#to be clear this anxiety stems from the first eye doctor I ever went to

[cjlouwho]

the never ending journey of "are my eyes just tired or am I losing my vision?"

[danses-with-dogmeat]

Fallout 4 romanced Companions reactions to sole being cute and todderlike when they get anxious? Like they hold their companions thumb or bunch up the bottom hem of their shirt?

FO4 Romanced! Companions React to Sole with Anxiety Tics

This was an awesome prompt! Thanks so much for sending it in! I hope you enjoy! 😊

(Also, I realized after the fact that I totally have like... almost all of these tics. So this was a fun journey of self discovery for me 😅 )

Cait:

Cait’s nostrils flared as Sole sat beside her, their anxiety clear in the way they incessantly cracked their knuckles over, and over, and over again. How their knuckles could even crack that much, Cait wouldn’t know. And she knew a lot about knuckles! She even cracked her own from time to time. But this seemed like overkill. Her hands would fly over to grab at her partner’s, her grip firm in the way it pried their fingers from where they clenched at their knuckles. Sole would look up at her in shock, utterly unaware that they were doing it at all, and Cait would loosen her grip, flashing them an apologetic smile and asking if there wasn’t some better way for them to release their pent-up anxiety? Maybe they could train with Cait? Box a little? C’mon, she promises to go easy!

Curie:

"Oh! Mon dieu, do not injure your clothes like this!" Curie would focus her attention on Sole, gently pulling their hands from where they bunched and tugged at the fabric between their fingers. She knew this was a tendency her companion had whenever they felt uncomfortable, and the doctor would do her best to find an alternative coping mechanism for Sole to deal with their stress. Going through breathing exercises and helping them to identify what was the true cause of their anxiety, and then trying to make whatever it is seem less daunting, Curie would do everything. Her medical training would help quite a bit in these instances, but her presence at Sole’s side would be all the more comforting, given the nature of their relationship. Once Sole shows Curie that they are trying to adhere to her more professional coping mechanisms, the doctor would be thrilled, giving constant praise and encouragement to her partner any time they seemed to be successfully dealing with their anxiety.

Danse:

Danse would spend a long time wondering silently to himself why it was that Sole always made that face when they spoke to strangers for the first time, or they seemed lost in thought, or had to speak in front of a crowd. Their mouth turned sideways, chin gyrating in such a strange way… He wondered if it somehow helped them? He wasn’t sure. When he finally managed to ask Sole about it, and they looked down at their feet in embarrassment, their expression raising up to reflect that very same face that he had been inquiring about, he decided that he already understood. He had a nervous tic as well, his superiors always berated him for cracking his knuckles when he was stressed, and now he would be the one to say something to Sole, to place a hand comfortingly on their shoulder and fix them with his sympathetic gaze when they were anxious enough to bite at the inside of their cheek. He would feel as though he were being too hard on them every time he told them to cease their nervous tendency, no matter how gentle he was about it, but ultimately he told himself, (and Sole if they brought it up) that it was because he cared. The idea of them physically harming themself, even in such a miniscule way, wouldn’t sit right with him, and he would try to work with them to find a more productive outlet to dealing with their anxiety.

Deacon:

The Railroad agent noticed early on that Sole would tug at their collar when they got antsy, and would see it as an opportunity. Every time he would see them reach for the top of their shirt, he would do the same to his own, making it a game to see how long it takes them to notice his mimicking. It was a fun way to pass the time, and to distract his partner from whatever it happened to be that was worrying them. Once Sole made it clear to Deacon that they knew what he was doing, he'd just grin at them, nice and big, telling them that everything was gonna be okay, maybe pulling them in for a reassuring hug or kiss if they looked like they needed one. Bonus points if they get nervous talking to him. In that case, he just stares straight back at them as his hand mirrors theirs, tugging at his own shirt collar…or he may even begin to tug at their collar as well, booping them on the nose as he tells them how cute they are when he makes them nervous.

Hancock:

When Hancock first noticed Sole biting at their cuticles, he figured they might be hinting for him to stop doing it himself, as that had always been a habit of his. He would continue to watch when they did it, to see if they only tore at the tips of their fingers after they had seen him do it himself, but that didn’t seem to be the case. No, only when they were about to have a tough conversation, speak in front of people, or otherwise were uncomfortable, would they engage in this destructive action. Hancock would smile to himself, approaching his partner and would slowly pry their hand from their mouth as he asked them what was bothering them. When they admitted to having their little habit, he would ask if they’d noticed his, and found that they thought he was the one mimicking them. The pair would chuckle at the thought, both of them thinking the other was making fun of them; when, in reality, they both just coincidentally happened to have the same bad habit. From then on, the couple would work together to try and prevent the other from tearing at their fingers, and would instead settle for holding hands when one of them was uncomfortable.    

MacCready:

He hated to think that he liked when his partner was anxious, but he just can’t help but smile whenever he notices Sole bringing their fingers up to tangle in their hair. The way they nervously stroked at the strands on their head, turning them round and round into little coils that would unravel once their hand left it’s place atop their head, it always made him smile; and in certain situations he would most definitely have to resist the urge to tackle them with his affection. In other situations however, if they weren’t in a very public place, or a dangerous area, if their nervousness was stemming from his steamy compliments, he wouldn’t hesitate to run his own hands through their lovely locks before covering their blushing face with kisses, even as his own cheeks turned pink. Did he ever make them flustered on purpose? Um... no. He wouldn’t dream of it ;)

Nick:

Whenever Nick sees Sole's hands running up and down their thighs, he knows that they're becoming uncomfortable. It’s his job to pay attention to the little details, and it hadn’t taken him long at all to notice his partner’s little habit, and to take action when he realized that the action was direct evidence suggesting that they were uncomfortable. No matter the situation they're in, Nick will cease whatever he's doing and reach over his good hand and rest it atop one of theirs, or lay it, palm up, on their thigh so that they can grab ahold of it if they so choose. The old synth's eyes miss nothing when Sole is in an anxious state, and he, without fail, will offer himself as a listening ear, a hand to hold, or an advice giver until he sees that Sole has physically calmed down.

Piper:

"Stop biting your nails, Blue!" Piper would shout every time she saw her partner giving in to their little nervous tic. It almost became a game with her, to see how quickly she would notice their discomfort. The sooner the better, because then she could help talk them through whatever was bothering them, Sole would startle easily every time she did it, but would find themself looking forward to the times that Piper caught them “red handed,” as it were. Sole rarely ever registered when they were doing it, and the fact that their partner did, well… they would be touched to know that Piper paid that much attention to them. And it made them even happier when she offered to paint their nails or give them a hand massage whenever she noticed that their nails were grown out.

