had almost 200 people.

[utsus]

SasuHina Day 11: Kimono (AO3)

Uchiha Sasuke had a secret.

It wasn’t anything groundbreaking or shocking, really, but it was private and it was his and as such, he coveted it closely. The only people who knew about it were his teammates and his sensei, of which he had grown up with and spent many, many early mornings training with.

He liked to watch the sun rise over the mountains.

He wasn’t sure if he’d call it a hobby, per say, but he enjoyed it. Years ago he’d gone out into the forest outside of Konoha’s gates, found the highest and most secure network of branches as high in the Konoha canopies that he could trust, and it was there that he built himself a home. He’d spent two summers getting it right—using his hands to build, for once, rather than to destroy.

Naruto liked to make fun of him, ask him frequently if he thought he was a monkey. Sakura would laugh, too, and say instead, “Not a monkey, but a bird.”

He wouldn’t mind the ability to fly—he was fast enough that he nearly could—and birds had beautiful voices. They were surefire and carefree; they wanted to sing, so they did. He admired that.

So he spent as many mornings as he could there, up in the trees, where the sunlight first touched his world. He watched the molten waves of gold and rose rise over the sky and transform the air into something light and tranquil.

The first summer after he built himself a space into the canopies was the first summer he assented to attend the summer festival with his girlfriend. He didn’t care much for the show of it—something about the sheer number of families packed so close made him uneasy.

But, like every year before, Hinata had asked him if he’d like to join her. She did so gently, as was her way; she didn’t pester or push or judge. She came to him in the morning with fruits and vegetables freshly plucked from her garden and washed them in his kitchen. The dirt on their skins ran down the edges of his unblemished sink. Hinata’s hair had been tied back.

“Sasuke-san,” she said, with that infuriating courtesy of hers. Her nape had been exposed. “As you know, the summer festival begins tomorrow. If you’d like to join me this year, I will be leaving early tomorrow evening.”

Sasuke had said nothing, only watched the way she worked, comfortable in his home. It had taken her some time to gain that comfort, here so far behind the Uchiha gates, in the skeleton remains of his clan’s compound. The corner of his lips twisted, amusement playing in the corners of his eyes.

As if she’d senses his humor, she glanced over her shoulder and mirrored his expression with an added air of wariness.

“Why are you laughing?”

He loved her. It was simple, and effortless, and he loved her.

“Memories,” he’d said vaguely, charmed when her cheeks flushed even as she rolled her eyes and turned back to the produce she’d brought him. Even after years of courting her, he found her personality and reactions refreshing and so very easy to love. “Are you meeting up with your team?”

Hinata shook her head. “Not this year. I’m giving them privacy.”

Sasuke nodded slowly, contemplating. He had been mildly surprised to hear that Hinata’s two strange teammates had recently become an item themselves. The bug user was endlessly silent and contemplative, the complete opposite to the dog-loving tracker. From what Hinata told him, though, they made an oddly beautiful kind of sense.

He watched Hinata scrub and set aside various fruits, and all the while he considered her wording. Privacy. She was a good friend, thoughtful and kind. There was no meaning hidden beneath her words—she wasn’t attempting to persuade him in any way.

But the word privacy festered in his mind. He wasn’t one to ignore a chance to have alone time with Hinata, regardless of the circumstances, and she had come to know it. Still, her wording did not seem manipulative and he knew her well enough to know it dependably.

He thought about the atmosphere of a festival, especially one as lively as one during summer, and his lip nearly curled. Despite his efforts to remain calm and his proclivity for privacy, he had shared his discomfort with the topic of families with Hinata early on in their relationship. He’d wanted her to know what she was agreeing to—who she was agreeing to.

He was a patchwork of jagged glasswork still slowly being put back together, his hands scarred but still reaching for the pieces. When he thought of family, he thought of loss, of blood, of betrayal. It took him noticeable time to think, instead, of teammates. Of Hinata loving him so gently, so kindly, despite all of his misgivings.

He stood silently and went to her. His hands slid around her, his chin resting in the dip of her neck. He watched with heavy eyes and an equally heavy heart as her hands worked, the slight rigidity of her surprise seeping out of her in moments. She rested back against him and together they watched the water pour over her scarred fingers, over the red skins of strawberries.

Sasuke turned his head until his lips ghosted over her skin, her nervous pulse.

He said, “I will think about it.”

And Hinata turned to him, pressing her forehead to his temple. He could feel her eyelashes on his skin, ghosting over his cheekbones.

“Thank you,” she whispered, and her unfailing gentleness overwhelmed him, just as it had the very first time he realized she loved him. She had a way of making him feel spiritual, as though the way she loved him so tenderly could rekindle in him a kind of faith he’d long since lost.