Preston:

The first time Sole went to grasp his hand firmly in theirs, Preston thought it was rather odd, as they weren't yet together. Though he didn't mind, he did bring it up to Sole later on, just out of curiosity, and when they explained that it was a nervous tic they had, to grab onto someone they trusted when they felt anxious, he would feel nothing short of honored. The fact that Sole felt comfortable enough with him to look to him in their time of uncertainty, that they depended on him like that… it would warm his heart. As it became more of a common occurrence, the two would develop a sort of communication system this way, if Sole squeezed his hand a certain number of times it would tell him what they were nervous about, which became quite handy (pun fully intended) in certain situations. As bad as he feels about Sole being uncomfortable in any capacity, he can't help but admit how much he adores their reaction to it. It makes him feel strong, and protective, and loving, and trusted, and needed, and allows him to communicate to Sole that he'll always be there for them.

X6-88:

The courser's attention would fall to Sole the instant they started shifting side-to-side on their feet. His eyes would note the condition of the rest of their body, knowing full well that this tic of theirs was a direct result of their anxiety. When he realizes that Sole is outwardly fine, he won't quite know how to help them, but he'll want to try to do something for them. X6 will move towards them, reaching out a hand and placing it on their shoulder, his grip soft, but the weight of his palm pressing down on them would help ground them and prevent them from continuing their nervous movements. He'll want to help for their sake, want to make them feel safe, but also will want to prevent them from disclosing their anxious state to any onlookers or potential enemies.

[oinkawa-bb]

first time dads!haikyuu pt.3

request: Hiii I just read everything you’ve posted and I. Am. In. Love with your writingggg! I was hope to request a part 3 for your first-time dad series for Tsukishima, Yamaguchi, Kenma, and Akaashi :) -@lollypop-lam

note: ahhhh!!!! helloo bb~~ thank you so much for your luv<3333 i was rly not expecting so many ppl to read this series!! but i enjoy writing it so here’s a part 3 for you (i tried to add more variety of scenarios for y/n so it’s not all the same!) hehe i hope you like it! thank you for ur request!<3 here is dad!tsukki, akaashi, yams, and kenma

mentions: pregnancy, domesticity, fluff, slight angst, timeskip, fem!reader

part one (daichi, kuroo, oikawa)

part two (iwaizumi, suna, atsumu, osamu)

☀︎—kei tsukishima

he already knew something was different since the day you took the test

kei could sense that you were tenser than usual 

Exhibit A was when you slightly jumped as he placed one hand gently on the small of your back,

it was really nothing out of the ordinary...

so he raises an eyebrow at you, not saying anything, but just questioning with his curious expression

you bite your lip,,,, 

this was unplanned and even though you’ve recently discussed having kids, you’re worried about how kei might feel because honestly you’re pretty anxious,

but when you break the news to him,

the corners of his mouth are upturned into a soft grin

and he quietly pulls you into a hug

you also could’ve sworn that there were tear stains that he left on your shirt after

but when ur in his arms while he’s whispering about how excited he is, you know that you’re ready to have a family with him<33

tsukki likes to express his care for you and his child through subtle affectionate gestures,,

like his favorite thing to do when he comes home from work is envelop you in a back hug,

and he likes to run his large hands gently over your bump, waiting for a kick

when he feels one, you bet your ass that this man is grinning bc he just can’t hide his excitement !!!

i feel like he’d be a super cautious dad-to-be,

like if you’re given prenatal vitamins or told not to eat certain foods,

he has scrutinized the labels and the internet to make sure everything in the house is safe for you and his bb<33

during your whole pregnancy, he’s more logical and clear-minded, but there’s a stark contrast on the day you actually go into labor owo

like i’m talking sweat beads running down the side of his forehead

and his hand clutching yours for dear life as he guides you to the hospital room

during the entire labor, tsukishima can’t be separated from you...

like when you get up to go to the bathroom and make him stand outside, he’s leaned against the door with his arms crossed

he’s acting like a bodyguard?? but like for what idk

he’s quite tense until his baby makes their appearance,

but when he does get to hold the baby, his body is wracked with silent sobs and he’s overcome with a wave of emotion

he’s silent on the outside, 

but his mind can’t even begin to process the monumental amount of love he feels for u and this little bb <333 🥺🥺🥺

dad tsukki has fallen in love all over again.

☀︎—keiji akaashi

akaashi slips into the bedroom when he hears ur sniffling,,

your back faces him, but he can tell that ur hunched over something in your hands...

when he approaches you and sees that your eyes are puffy n swollen,

his voice is filled with concern,

“what’s wrong?”

it takes a moment for you to choke out your words but you manage,

“keiji, i-i’m scared,”

then he catches sight of the white stick in your hands,

and he sees two faint lines sitting on its little screen

he takes a seat next to you, pulling your body against his and pressing a kiss to the temple of your forehead,,,

“what are you scared of when you have me?”

the two of you have a long conversation that night,, 

mostly with akaashi reassuring you that he’s prepared for whatever decision you make and that he’ll always be there to support you🥺

the next morning,

you’ve calmed down and thought clearly about this, realizing that many of your anxieties stemmed from how keiji would react,

but after realizing his willingness to support you,

you can’t help but smile and press a hand to your belly as you look in the mirror in the bathroom

and when akaashi sees this, his heart is so full and excited!!!🥺

throughout your pregnancy, akaashi is overwhelmingly supportive and emotionally reliable,,

he listens to your concerns both physically and mentally, helping you talk through your worries and find solutions,,

he’s also suuuper intimate with you,

bathing and pampering you,

staying up late to talk with you,

waking you up with kisses nd breakfast in bed,,

he’s just the most perfect partner to you. 

and every day you spend beside him reaffirms your excitement to have his child

when the day arrives, you’re beyond anxious,

he can just tell from little gestures you make that you’re more nervous than ever before,

so akaashi has one hand on you at all times during labor, so you can physically feel his support

the process couldn’t have gone more smoothly than it did, and akaashi’s so grateful 

and when he gets to hold the baby against his own chest, 

he’s smiling through the tears that are welling up bc

his eyes now lay upon the most beautiful replica of you.

fugg i luv keiji🥰🥰🥰

☀︎—tadashi yamaguchi

the day you tell yamaguchi you’re pregnant?

he’s probably crying.

no, he’s definitely crying.

he’s also definitely overexcited

so when he went in for a hug, he immediately lets go bc he’s worried that he hugged you too tightly🥺

he’s just a ball of emotions and kind of all over the place!!

but he gets it together asap and is already on dad duty the very next day

making doctor’s appointments, listing purchases to be made, planning for your baby shower, n anything he can do to be prepared

he makes many a few unnecessary purchases

something like a bougie hundred dollar memory foam pregnancy pillow for u 

and a temperature controlled collapsible baby stroller for his bb

his heart was in the right place but his money was not asdgfd

but he wants to treat you like the queen that you are,

so he’s always excited to come home to see you after work

and he likes to bring home things that will make you happy

food and baby clothes and flowers uwuwu

i also think tadashi came up with the idea to start scrapbooking the memories of your soon to be little family of three <33

so he takes cute little polaroids to keep them in a scrapbook

and he also definitely keeps a lil photo of the baby’s ultrasound in his wallet that he often takes peeks at while at work

and he can’t help but smile and tear up at the thought of starting a family w u 🥰

every morning, he just feels so blessed to wake up to the sight of you n your lil bump aka his future child ?!?!!?

and when that realization registers in his brain,

he just has to pull you close to him, plant a kiss to ur belly, and cuddle you for as long as he wants <333

the day you go into labor, yamaguchi lugs like 3 hospital bags frantically out of the house (he definitely stuffed them fully to the brim)

he’s overall pretty anxious but he’s mostly anxious about the pain you’re going thru🥺

with each hour that passes at the hospital, he’s pacing the room back and forth, always coming back to ur bedside to hold ur hand and kiss it many times

when the time finally comes, yamaguchi can’t believe that he’s actually seeing his child irl

like.... he’s in awe of the beauty of his child, just utterly speechless...

it registers a little bit later and he’s crying again

but back home, yamaguchi is always so eager to take care of his baby and he’ll do anything n everything to take care of his child and help u rest and recover

dad yamaguchi melts my heart

☀︎—kozume kenma

so u decide to plan a little surprise for kenma one morning

and he’s all groggy from just waking up, 

but he peeks his eyes open when he hears you shuffling back and forth right at his bedside,,

he sees that you’re only wearing a white oversized tee and he’s about to pull u back in bed for more sleep,

but then kenma’s eyes focus on the text that’s handwritten in sharpie in the center of the shirt over your stomach

“kenma jr.”

he’s never seen this shirt before, and then he’s realizing what it means and his eyes widen in anticipation !!!

so u crawl on top of him and lay your head on his chest while he’s processing,,

“you’re—?”

“yes, kozume. i am.”

he’s smiling with his eyes closed, 

and he lifts his head to kiss your hair before wrapping his arms around you and whispering in your ear that “he doesn’t know a kenma jr. but he can’t wait to meet them”

you swat at his chest jokingly, and he smiles even wider, 

but you don’t see the love that resonates deeply in his eyes when he looks down at you🥺 

bc you end up falling asleep on him lmaooo

but ever since that day, kenma is on high alert whether it looks like it or not...

he’s especially protective of u in public, 

observing those closest to you and gently shifting you out of the way when someone gets too close...

kenma is most affectionate though when he thinks you’re not aware,,

meaning he likes to run his hand over your stomach, admire your sleeping expression, nd gently kiss your hair

all while he thinks you’re asleep but you’re not tho and it makes ur heart explode

kenma also doesn’t struggle to sleep at night, but he ends up choosing to stay awake for as long as u are 

and he stays awake even after u fall asleep bc he likes to whisper some of the sweetest words to just kenma jr uwuwuwu

on the day when kenma accompanies you to the hospital, he’s listening intently to the patterns of your breathing,

so he knows when the pain is worst and he holds onto you tighter during those times,,

after hours of labor, kenma ends up super teary eyed at the sight of his baby,

he’s silently swaying the baby in his arms nd just thinking about how much his heart is overfilling with luv...

he knows kenma jr now... and he loves kenma jr with his whole heart<333

[captainchrisfics]

Oh, Baby

About: After finding out she’s pregnant with Chris Evans’s baby less than a year into their relationship, the first person pov narrator looks for comfort and advice from their fellow MCU cast members. Unbeknownst to her, Chris notices she’s shut him out and decides to confront her at the same time that she plans on letting him in.

Word Count: 4,070

Requested by: Anon

“Hey, I need to talk to you guys,” I said, trying to keep my voice level though I was sure I didn’t hide the panic in my eyes very well. Sebastian Stan stood outside his trailer, leaning against the wall while talking to Brie Larson. Exactly the two people I wanted to see. I was elated, just enough of a little thing going right can be enough of a relief. They were my fire extinguisher found in the middle of a blaze.

That was until they both turned, revealing Chris sitting behind them in a folding chair poised perfectly as if it was meant to keep him out of my view. Sometimes you realize the fire extinguisher is empty and you’re still utterly fucked, for lack of a better term. “Hey, babe,” Chris perked up with a smile, standing to greet me. He was in his Captain America costume, filthy from a fake battle with Thanos. That didn’t stop him from planting a kiss on my lips, which planted a dreadful anxiety that stemmed from the bottom of my nervous stomach. Chris pulled away, leaving my face sutty with makeup. “Hey,” I responded, hearing the high-pitched lilt in my voice. 

Chris’s smile dropped for a moment the same way my heart did. “What’s wrong?” he inquired sweetly, reaching out to hold my hand in comfort. He played with my fingers, lacing our hands together. When I pulled away, Chris looked at me with pleading eyes while I wiped my sweaty hands on my jeans. “Nothing,” I asserted too forcibly. “Just need to talk to Seb and Brie about our scene,” I recovered quickly with the first excuse that came to mind. “That’s not in my script,” Chris said with a slight frown, sure that he’d gotten the actual one from the Russo’s instead of one of the many full of misleading scenes for the sake of spoilers.

I hated lying to Chris, but I just couldn’t tell him yet. So I shrugged, trying to find some kind of elaboration as to why I’d need to talk to them about a scene that didn’t actually exist until Brie got the hint.

“It’s in mine,” she corroborated my story. “Same here,” Sebastian followed our lead, his eyes darting between us before nodding reassuringly at Chris. My boyfriend shrugged it off, letting me off the hook this time. Still, it was clear he didn’t take the bait entirely by the suspicious look in his eyes, calculating how much innocence I’d need to be proven guilty.

Chris hesitated for a beat too long before leaning in to peck my cheek, choosing not to fight this battle right now. “Have fun then. Love you,” he said with a controlled smile. I nodded my head, picking my nails uneasily and failing to listen enough to realize I should’ve replied. Instead, I turned and walked away with Seb and Brie in tow.

Although we’ve only been working together on Endgame for a short time, Brie and I were fast friends. There weren’t many women around, so we were incredibly close. As for Seb, we’d been best friends since we met filming The Winter Soldier. Now, on the set of the last installment of our MCU era, we were all trying to make the most of it. Constantly around and hanging out together, even if all of us weren’t even filming that day, which I was more grateful for now than ever.

The three of us walked stiffly back to my trailer where we could talk privately, but even once we were there I couldn’t seem to push any words passed the boulder in my throat. Sebastian and Brie sat across from me over the small kitchen island, staring at me expectantly.

“Is everything alright?” Seb finally asked softly, reaching across the counter to hold my hand. He rubbed small circles on the back of my hand with his thumb, patient eyes on me while my mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water. I gave up on speaking and instead pushed the two positive pregnancy tests I’d kept hidden in my pocket over the counter. I never thought something as small as the little, white plastic sticks could be so earth-shattering. That something so tiny, just a handful duplicating cells at this point, could feel so heavy.

Brie held one up as if she was checking that she was seeing clearly. I didn’t believe it either, but the second, faint pink line was really there. “If this is part of that prank war, I’m going to kill you,” Seb said incredulously, his hand holding mine falling limp as his jaw hit the floor.

“I wish it was,” I said with a dry laugh, tears starting to prickle the corners of my eyes. “I went to the doctor today. I’m only around six weeks along, but she took this anyway just to make sure.” I slid the sonogram across the counter. It was too early to see much other than the dark gap in the middle of my organ, hosting a blurry ring of white so small the nurse drew a silver Sharpie arrow to point it out.