Sometimes, when she looked at him, he felt the urge to drop to his knees.

It had been years since she confessed to him—and years longer even than that, that he had been confessing to her. Three years he had spent courting her in his own way, culminating in a moment of utmost intimacy: Hinata willing and kind in his arms, and his lips at her ear.

I am yours, he had whispered, body and soul.

He thought of what it meant to build a home, thought of the one he had built in the canopies, and he thought of this: Hinata in his arms, pressing back against him, welcoming everything that he was.

And this, too, he could call home.

 ✧

 He did not sleep that night.

Discomfort had always been too mild a word for what he felt about family. The medic in Sakura had diagnosed him immediately and carefully with post-traumatic stress disorder, and he had only nodded. He had known all along.

The thing about PTSD was that it came and went at its own leisure. There were no walls that his trauma could not break down and break through. It showed up constantly in his dreams, turned them to nightmares in just the same way that fire turns everything to ash.

He still struggled to sleep at night, even with Hinata at his side. For a while, she was a cure; her warmth and her curves became a familiar swatch of comfort and peace that somehow settled the chaos of his mind, the racing of his heart. But his trauma broke through that slight protection, too, and Sasuke began to live in fear.

Sometimes he woke swinging; sometimes he woke breathing fire. He struggled with keeping blades in his room for protection or removing them for her protection, and subsided only when she comforted him. She told him to keep the blades. She told him she would stay, it was okay, she would stay.

She stayed. Despite the frequency of his episodes waking both of them throughout the night. Despite his icy stoicism after he fully woke from his nightmares, uncomfortable showing that kind of vulnerability to anyone, even the woman he loved. She stayed through it all, her hands a constant on his skin, in his hair, soothing everywhere they touched.

He didn’t deserve her.

She wanted to go to the summer festival. He knew, despite her never once pressuring him, that she wanted to go as a couple. Their relationship was no secret in the village, but this was the kind of thing that couples did. They had fun together in the nightlife of the land they protect, with the people they protect. They played games together and won each other prizes. They held hands and suffered the catcalls of their friends. They watched fireworks light up the evening sky.

The last festival he’d been to had been with—

He did not sleep that night. His thoughts raced and by the time he got dressed and headed out into the forest to climb into the canopy, there were lines of exhaustion over his face. They made him look like—

He watched the sun rise over the mountains. The birds called out, trilling. Sometimes, when Sasuke was feeling especially hopeful, he thought the birds were singing to him.

The sun rose over the mountains in slow-inching waves of liquefied gold. Sasuke felt the morning air, slightly chilly, slide over his nape and collarbones. He leaned against the bark and let his leg dangle in the air, kicking slightly. His heart was a drum complementing the singsong of wildlife around him.

Tonight was the summer festival’s opening evening. Hinata would be wearing a kimono, ornaments in her hair. She would be glowing, he thought, shining brighter than any other. The gentleness that came despite the violence of their world, it shone from within, bright and immeasurable.

Sasuke inhaled deeply, exhaled deeper. His heart began to change, to race as his thoughts finally began to settle. He had come to a decision, and though he might fear the unknown of the future, he would go through with it.

After all, he thought with affection, Hinata would be there with him.

The birds chirped, flashes of crimson and cobalt flashing in his periphery. His heartbeat plateaued, settled, began to fall back to normalcy. He reminded himself of Hinata’s patience, of the way she had opened up to him gradually, beautifully, a strangely astonishing flower that opened to moonlight despite knowing sunlight would be healthier.

The sun rose slowly over the mountains, reaching, reaching. The birds continued to sing around him; symphony of the evergreens. Somewhere in the safety of the village, Hinata slept peacefully.

Sasuke closed his eyes and let the sunlight bathe his face in morning gold, kissing each of his features with the gentlest warmth.

And then, quietly, he began to whistle.

 ✧

 Sasuke’s secret was that he loved to watch the sun rise over the mountains. There was nothing so peaceful, so stunning, as the slow rise of dawn; the graceful spill of spring colors, every shade of lavender and rosen pastel; the way the sun turned every skyward-facing leaf a breathtaking shade of gold.

The memory of the morning sunrise was lost to him the moment she walked through the gates; she outshone it all.

Sasuke shifted, surprisingly self-conscious in his pristine navy hakama. Hinata didn’t show any expression of surprise—the moment she saw him her eyes became alight with excitement, with wonder. Her smile could’ve brought him to his knees.

“Sasuke,” she breathed, a reward and a marvel. She swept across the street to him with silent steps, the most striking wraith he’d ever encountered. Her kimono was the softest shade of rose, nearly pearl, with beautifully lined flowers sewn silken into the fabric. Her obi was a stark burgundy, with golden leaves the exact shade of his favorite sunrise etched in.