Brie just sat looking at me dazed as if she thought this was a dream. “Do you know what you’re going to do?” she asked. She was careful when picking up the picture, holding it daintily from the edges.

“I don’t know,” I confessed. Saying it out loud made it that much more of a reality. I didn’t know what I was going to do. “I’m sorry to dump this on you guys like this. I-” I stopped when my voice cracked, choking back the tears threatening to fall. “I just didn’t know who else to talk to. I mean, I want to tell Chris so badly. I want him to be happy. But what if…” My voice kept growing quiet until it ceased, trailing off before I could indulge my newfound fears that simultaneously became my deepest. What if he isn’t? What if he didn’t want it? What if he didn’t want me? What if this ruins everything?

“If I’m sure of one thing,” Brie said, calm as you always cross your fingers in hope the sea will be, something I found comfort in. “Chris loves you. Tremendously and unconditionally. That counts for so much,” she assured with contagious confidence. Seb agreed with a nod of his head. “You know we’re always here for you and he is, too. Honestly,” Sebastian said with a stiff upper lip, “I think he’ll be over the moon.”

“We haven’t been together very long,” I said in protest, chewing on my bottom lip with anxiety. Although Chris and I have known each other for years, it wasn’t until only a handful of months ago we started dating. It was one of the many cards I realized were stacked against us as I stared at those sticks for what felt like forever as if they held the key to all of this. “What if he isn’t ready to do this yet? What if he doesn’t want to do it with me?” I spit out before I could decide to bottle up those poisonous personal thoughts.

Sebastian placed a strong hand on my shoulder, tethering me down to Earth. “Hey,” he said gently. “It’s all going to be alright. Chris is basically already a dad, save for the whole having a child bit. Until now, I guess.” Seb gave a half-hearted smirk, trying his crack at comedic relief.

“Yeah,” Brie agreed. “You’ve seen him with his sisters’ kids. And even on set, everyone’s families are always around. He adores kids as much as they love him, yours won’t be any different.”

The problem was that, in my head, I knew she was right. I knew Chris talked about how he couldn’t wait to settle down way before we got together. I knew he would never turn his child away. But, in my heart, I didn’t feel it. I felt scared. I felt like there were all of these other crushing ways he would react and partly irrational reasons for him to reject me and our baby. Our baby. I couldn’t tell if that had a certain ring to it or if it was more of a sound of alarm. “What matters is if you want this,” Brie implored, holding one of my hands between two of hers as she radiated support.

“I know,” I sighed, the defeat I heard in my own voice being depressing in itself. “I do. It just… wasn’t supposed to happen like this,” I choked out, finally letting a few tears slip. As quickly as the fracture in my dam appeared, the crack spread until it was all turned to rubble, allowing the crashing waves of tears to flood my cheeks without a hope to stop them. I felt like I couldn’t breathe, like the dam’s remnants were weighing heavy on my chest and caving my rib cage. Brie and Seb both swooped in to hug me, but they only suffocated me more.

“Everything alright in there?” Downey suddenly asked. His suspicious tone was accompanied by loud taps on the trailer’s door. “Swear I’ll kick Evans’s ass to the ends of the Earth if it isn’t,” he said, sounding every bit of the protective dad he is to me. 

I nodded to encourage Sebastian, who was staring at me expectantly as he moved to the door slowly, waiting for me to stop him. As soon as Robert entered the room, his face softened with slumped eyebrows and a slack jaw. “We were walking by and heard some crying,” he explained gently. I noticed Tom Holland, who must have been accompanying RDJ to his own town of trailers, following in suit. Tom kept his distance, still so new around all of us he was trying to find his place among our family.

Robert took a seat next to me and leaned forward as he waited for me to speak. He grabbed my hands in his and waited patiently, for me to summon the courage he seemed to seep. Robery’s eyes trained on the stick I’m sure he recognized as a pregnancy test before widening with realization, but he continued to sit in suspense nonetheless. 

“I found out that I’m uh...” I stopped to swallow the lump in my throat. “Pregnant,” I finally sobbed out. It didn’t get any easier. Downey broke out into a smile, jumping to his feet and pulling me up with him before drawing me in to a bone-crushing hug. “I know it’s scary as hell,” Robert whispered with the wisdom of an experienced father. His tone telling me he understood all too well how terrifying the instability of life when you needed it to be secure could be. “And it doesn’t feel like it now, but I promise this is one of the best moments of your life.” 

“I mean, yeah duh,” I joked in a sorry attempt to lighten the mood. “It’s not every day you get a bear hug from RDJ.” He held me at arms length and looked me up and down slowly, though I couldn’t tell exactly what he was looking for. Until his eyes hit mine with a look of pride and I realized he was taking one last look at the small, helpless caterpillar I felt like before I entered my cocoon and emerged a much stronger, beautiful butterfly. “Really, I promise you’ll be proud of who you are when you come out on the other side and you’ll have this incredible little person with you along the way.” He caressed my cheek, wiping some tears with his thumb. 

“Yeah,” Tom said from where he stood by the door with enough excitement for the both of us combined. His age didn’t allow for the kind of seasoned support Robert did, but his youth provided for a more optimistic outlook. He bit his bottom lip hesitantly, thinking over what he was going to say carefully. “You’ve become one of my favorite people and Chris has, too. It’s going to be so awesome having a little combo of you two running around.” Some may call it naïveté, but Tom telling me it was all going to be okay with the assuredness of someone who hadn’t seen how terribly wrong it could go yet was exactly what I needed. 

“Thank you. All of you,” I choked up again. This time it was a tidal wave of love I was surrounded by that seemed to drown me, filling me from the bottom of my heart with a sudden inner peace until it poured out in appreciation for the friends around me.

Seb was the first to hug me, whispering congratulations in my ear as he buried his face in my shoulder as he hid the falling tears. “I can’t believe you’re going to be a mom,” he said solemnly.

“Me either,” RDJ remarked as he joined in, followed by Tom who hurdled into us like he just entered the atmosphere. Brie stretched as she tried to wrap her arms around everyone. There, in the middle of almost all the people I loved huddled together in a rally of support, I suddenly realized how my heart still ached for something missing. Someone, rather.

“I’ve got to tell him… But how can I do that?” I questioned contemplatively, thinking out loud more than anything. Considering the aftershocks I was still experiencing from the kind of quaking surprise that turned your whole world on its axis, I didn’t want to put Chris through the same calamity. My friends pulled away, though they all stayed close. “Ever seen Full House?” Tom suggested, causing the rest of us who were around when it was on air and immensely popular to break into laughter. Still, it got me thinking. Maybe the kid was on to something.

Chris stormed into the place we were renting out for the duration of filming earlier than I anticipated and with more aggression than I expected. I headed over here after everyone wished me luck and left, shooting Chris a text to meet me back here once he was done filming so we could talk asap. He opened the message but didn’t respond, which I would’ve taken personally if I didn’t know how much I’d pissed him off. Instead, he swung the front door open with an unexpected force almost half an hour earlier than he’d been scheduled to.

I sighed as I pulled the baby back ribs out of the oven so I could plate them along with the peas and baby carrots, knowing he was unhappy just by the rush of his heavy footsteps. Chris walked up behind me with crossed arms and a stern expression. His lips pressed together and eyebrows furrowed as he demanded, “What is up with you lately?”

I tilted my head and hummed in question, trying to play dumb. He called me out for it immediately, but I turned away from him. Facing the kitchen counter, I took off my oven mitts before returning to preparing dinner, gathering silverware and napkins.

“Don’t act like you don’t know how distant you’ve been,” Chirs huffed, hands on his hips.” Hell, you didn’t even bother to say you loved me too after you blatantly lied. That hurt,” Chris raved, his pain exploding into frustration and spreading shrapnel with a fevered wave of his hands around the kitchen. Sometimes it was hard to tell when he was really that vexed or a Bostonian by nature and nurture. Now, I had a feeling it was a dangerous cocktail of both I wasn’t prepared to stir. If only there was a bit more traffic coming home, all I needed were a few more minutes to get the table set.

“I’m sorry,” I said dismissively while compiling all the utensils in one hand and the plates in my other. “Be a dear and grab the water and some cups please,” I instructed before heading into the dining room.

Chris rolled his eyes dramatically, chastising me for ignoring him. “Y-you’re sorry?” he exhorted a bit dumbfoundedly, but he’d already lost his audience. “I’m not dropping this,” Chris grumbled, snatching the decanter from the fridge along with some wine glasses. “Sure you don’t want Merlot with those ribs?” he asked, unaware of his own innocence. Chris’s proposed pairing would’ve been great if not given my circumstance. He still sounded indignant, but his blissful ignorance nearly elicited a laugh I had to stifle with a cough before turning the alcohol down.

“It isn’t right of you to shut me out, worse of you to lie to me,” Chris continued ranting. He was right on my heels down the hall, clinging the crystal together in one hand sloppily. Knowing I’d break and ruin the surprise once I saw the hurt in his eyes, I busied myself with making sure the napkins were perfectly perpendicular to the table’s edge. “We’re supposed to be in this together,” he protested, just short of stomping his foot. “And now you won’t even look at me!” Chris snapped sharply. He slammed the contents of his hand down on the table with a harsh thud, unconcerned for the splash zone he created. He was running out of patience so fast he could’ve placed in the Olympics. 

My eyes cast downward as I took my seat at our table nonetheless, trying to ignore Chris’s tantrum. He remained standing upright, stubborn and immovable. “Can you at least acknowledge me, damn it!” Chris yelled, striking the wooden table so hard the water quivered again. The veins protruding from his neck and forehead slowly started to subside with a few deep breaths as Chris realized he wasn’t going to get the screaming match he wanted. “All I want to do is talk to you,” he pleaded, the defeat of a battle that didn’t ensue evident in his voice.

“You’re right,” I said calmly, my eyes snapping up to his, overcome with surprise. “Sit down then and let’s talk.” I cut a carrot in half and popped it in my mouth, watching as Chris was taken aback by my repose. He came to a fight I’d already predicted, seeing the storm in the forecast allowed me to be prepared with an umbrella. Chris stood up straighter before pulling out the chair and sitting before the plate I’d set out for him. “How do you like dinner tonight? Thought I’d try something relevant-”

“The only thing relevant to this conversation is you telling me exactly what your problem has been and- wait, what?” Chris said in a flurry, going from exasperation to perplexion faster than a sports car from zero to sixty. “How could ribs, peas, and baby carrots possibly be relevant right now?” Apparently, he wasn’t just full, but overflowing with confusion to the point that his anger was completely diluted.

“I knew the peas would be confusing, but Sebastian insisted it was brilliant,” I explained. Chris spluttered, trying to make sense of my cryptic words. “You see,” I picked up a small pea, holding it in between my thumb and index finger and raised it up to be level with Chris’s blue eyes. “This is how big a fetus is at six weeks. They’re already growing up fast, huh?”

“A-a fetus?” he stuttered like it was his first time saying the word out loud. Chris’s eyes searched frantically from the pea in my hand to the pile on his plate along with the other things accompanying it. Puzzle pieces he started to put together, an image that he began to bring into focus. Once it hit him, Chris sat back in his chair and braced himself against the table by the heels of his hands like he was thrown back by the force of a metaphorical and literal shock.

This was the moment I’d been dreading. The terrible in between when it was all up in the air. When everything was out of my control and, for better or worse, in his.

“Oh, baby,” Chris said, his use of the pet name being soft and breathy. He closed his eyes as he leaned in toward me again. Placing an elbow on the table and resting his chin on his hand. His anger had brought Chris to a boiling point, but now he sat before me completely melted. Soft and gooey from the inside out, the irate lines of his cross face molded into crow’s feet by his smiling eyes and defined the apples of his cheeks as he broke out into a grin. “A baby.”

Chris said the word like it was a blessing rather than a curse. A sunny day instead of a storm. A solution as opposed to a problem. A miracle in lieu of an accident. Everything I’d hoped he’d feel, but the thought was too good to be true in the face of every other reaction. Everything I’d wanted to think, but what I couldn’t allow myself to believe out of the fear of getting my hopes up.

“I wanted to tell you,” I finally confessed. “I just wasn’t sure how you’d take it. Not that I don’t think you’d make an incredible father. Honestly, all day I’ve been thinking about you with our little bundle in your arms. I mean, we haven’t been together long and it’s a big step for anyone let alone-” Keeping things from Chris wasn’t something I was used to and now, with the brazen ability to share everything with him again, the words spouted out of me like an erupting volcano, full of excited energy and nowhere else for it to go but pouring out.

Until Chris cut me off with a kiss. Leaning across the table, his lips were still stretched in a smile when they met mine. He didn’t mean to shut me up because of some kind of antipathy to my side, but rather because he already understood. I didn’t need to waste air I could’ve spent kissing him on explaining myself when Chris comprehended it. Instead, he told me everything I needed without saying a word. He still loved me, but more than that he loved us. He still wanted me, but our baby as well.

Chris pulled away sooner than I wanted him to, but I could have lived in that moment forever if the world let us. Like nothing happened, he picked up a rib and took a bite out of it. Chris sat back in his chair again and nodded contemplatively. “I know it wasn’t planned but it just feels so…” He stared down at his plate like it held the answers.

“Right,” I finished his sentence, realizing that, with his support, it was. Chris nodded in agreement. “That’s it,” he said as he picked up his fork to reach for the meal that had already grown cold. “Right,” he said, meaning it more in a sense of agreement. “I’ve wanted kids my whole life and I’m grateful to have you as their mom,” he reached across the table to grasp my hand in his gently. “We’re speaking in plurals now?” I joked in deflection since I couldn’t properly express how he made my heart burst with anything other than a squeeze of his hand. Chris chuckled as he backtracked, “Maybe not yet, but I just can’t believe we’re going to be parents.”