Her hair was pulled back in an elegant, twisted chignon. A single ornament clinked from her hair; a moon.

Sasuke went to her unconsciously, meeting her halfway.

You’re beautiful, he thought, pressing his lips to her temple. He felt her quiet laughter, a bubble of joy that escaped her at his presence, and his heart thudded heavily against his ribs. Regardless of what happened tonight, he had made the right choice. To have heard his name and only his name in her voice, to have felt her candid joy in this moment as his arms wound around her—it was all worth it.

She pulled back to look up at him through her eyelashes, blatantly affectionate, and Sasuke couldn’t help but to move even closer. He dipped low and pressed their lips together, tasting the fruity gloss she had there with a smile. He tasted her gasp of surprise and pulled her in closer by the dip of her back, feeling for all of her curves, the wide flare of her hips hidden under heavy fabric. He traced the edges of her teeth with his tongue and pulled playfully at her bottom lip before pulling back to see the damage he’d caused.

He caught it in her eyes, unfocused and heavy-lidded; her cheeks overturned palettes of rose.

“Hello, Hinata,” he greeted her cheekily, despite the fear that still sat below the surface.

“Hello,” she returned breathily, which only managed to embarrass her further. She pushed at him playfully, her hands against his chest. When he didn’t budge, he savored the chime of her laughter, the breathless sincerity of it. And then, because he was feeling especially self-indulgent, he bent to taste it.

This time, however, Hinata successfully pulled back from him, though not before allowing and encouraging another passionate kiss. She blinked up at him, laughter still playing over her features, and lifted her thumb to carefully wipe at his lower lip.

“Strawberry,” he said, smirking. Amusement wound around her as she took two measured steps back, clearing her throat as she noticed they had a passing audience. An elderly couple eyed them and Hinata bowed for them respectfully, gesturing for Sasuke to do the same.

Hinata turned back to him with blatant exasperation, reaching out carefully to grasp his elbow in her hand. She guided him to her side, but before moving towards the festival she glanced up at him and the falling sun managed to get caught in her eyelashes.

“I’m glad that you came,” she told him, ever gentle. Her expression shifted, protective and concerned. She reached up to his face, slow enough that he could stop her if he wanted—he didn’t. She traced the new lines on his face, carved there from fatigue, and worried her lower lip between her teeth.

“You look exhausted,” she said, eyebrows dipping uneasily.

Sasuke studied her for a long moment, memorizing her features again and again just because he could.

“I did not sleep well,” he said, deciding on a half-truth. He didn’t want her to worry. He should’ve known she’d see right through him.

“You mean at all,” she scolded, her tone too gentle to do any damage. Sasuke leaned down and pressed his forehead to her temple, needing her closeness, the fresh smell of something soothing on her skin.

“I mean at all,” he conceded, his voice barely audible. He closed his eyes, heard her sigh against him. One hand came up to trail her fingers through his hair from his ear to his nape. She gripped him there, just enough to ground him, and allowed him to stay pressed against her for a moment longer. When she carefully urged him away again, she lifted onto her toes and kissed the backs of his eyelids, feather light against his skin.

“Tonight,” she began cautiously, knowing this topic was at times a field of landmines, “May I come over?”

If Sasuke’s eyes had been open, he would’ve rolled them. Instead, his expression merely dropped, his lips frowning. “Of course,” he said, as if it was the silliest thing he’d ever heard, and he couldn’t believe he had to verbally sanction it. He opened his eyes and caught her smile, a ghost of the true depths of her compassion, all for him.

“Thank you,” she said, and that was frustrating, too. It was a sentiment he revisited often: he did not deserve her. “Let me know if it gets to be too much, okay?”

Sasuke nodded, studying the way Hinata’s gaze hardened, steadfast.

“Promise?” She demanded, very nearly putting her hands on her hips. Sasuke reached for her wrist, slid his fingers over the skin there, and intertwined their fingers together. When Hinata’s eyes dropped to follow the movement, he said, “I promise.”

Her eyes leapt back to his, studying his sincerity. After a moment she nodded, softening under his unwavering gaze once more. She began to guide them towards the festival, which was already loud enough that they could hear it through the streets and over the rooftops. Music played and laughter joined it, and Sasuke’s heart clenched in his chest. He could do this.

“You look very handsome,” Hinata whispered when they were only a few turns away from the festival, not looking at him. There was something about her tone that sounded wary; it had Sasuke glancing at her profile with veiled amusement, squeezing her fingers.

“Are you worried?”

She pursed her lips, still not looking at him.