“If you don’t believe it, you better see it,” I said, reaching for the folded photo I kept in my pocket and handing it to him so Chris could conceptualize his child with something other than carrots. “I think he looks like you.” Chris let his fork clatter to the table as he held the sonogram up and shook his head, still unable to completely find the right words. “How do you know it’s a he?” Chris asked, quirking an eyebrow up to which I shrugged simply. It was just a feeling.

Chris turned back to his plate, staring bug-eyed at the themed dish in front of him. “A baby,” he repeated in a whisper to himself, almost like a promise. “Gotta be really honest with you,” he said seriously, causing my breath to catch behind a lump in my throat. Chris turned to me with a pronounced tilt of his head, fighting back a smirk, as he said, “I feel kinda weird about eating the peas now.”

[thethirdwheel404]

Med Series Rewatch (#12)

S3 E12: Born This Way.

Episode description: Dr. Manning and Dr. Choi are faced with a tough decision.

Literally when are they not.

Okay, last episode ended with the first Ava/Connor kiss, so this episode should be a rollercoaster of emotions.

let’s get into it.

- okay, already we’re starting in connor’s apartment, so cue ava walking in bc they slept together?

- i think its hilarious that her casual clothing is.. a flannel. like lmao idk

- it is so unbelievably funny and stupid to have a one night stand with someone you work closely with. i mean come on

- never forget that dr. ava bekker has a fish tank

- this is exhausting. the tentative back and forth is so fucking exhausting

- another bit of evidence. ava is never not confident, and especially not to this extent, and she never follows connor’s lead. so, the fact that she is standing back and waiting for him to make the decision? stupid.

- it screams that she is having a moment of anxiety, which is why she isn’t up to make the decisions in the exchange.

-to be clear: what i’m claiming here is that the only reason ava actually got with connor was bc she was having a moment of anxiety because he was the only person she had built a relationship with after living in this city for six months.

- when connor says that he has plans you can see her fold in on herself. this stems from a place of anxiety

- remember when they did surgery on the panda? that’s when the show peaked

- ava in her lab coat will never not get me. especially with the gloves, running towards a patient (very hot)

- connor still looks kinda looks like a mess but ava is immaculate here like what dude out of your league

- ava asking the family questions (ik this is standard doctor stuff but showing worry, interest, all that jazz)

- okay, see here! here! ava calls connor out, saying that his procedure is too invasive. before, ava’s procedures where invasive, which everyone used as evidence to her being super cold, but now, we see that she purely does what she deems best for the patient at hand

- also, once again, the concern ava feels. you can hear it in her voice. we forget this part of her way too often

- the smile on ava’s face when she gives the family good news. god wept

- and then more concern when connor tells her they need to put him on ecmo

- the reason that ava is frustrated that connor didn’t go with her decision for their patient care is because she truly believes that if they don’t go with her treatment, he will die. don’t make it anything different. don’t argue she’s frustrated because he’s not listening to her. don’t make it anything about their relationship. she puts their patients care first and foremost

- there’s a stark shift in her demeanor when in the room with the parents vs. her alone with connor. in the room, you can see she’s stewing. she’s sucking on her teeth, she’s holding her emotions. she has control, she’s a professional. out of the room, she has full reign to be as mad with connor as she wants, which she does.

-AVA RAN INTO THE ROOM AGAIN WITH THE LAB COAT AND GLOVES AND IDK IT JUST HAS ME FEELING SOME KINDA WAY

- the way ava acknowledges everyone in the room (the nurse just informed them that the drug was running, ava nodded. just a little thing but yk)

- ava shaking her head at this sad, sad man (connor, who is floundering for a solution and misplacing his anger)

- their entire relationship is misplaced anger

- the fact that the last shot of the scene has connor in the foreground looking over the bed and ava watching from the door but ava is the one in focus - some cool cinematography points

- IS THIS THE EPISODE WHERE MAGGIE GOES TO JAIL

- med really went all over the place

- JUST THE AMOUNT OF CONCERN ON AVA’S FACE. im gonna say it again. look me in the eyes and tell this women is a psychopath. the med writers are fucking insane

- and when the parents ask ava if she disagreed with connor’s treatment decision, she has every opportunity (and right, frankly) to throw him under the bus and undermine him. but still, she says “it’s a complicated situation.” like. she never ever makes it personal, or loses her head. especially not to a patient. and she doesn’t have to defend connor. he’s made a lot of mistakes, and taken it out on her a bunch of times. yet she’s still nice to him, when he’s not even in the room

- it’s insane

- this is also the legendary scene where she comforts the family. there’s not a lot that i haven’t already said. this is the scene that most exemplifies ava’s humanity, the way she seems to feel, at least residually, what these parents are going through (since she obviously hasn’t gone through anything like this herself [unless.]). the way she kneels down, and gets on the family’s personal level.

- I... okay listen. I absolutely HATE the parallel they pull her between the line “I believe whenever you do something out of love, it can never really be wrong” and connor. especially because they show him when she says that line. and yeah, there’s obviously a connection that can be drawn between the meaning of that line and her sociopathic behavior in s4 and s5.

- it honestly feels like when writing s4, the writers hit so much of a wall they just googled the most ‘iconic’ ava moments and thought ‘how can i use these in the worst way possible?’ That’s honestly probably what they did (ava’s first interaction with connor - ‘you better watch yourself,’ this moment). There is no nuance to her character in s4. it is astoundingly terrible.

- lets move on

- THE WAY CONNOR LOOKS AT AVA HER MAKES ME FUCKING SCARED. HE HAS NO EMOTION ON HIS FACE. I know that we’ve been screen capping ava throughout this series but can someone find pictures of connor looking at ava bc, i need yall to remember how weird he looks

- like, no shade to connor, but just the emotion is undecipherable, but it is in no way a good one

- ava getting concerned (and looking slightly embarrassed) when she sees connor watching her by the door. obviously yeah she’s gonna feel weird you just caught her in a very uncharacteristic moment, outwardly expressing comfort. fucking back off

- i am so fucking protective of her and i demand he no longer look at her. it’s banned

- sam abrams looking at sarah’s dad’s head ct and asking if he’s a criminal. oh boy 

- from a writer’s perspective, the storyline with sarah’s dad is actually pretty good

- ava ran into the room with gloves and lab coat again, if anybody wanted to know

- for the record, want it to be noted, ava was the one who realized that it was an issue with the machine again, so you could say she fixed connor’s mistake, again. so.

- connor making a big deal about handing the reins over to ava (if he really was selfless he wouldn’t have made a whole big thing, he still has an enormous hero complex)

- handing off control was very hard for him. boo hoo get some fucking humility I think they sell it at walgreens

- sarah fucking walking across the ed like she’s going to war. dramatic

- med really said pedophiles deserve rights with this ep huh

- anyway

- the way ava smiles

- the way she smiles when she turns him down. CAN WE TALK ABOUT THAT? SHE TURNED HIM DOWN. in the aspect of the story i cannot remember why she turned him down, but hey, i’m happy

- and it only further proves my story that the hook up came from a place of anxiety, and this is her realizing how silly that decision was. and her smiling was her laughing at herself for making such a stupid decision

- ALSO. LET’S TALK ABOUT THE FACT THAT THIS DECISION, THE DECISION TO TURN HIM DOWN, HAPPENED IN THE SAME EPISODE WHERE SHE SAID ‘IF YOU DO SOMETHING FOR LOVE, IT’S NEVER REALLY WRONG’

- like she literally says ‘last night was a mistake.’

- honestly, it’s fucking hilarious. connor deserves nothing

- and the confusion on his face when she walks away. hilarious

- if you wanted to take this the reesker route you could argue that the idea of ‘a decision of love’ was ava coming to terms with her slight little crush, though i don’t know how clean it would be if you argue that she panicked and told herself those were feelings meant for connor. idk, i’ll have to think about it further

- watching sarah let herself be betrayed by both herself and the people around in the story surrounding her dad will never not be hard to watch

This was a very good episode, character wise, for all the reasons stated above. It just hammers home the point of how strong a character Ava was. Key word, of course, being ‘was’. My conclusion over the last two episodes is that this specific sexual encounter with Connor was born out of a moment of anxiety from Ava. I suggest that over that last few weeks or days she has been experiencing some amount of anxiety out of having been living in Chicago for six months and only having one interpersonal relationship. So, that idea kind of built where she told herself the reason she only had one relationship was because she was in love with him. Then. after going through the story with this kid and comforting his parents, she realizes that she never actually loved Connor and maybe has a thing for someone else. I’m glad that I keep coming up with more ideas for this character, I was afraid the initial theory was somewhat of a one-off, but this only proves the idea of the complexity to Ava’s character.

I’m sure it’ll get worse from here, though.

as always, thanks for sticking through

-

read the rest here:

Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 4 / Part 5 / Part 6 / Part 7 / Part 8 / Part 9 / Part 10 / Extra

[girlmeetsliv3]

Purgatorio I

 Warning: The following story contains mentions of suicide, depression, anxiety, manipulation, abuse, and vivid descriptions of abusive acts. The behavior and mindset of the characters in this series will be incredibly yandere and toxic. This is a work of fiction and doesn’t represent the character of bangtan sonyeondan. Enjoy ~~~

This was not what death was supposed to feel like, that much Yoongi was sure of. Though he had never really questioned what the afterlife would feel like, only assuming any alternative to living was superior, he knew that it was empty and peaceful. He did not feel any sort of peace. Instead, it was a pain, far too much pain that made him want to scream out in agony. As the pain got more intense, he heard a strong beeping sound and felt like someone was grasping him and making a soothing noise – like the one a mother would make to calm a fussy child. Distantly there was the sound of a door opening and closing and the shuffling of feet. Murmurs here, there, everywhere and all Yoongi wanted to do was to scream and tell them to make the pain go away; make it all go away. As if they had heard him he felt a refreshing flush surge through him and suddenly he was numb again. That was somehow worse. For it was the numbness that he was so used to that confirmed his suspicions. He was, in fact, alive, he had failed once again. Was there nothing he could do, right? These were the thoughts that stayed with him as he felt his consciousness slip away and the numbness overpower him.

           The next time he awoke things were much clearer. First, it was his ears: they picked up on the constant beep of a machine somewhere to his left. Then his hands: which began to gently fondle with the material under them, it was soft but cheap as well. Lastly his eyes: they were blinded at first due to the brightness of the room but after a couple of seconds or so of blinking they adjusted. The sanitary and desolate area he could observe informed him that he was in a hospital room. So, he had failed. He tried to move, but when he shifted his legs slightly a throbbing pain jolted through his system that had him biting his lip for fear of screaming out in pain. His arms were secured with binding as was his neck and some parts of his chest, only a thin hospital robe covered them. As he noted everything around him, he saw something in the corner that caught his attention. On the far right was a recliner, clearly meant for guests accompanying the patients, and on it was a pillow and wrinkled blanket. Who would they have called? His mother was dead. His father could care less. Who?

           The door to the room opened and a woman in the older stage of life entered wearing scrubs, she was pushing along a cart filled with various objects including what looked like ointments and an iv bag. She hadn’t been paying much attention to Yoongi at all merely going about her usual routine, it wasn’t until he cleared his throat that she finally looked up at him and gasped. “Dear God, it’s a miracle! Wait here while I go get the doctor!” Then she dashed out the room. Wait here? I haven’t got much of a choice, do I?! Yoongi simply kept staring at the door the woman had left through glaring holes into where her head had previously been. Perhaps not even an entire minute later, the door opened again but it was someone else who entered this time. There was an expression of shock in her [y/e/c] eyes, her lips were slightly ajar, and there seemed to be words stuck on the tip of her tongue. She wore all black with her hair parted off to the side; a halo seemed to surround all of her and Yoongi didn’t understand why but he had the strange desire to reach out to her – call out to her: a complete stranger.

“Who are you?” Where the words that came out instead, there was an edge and bluntness to them that made you flinch, but before you could answer the question you were shoved out of the way by the obnoxious nurse and young doctor that followed behind her.  [y/n] moved out of the way and went to stand in the corner of the room, farthest away from him. All he could do was stare at her, disregarding the nurse and doctor attempting to get his attention.

“Min Yoongi?” He turned towards the man in a white lab coat with a colored shirt and black slacks underneath. “Yes.” There was nothing else he could say to the man, he disliked doctors ever since he was a kid, truly it stemmed from his distrust of any authority figure, the man had no fault but Yoongi took an immediate dislike to him. “My name is Dr. Kim. I am the attending doctor for the trauma sector of Seoul National Hospital. Do you recall why you are here, sir?” Yoongi could perfectly remember everything that had occurred that night, even the things he wished to forget. However, the doctor mistook his silence for a lack of knowledge instead of an unwillingness to respond. “You were in an accident, a fire, which consumed the entirety of your apartment. Do you have any memory of this?” The doctor’s words were cautious and mellow, after years of training he knew how to perfectly deliver information to patients and what reactions to expect, but Yoongi’s answer caught him off guard. “It wasn’t an accident.”

           The nurse and doctor exchanged a glance, they had assumed as much given the information reported by the fire department. Still, they held out hope that it was an accident and not merely another person hoping to become a statistic in the OECD. There was a tense silence in the room as Yoongi merely stared at his palms observing them: they were perfect no bruises or blisters on any part of them. At least, he would be able to continue making music, at least there was that. The nurse trying to lighten the mood suddenly remembered the girl standing quietly in the corner attempting to go unnoticed. She walked towards you and placed a hand on your back, dragging you towards the hospital bed in the center of the room; purposefully ignoring all the silent signals being sent by you, so she wouldn’t.

“You should thank this girl, you know? She is the one who saved your life after all.” There a wide smile on the woman’s face that felt forced, for it didn’t reach her eyes and the longer Yoongi stared at her eyes the more familiar they looked. His attention was snatched away from the nurse when she pushed [y/n] towards Yoongi and their eyes met once again. There was a hostility in his stare that Yoongi could not control even if he truly wanted to. There was a strange feeling inside of him whenever he looked at the girl who he didn’t know; misplaced anger for having stopped his plans, curiosity for as to why she would, and deep inside – though he would never admit it – gratitude.