“A little,” she finally admitted, turning up to him with a shy smile. “I’m going to be busy tonight, trying to convince everyone caught by your beauty that you’re already taken.”

Sasuke frowned at her wording, even as he silently found it charming. He had a reputation to uphold, however, so instead of leaning down and kissing her cheek for the compliment as he wished to, he playfully chided her.

“I’m not beautiful,” he grunted quietly, as the street ahead of them came into view. The sky was dark enough that the multitude of lights throughout the streets were already blazing bright, nearly neon. The atmosphere was alive with joy and celebration, so much so that even the buildings and vendors seemed to become sentient.

“You are,” Hinata argued, as she smiled at the front vendors who welcomed them. “Tonight especially.”

“Whatever,” Sasuke griped, before his eyes suddenly gleamed. He watched Hinata for her reaction as he said, “Good thing I chose a companion to whom I pale in comparison, then.”

Just as he’d intended and expected, her cheeks flared with heat. She didn’t look up at him, only huffed a quiet, “Oh, please.”

Feeling light and happier than he had ever expected in such an atmosphere, he continued with that same playful air. His words were still staccato, his normal tone with barely any change, his expression apathetic to the untrained eye. But Hinata could read him like an open book, and when she glanced up to him she immediately saw the amusement in his eyes, and the way it made them shine.

“I don’t like to share,” he warned her sternly. “I won’t tolerate intrusions.”

Hinata could hear the truth of the sentiment under the humor, but even still she rolled her eyes.

“No one is going to intrude upon anything,” she responded. “Naruto-kun cannot attend due to Hokage business, and Sakura-chan is on a mission.”

Sasuke couldn’t contradict her on that—if anyone would be brave enough or daft enough to intrude upon their space, it would be one of his teammates. However, his mind caught on Hinata’s knowledge of Naruto’s whereabouts suspiciously. It was no secret that she had loved Naruto when they were kids and Sasuke had betrayed the village. It was also no secret that she had given up on the whiskered hero, serving only as a good friend of his and one of his closest advisors as Hyuuga Clan head.

Still, it stung that she had ever loved someone else—and someone so completely different from himself.

He felt a muscle in his cheek twitch, his lips dropping into a frown. There were still lines of exhaustion on his face, probably extenuated with this expression, but he couldn’t help his mild irritation.

Hinata, however, nipped his suspicion in the bud before he could even let it grow.

“As the head of the Clan,” she began calmly, glancing up at him with something of her own kind of humor in her eyes. “It is my duty to meet with the Hokage regularly. A business relationship.”

Sasuke grunted, his pride forbidding him from pestering further, since she clearly knew what he was on about. He gripped her hand tighter and pulled gently in the direction of the street, his eyes trailing from vendor to vendor. He silently mapped all of their potential exits, the quickest and safest ways to secure Hinata’s protection. He studied the body language of everyone they passed, watched their expressions for any signs of hostility. This was something he could do; as a soldier, a warrior, one of the very best.

It didn’t hurt that it distracted him from the children that ran by with their parents in tow; the pair of brothers at the vendor to their right trying to win a goldfish by throwing tiny balls into tiny pots. Hinata’s thumb trailed over his hand in soothing lines.

Sasuke ignored the racing of his heart, which pumped with equal parts fear and resolve, and with Hinata at his side he tried to keep himself together.

He was stronger than his trauma.

And stronger still, with Hinata’s support.

 ✧

 All things considered, the night went well. Sasuke’s demons stayed hushed but remained present in his mind, in the heaviness of his heart, but he enjoyed himself. He was naturally good at the vendor games and won Hinata several items she didn’t need, just to show that he could—and she won him several, too, though he was actually quite fond of the ceramic cat she’d won him by shooting a bow and arrow into five consecutive moving targets.

Perfect bullseyes, with her kimono sleeves pushed up.

He’d taken her for a detour into a back alley afterwards to properly show his appreciation, and by the time they made it back onto the street the moon was overhead and Hinata’s hair was a little more tousled than it had been prior. Hidden under the collar of her kimono was a mark on her collarbone, new and still slightly swollen; deliberately out of view.

Even though he had planned it perfectly and it was, in fact, out of view, Hinata self-consciously adjusted her kimono all throughout the night. Sasuke was amused by this and received a gentle reprimanding smack to the bicep when he allowed his smirk to grow wide enough to show teeth.

“Barbarian,” Hinata teased him, and Sasuke couldn’t help but to stare. She was so beautiful, and she was his. There wasn’t a day that passed that he did not marvel over this fact. He had spent years of uncertainty attempting to win her heart, to prove that he would love her tenderly. And amazingly, she had believed him—trusted him. He wanted to show her every day that she had made the right choice, that he was good for her, better for her than anyone else.

Possessiveness came naturally to him, and though Hinata sometimes reined him in, he had discovered her embarrassed partiality to the trait about a year into their relationship.

“Sasuke,” she called quietly, regaining his attention. He’d been staring blankly at a dango vendor, sidetracked with memories—first bad, so bad, because he had always loved dango and then overcome with good when he shook them off and thought of the time when he and Sakura had pinned Kakashi after he’d refused to share his dango with them after a mission.

Sasuke turned to Hinata with residual feelings of joy caught in his chest, thanks to surprisingly fond memories.

Hinata was smiling, unreservedly content. Even hours into the festival, she still appeared as radiant as the first moment he’d seen her walk through the gates of her compound, putting the sunrise to shame. He knew her secret—the gentleness of her affection coupled with her kindhearted nature, the perfect recipe for her specific kind of glow.

Sasuke reached out to her and she folded into him immediately, encompassed in his hold.

Against his chest she asked, “Where should we go to watch the fireworks?”

Sasuke considered that, for a moment.

“Where do they usually fire them?”

Hinata pointed in a general direction, then up into the night sky. Sasuke considered the trajectory for only a moment, before he reached for Hinata’s hand.

“How much time do we have?”

Hinata pursed her lips, curious and suspicious. “Not much.”

“Is there anything else you’d like to do here?” He asked, gesturing towards the festival street, which had begun to gradually clear as people headed for the best spots to see the fireworks. Hinata adjusted her bag of spoils against her hip and shook her head even as she gazed up at him wonderingly.

Sasuke smiled. He reached down and lifted her into his arms, uncaring of the way she quietly sputtered or the glances they received. He was quicker than she was, and they didn’t have much time.

“Hold tight,” he warned her, and only after he felt her grasp on him strengthen did he move.

One moment they were standing there in the middle of the well-light street, surrounded by families and couples celebrating the coming of summer. And then, they were gone.

Sasuke headed for the trees.

 ✧

 Hinata did not question his course, not even when it led them outside of Konoha’s gates, or into the thick of the forest. She held tight, as he’d asked her to, and he felt the way she laid her head against him contentedly. She hummed curiously when he began to climb the trees, leaping from branch to branch until he landed on familiar space.

He allowed Hinata’s feet to drop down, find purchase on the bark. He had never brought her here before, though he knew that she knew he spent his mornings in the forest, alone. It had always been a place just for him, peaceful in its total solitude.

But she had helped him to conquer his fears during the festival, loosened him up enough that he’d even played games. He had not had a single panic attack. She had been there for him through it all.

So he brought her to this special place, allowed her to share it with him, and when he turned to her he could see in her eyes that she understood. She didn’t voice it, this time, but he could hear the words clearly in the softness of her grateful expression.

Thank you.

He sat in his usual spot and gently tugged at her hand until she sat beside him, but that wasn’t close enough. He lifted her easily, pulled her into his lap, and ignored the way she made excuses about her weight, about making him uncomfortable. He wrapped his arm around her and gently ran his fingers through her hair, guiding her to rest against his neck.

They looked out over the seemingly endless expanse of canopies before them, through the gap Sasuke always watched the sun rise through. In seconds, the first whistling trail of a far off firework sounded, and together they watched the night sky come alive with colored flames in various intricate shapes.

Hinata settled in against him eventually, wrapping her right arm around the back of his neck, and Sasuke hugged her as close as he could. He didn’t care if he was clinging. Most of the time in this life he felt like he was clinging to something—just barely holding on.

There was nothing in the world so grounding as being loved unconditionally, and loving just so in return.

“Thank you,” Sasuke whispered amongst the explosions of light, pressing his lips to the hinge of Hinata’s jaw, her neck. She turned to him and Sasuke paid no attention to the fireworks going off behind her.

Instead, he watched the way her eyes caught the light and held it with honest affection, and bridled desire. He gazed up at her and hoped she understood the many facets of his graciousness, that it was meant for so much more than just this single night.

When she leaned forward and kissed him, gentle enough to shake his heart, he knew that she understood completely.

She said, “I love you, now and forever,” pressing the words against his lips, making him tremble. “You are mine, as I am yours.”

This time, he voiced it: “I do not deserve you.”

Hinata pulled back enough to let him see her expression, the certainty of her love carved into the kindness of her features. She gripped his face in her hands, her gaze unwavering.

“You deserve to be loved, and you are,” she promised, and it was a return welcoming, the same feeling all over again, a blessing and a rescue. “You are.”

She pressed her forehead to his, and both of them closed their eyes. They sat there, high above the rest of the world in the safe haven he’d built for himself and chosen to share with her, as close as two bodies and hearts could get, as the night sky came alive in front of them.

With Hinata there, loving him and being loved by him, everything in his past seemed to fall to the wayside; ever present, but muted. The shadows in him, extinguished by the light in her.

And maybe it was true, what she said about loving and deserving love.

Maybe they just had to do that part together.

And that, he thought, was something to look forward to.

[blogletthestormpass]

Why me? Why you?

When I became ill and was diagnosed in depression and PTSD, after the shock came the Why?

Why is this happening to me? Why is the medication not working? Why am I not getting better? Why does this thing takes a long time, much longer than the “majority”

My first thought was: it’s because I am not working hard enough. I would listen to everything everyone told me to do. I would exercise. Eat well. Sleep plenty. Take my medication. I would be in therapy and really commit to it. I would lay in the sun. Meditate. Do yoga. I would push myself to the limits.

This lasted years. And still, I was not getting better. There must be an explanation!

My second assumption was that I deserved it of course. I would ask everyone what I did wrong to “earn” this. I would pass my life over and over in my head and search for when I did things wrong. Of course, there were, because no one is perfect. So I would relive the events and punish myself for them. Think I’m not really a good person. And then I would try to make amends. And I would feel bad for being the slightest inconvenience to people. I wanted to be the perfect friend or daughter.

Of course, that didn’t make me better. I could make amends and think I’m horrible. I would still not be better.

When it seemed that I couldn’t find an explanation in anything, I came to the conclusion that maybe, it didn’t have anything to do with me. (Note: that took me 3 years) maybe, it was mental ILLNESS. I was ILL. like people had cancer or diabetes.

That’s the moment I learned to let go.... don’t get me wrong, it is still not easy to do. And I do believe I had to live thru all the other steps in order to believe that. But suddenly, I felt like the weight of everything wasn’t just on my shoulders.

My soul got lighter, and even if it didn’t erase my depression or ptsd, it was a new way to think.

I became more “spiritual”, thinking that what is is just that. There are no ulterior motive to mental illness. It is not because of you.

And today, I can say things like:

Don’t move that mountain, but give me the strength to climb it

It doesn’t happen in a flash. It’s not fast or sudden. But it’s what you are doing without realizing it.

[blessuswithblogs]

My Experiences with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder

Today's piece has very little to do with video games, but instead, me. This is more of an exercise in catharsis and thought ordering than something really meant for other people to read and go "o yea thats neat," but you're welcome to do so anyway. I'm also putting up some content warnings for Mental Health Junk like eating disorders and severe anxiety, as well as allusions to stomach flu symptoms (this one probably bothers me more than anybody reading). If you wish to proceed with all that in mind, by all means.

Let's start at the beginning. I've suffered from minor post-traumatic symptoms for over 20 years after the conclusions of traumatic events, usually severe illness. In the past, these symptoms have been self-limiting and usually resolved after a couple of months. Even after I was terribly ill with pneumonia, had an allergic reaction to pneumonia medication, and spent several afternoons with a nebulizer in my mouth, it only took half a year or so to mentally recover from the incident, and all I really suffered from was mild worry when I started coughing. All this changed, however, in September of 2008. A number of unfortunate circumstances occurred in quick succession and I ended up dreadfully sick with gastroenteritis alone with my dad, who also caught it. It was an uncharacteristically virulent and severe strain of whatever norovirus was going around at the time. My working hypothesis is that my brother caught it at Disneyland after using the bathroom without washing his hands like a frickin idiot, because he caught it first and then spread it to the rest of us. My mom seemed unaffected, or was extremely adept at suppressing symptoms, so she hauled my brother's sick ass back up to his dorm in Santa Barbara. Originally, this was going to be a family outing, but I argued that I really didn't need to be there for other reasons entirely, which, as it turned out, ended up dodging a bullet. We both got sick after they left, and it was a miserable night by all accounts.

It marked a couple of milestones for me. Sheltered child that I was (let's be honest, sheltered child that I am), I had never been in a position where I was seriously debilitated and my mom wasn't there to be mom at me. It was also the first time I sort of had to take care of somebody else being ill, because as sick as I was, my dad was even sicker. He's also an unreasonable old fuck who demanded that I didn't let mom know that we were both the next victims of the plague, but I disregarded that order because I was freaking out and in that pre-sick period where you feel pretty nauseated but you're not really sure if that's because you ate too fast or something or you're actually sick. She came back the next day with some pedialite or however you spell it. I was actually kind of delirious at that point, utterly sleep deprived and running a nasty fever. I still vividly recall a strange sort of fever daydream I had in the shower about The Big O being featured in the upcoming Super Robot Wars Z, which is really strange to me to this day but there it is. Showtime, I guess. Prior to this bout of sickness, I had been struggling with tummy troubles the whole year due to the stress of acclimating to living in a new state and a few unfortunate cases of much more mild gastroenteritis. By the time of this incident, I was already pretty worn down, and it turned out to be the straw that broke the camel's back. After making a physical recovery and doing okay for a few days, I started exhibiting severe anxiety symptoms. At the time, I didn't know it, but I was actually a fairly textbook case of post-traumatic stress disorder, and it basically stopped me from being a functioning human for a good year or so.

Let's talk a little about PTSD. The classical understanding of this disorder is that of combat fatigue, something that only soldiers in hellish warzones suffer from after seeing their squaddies get blown up by the Vietcong or whatever. A largely more enlightened view than the previous perception of the disorder as "shell shock" or, even worse, "malingering," but one still inadequate for a modern clinical context. PTSD can be brought about by any sufficiently traumatic event meeting with a sufficiently susceptible person, as per the diathesis model of medicine. If that's what they're still calling it. It's actually been pretty long since I've taken any psych courses, the last two years of college was mostly just filling in credits with random bullshit. At any rate, while soldiers are a large demographic of PTSD sufferers, people can contract it from just about anything -- car accidents, sexual assault (this is a big one, almost assuredly more prevalent than in active combat personnel), and, of course, severe illness. It took me a long time to actually be honest enough with myself and my various therapists to reach the diagnosis. I had suspicions, because even then I was studying psychology, albeit in highschool elective curriculum, and I was at that point familiar with most high profile mental illnesses like PTSD, depression, schizophrenia, and what have you. I also knew, however, that young students diagnosing themselves with diseases they had recently read about in a textbook was also a definite phenomenon. Thus, I was reluctant to bring up the possibility and actively downplayed symptoms, both because I had no faith in myself to make an even marginally accurate diagnosis and because I felt ashamed of the possibility. People get PTSD from actual trauma, not a weekend bout of stomach flu, or so I thought. To be honest, I still feel pretty ashamed of it, but I'm old enough now to know that lying to myself and others will get me precisely nowhere.

Fortunately for me, I think that my therapists and psychiatrists at the time were altogether too clever and perceptive to be fooled by a fairly half-hearted show of resistance. We didn't really give what I was feeling a name until quite a ways into it all, but from the outset, my treatment was focused on alleviating these symptoms. And, wouldn't you know it, the SSRI anti-depressants I had been on-again-off-again taking since I was 14 were also the medication of choice for treating post-traumatic stress. It took a long time, but I eventually managed to get myself together enough to start community college, then transfer to a UC school and graduate. Not without difficulty, mind you, but it's still fairly miraculous to me that it happened at all. I had occasional flare-ups, usually linked to a trigger of somebody else throwing up in my general vicinity. My brother seemed to make a habit of coming home from college only to immediately get sick, which was always harrowing. To this day, I don't know how one person can contract so many instances of gastroenteritis. I always seemed to avoid catching his bugs, probably due to my redoubled hygiene practices and general hypervigilance, though there was a period in the summer of 2012 where I got sick with -something- that made my stomach miserable. Not enough to puke, but enough to make me really worry. That was the summer right before I went to go live on my own in campus housing, so, I ended up coming home on weekends to keep myself together.

Recently, as you may or may not know, I've had a major resurgence of symptoms after a very mild case of stomach flu. I honestly wasn't sick for very long, or very violently, but it was enough to bring bad memories flooding back and reopen a terribly inconvenient can of worms. At the time, I was not on any medication due to just generally being at a fairly high level of functioning but a fairly low level of Have Money. I still feel that the decision was mostly sound, but I severely underestimated my potential reaction to a triggering event. Which I suppose in and of itself was a good indicator of my mental health prior to the incident. With the old wounds reopened and no psychoactive agents to help with the pain, I got. Bad. I'm doing better now, thanks to meds and the passage of time, but I'm still not at full capacity, and summer was utterly dire. One of the halmark symptoms of PTSD is going to great lengths to avoid situations and stimuli similar to the trauma that originated the illness. Unfortunately for me, it is very difficult to avoid "feeling nauseous" or "eating food," though God knows I gave it my all. With my comorbid emetophobia back in full swing, I drastically altered my diet and eating habits. I heavily favored foods that I could cook or supervise the cooking of and foreswore fast food and takeout of any kind. Going to a restaurant to eat was out of the question - my first time back to one was this sunday, and it was an altogether miserable experience for a lot of reasons. My handwashing has increased in frequency to the point where I occasionally need to stop myself from doing it unless absolutely necessary so my skin doesn't crack open. Above all, I have been eating a lot lot lot less. Hearing compliments about weight loss is nice, but given the circumstances, it's hard to enjoy them. I spent most of the summer forcing myself to eat and drink when I really, sincerely did not want to. I found comfort in hunger. Hunger was a signifier that all was well, that my body was operating within acceptable parameters, that being hungry and vomiting were not states that could coexist - at least, that was the thought process. The stomach is more complicated than that, of course, but defense mechanisms rarely make a lot of sense.

The anxiety, fear, and tired listlessness of post-traumatic stress disorder are all well documented. I had those in spades. I think my mom caught me doing the whole thousand yard stare a couple of times, though I doubt she realized the significance of me spacing out. A particularly nasty foible to my particular situation is that one of my body's most cherished stress responses is to get sick to my stomach. Feedback loops are quite common in mental illness, and if I am not Queen of Feedback Loops, I am at very least a Minor Duchess. I know the cycle all too well. Stomach pain into anxiety. Anxiety into worsened stomach pain. It doesn't take long on my bad days to literally think myself sick. My symptoms have trended towards the more mild side of the spectrum, at least after medication was reintroduced, but I make up for it by having a trigger that creates itself. A lot of the time, the only way I have to deal with bad episodes is to try and throw myself utterly into something else and forget about physical being for a while. Long hours in FFXIV and Civ6 can attest to this. When that doesn't work, I often have to lie down and bury my head into a pillow until I calm down enough to start feeling better. It is, in a word, disruptive.

One aspect of the disorder that is not often discussed is the heightened fight-or-flight response and startle reflex. It is especially ridiculous in my case because you cannot run from your digestive system. It tends to follow you around. Be that as it may, being constantly on alert for any and all signals of potential gastrointestinal distress is utterly exhausting. You listen to your surroundings. To other people. To yourself, for any normal stomach noises that you're convinced are the sign of the apocalypse. White noise becomes torture as you try to pick up any salient sounds distinct from the hum of the fan, and a great deal of innocuous noises start to sound a lot like worried words and puking. Coughing is the worst because it shares a pretty similar aural profile to vomiting. Naturally, my dad has been suffering from acid reflux induced coughing jags at all hours, so I'm never at a loss for something to listen to in alarm. And alarmed I am! A constant state of hypervigilance necessitates a constant state of being easily startled. People coming up behind you when you're occupied with something else, for instance, becomes a terrifying experience because they just seem to materialize out of thin air. My new room has my back to the door and my headphones are noise-cancelling, so I am snuck upon on a regular basis, though at least with no ill intent. Probably. The garage door just below me seems almost vindictive in its loud rumbling, but I shouldn't add inappropriate anthropomorphization to large sheets of metal to my list of neuroses.

All of this comes down to a single thing: it's hard to feel like yourself when all of this is going on. Sometimes in a moment of lucidity you realize that this bizarre stranger who washes her hands way too much and refuses to eat anything has been ruining your life. Severe, prolonged stress creates a deep and abiding sense of unreality. You lose faith in yourself. You stop trusting yourself. The things you do don't seem to come out quite right. Interacting with other people feels like trying to talk to somebody on the other side of soundproof glass that's kind of smudgy and gross. Sometimes you yell too loud so that they can hear you, other times you mumble halfheartedly because you don't expect it to work anyway. And on rare occasions, you sort of lose touch with reality and try to beat down the pane and make a terrible fool out of yourself because to everyone else it looks like you're slamming your fists into a wall for no reason as you scream and cry. Even then, it's sort of worth it, just so you can say you've felt something other than creeping dread for a little bit.

I suppose, in a way, that this piece is part explanation, part apology, part anecdote. I haven't done as much stuff lately. I've been more reclusive, quicker to upset, a good bit spacier than usual. I've mentioned a few times that I've been suffering from a PTSD resurgence, but those are just words. There's no context behind them. It bothered me. I wanted to put down, in more concrete terms, how I've been feeling and coping and why that's cut into me being me. I don't know what this will accomplish, but maybe somebody out there will find it resonant, or even helpful. It feels necessary to get it out in the open and be honest about why I don't make many videos or streams anymore, or why I'm harder to get in touch with, less willing to do stuff with other people. I'm making progress. Hoping that I can get to the point where I could maybe hold down a job. Gotta dream big, right? Either way, thanks for taking the time to read this. It doesn't make anything that's happened better, but maybe it will help with things in the future. I'm rambling. I've never been good at conclusions, even when they're obvious and big and juicy. When it's just my thoughts, sort of stream of consciousness, I don't really know how to wrap things up because I could keep writing for a while, if we're being honest. Look in closing, 2017 fucking sucked okay.