           “I’m [y/n].” Your voice was deeper than he expected, but not monotonous. It was a good voice he deemed, he had wanted you to have an extremely high pitched one that would hurt his ears whenever you spoke, but nothing ever went his way. Sensing the awkwardness of the situation, the doctor excused himself and informed Yoongi the nurse would give him some morphine to aid with the pain and apply ointments on his burns. [Y/n] walked towards the recliner and sat on it with her eyes laying low. He couldn’t stop staring at you: he wanted to know more about you. His paranoia led him to believe no one in this world did something without some type of gain, so what did you want?

He analyzed you the way a scientist would a new form of bacteria trying to identify traits, characteristics, behavior patterns; comparing it to everything he had knowledge of in order to understand it. He came up empty. Your eyes were what he most desired to analyze, but that was difficult to do with you staring at the floor so intently. It dawned on him why when the nurse removed the bed sheets over him and proceeded to undo the sides of his gown. Yoongi, suddenly aware of his nakedness under the material, latched his hands over the nurses with intent to stop her.

The woman merely chuckled and patted his head, “Don’t worry boy its nothing I haven’t seen before. Besides, this isn’t the first time I’ve had to do this to you. You’ve been here for a month after all.” Then she went about finishing up the routine, leaving Yoongi to reel with the information he had just been given. A month?! Clearly, he had been more successful than he first assumed. It left him questioning other things as well as he looked once again towards [y/n] who was glaring into the tile floor and whose hands were clenched tightly together; Yoongi knew why the moment he saw your cheeks flushed red. He nearly smiled, cute, he thought. She must be used to this routine by now, so why the act? Noticing him staring at the young woman, the nurse smiled a bit and decided to play a little game. Had Yoongi not been too distracted by you, at the sight of the old woman’s smile he would have recognized her immediately. “Miss, you should pay attention you will need to do this once the young man is discharged.”

           [Y/n] might have suffered from whiplash considering how fast she looked up. Your head shook at the thought and you were about to inform the elder woman that your courtesy only extended so far, until she was reminded you of a cruel fact. “After all, he wouldn’t be able to apply it to his legs.” There was a silence that persisted up until the nurse finished and re-dressed Yoongi’s wounds, redoing her robe and tidying up the cart as she was about to leave. “What do you mean I can’t apply it to my legs?” There was a silent threat in his voice, something growing inside him: a dark and unrestrained emotion which he welcomed. The nurse was about to take his bait until [y/n] interrupted her, sensing the danger; “Your legs were badly burned. I couldn’t carry you out properly, so they sustained a lot of damage. The doctor said it would take much longer for them to heal than the rest of your body.” There was guilt which seeped through your voice, a naïve girl blaming herself for the consequences of Yoongi’s actions. As if that wouldn’t make him even angrier. His eyes fell towards his legs which were entirely wrapped in bandages that seemed to consume them. He willed for them to move, even if just a bit, but they refused.

           What little hope he had clung to disappeared. He had merely given life another method in which to torture him, perhaps permanently. “Don’t worry child, the recovery process is anywhere from nine months to a year; but look at you, you’ve healed so well in under a month. I have no doubt there is some divine intervention which has blessed you. You shall be up and running in no time.” With these words the nurse took her leave. Abandoning the two strangers to deal with their emotions and to bond over their future together. Both not being able to bear any more of the silence that kept overpowering the room, they spoke simultaneously- interrupting each other.

           “I’m sorry.”

           “Why’d you do it?”

           Two opposing statements which clearly defined their personalities. [y/n] gulped and hesitated slightly before answering. “Everyone deserves the chance to live -” Clear and precise, rehearsed as if you had been practicing the words for over a month. “Not me.” His tone was abrupt and empty. “Are you a bad person?” Was your reply, there was somewhat of sharpness in your tone. A lot better than her previous one, it piqued his interest. “Depends on your definition, sweetheart.” His head tilted slightly, and he openly stared at you. There was a pause before you responded.

           “Do you kill?”

           “Only myself.”

           “Do you steal?”

           “No.”

           “Do you hurt?”

           “twenty-four/ seven.”

           “Do you have the desire to do unspoken things to other people?”

           Only to you at this moment. “Depends on my mood.”

           “Then you aren’t a bad person, just a sad one.” Those words hurt him much more than the wounds scattered across his body. Before he could come up with a witty remark you spoke, “Sad people can be fixed, bad ones can’t. You looked like a sad person, so I helped you because it looked like no one would. It looked like you wouldn’t even help yourself.”

[viscontic]

So this one is dedicated to @kiruuuuu because I have been thoroughly inspired by their writing and although my writing pales in comparison to theirs, I still wanted to share. Thank you for all the work you put into your fics <3

 [Buck/Jackal ] probably rated T? - 1.7k words of angst. | Rook makes a mistake and Jackal suffers the consequences. 

"Do you regret it?"

The question hangs heavy in the air between them. It isn't accusing, or judging, or even angry. Just.. exhausted. Jackal stands at the window of the shared room, arms curled tightly around himself. The black bags outlined beneath his eyes is the only indication he lost any sleep. He still stands tall and proud, head held high, determined not to show any weakness at the hour he felt most vulnerable. Outside his window, all life is still. The birds had long since retreated and took their joyous songs with them. Leaves are turned over on their delicate stems. Grey streaks across the once blue sky, announcing their arrival with a thundering clap. It was a perfect reflection of the storm brewing within Jackal.

Rook stands on the threshold of the room. His head hangs low and his body trembles with silent tears. "I'm sorry, Ryad. Honest, I'm so sorry." Jackal knows it is somewhat unfair to blame the Frenchman. He knows the risks of the jobs they preformed. Buck knew the risk when he accepted the mission presented to him. "In and out, mon cheri," Buck had promised him with a soft smile and a reassuring squeeze of his hand when he voiced his concerns. "Have faith." There wasn't a doubt left in Jackal's mind.

Something went wrong, though. "Hurry," Buck hissed, taking the terrified hostage's upper arm and tugging him along. The tower was alive with war. The shouts of Team Rainbow and the White Masks echoed off the walls, drowning in the gunfire. Rook and Finka covered Buck while he adjusted the hostage over his shoulders. The man was frantically shaking his head, clinging to Buck, refusing to unclench his fists out of fear, yelling through the tape they had yet to remove from his mouth. Buck didn't have time to comfort the man, though, and hauled them both out the window. The line held fast and true. Without further delay, Buck began to climb the side of the tower with the hostage trembling on his back. Rook and Finka followed close behind.

Everything was muffled with the wind pushing against them. The French-Canadian soldier couldn't hear Rook's cries of warning.

Barely caught sight of the little white clicker that slipped from the hostage's hand.

Jackal remembers the weight of Doc's hand on his shoulder. The Spaniard felt his heart shatter and the world crumble away to darkness around him when Doc finally spoke. "The explosion was point blank. It would have been instantaneous. He didn't feel a thing." It was meant to reassure him, and yet.. "I am truly sorry, Ryad." The blank stare that answered his words was far too much for the doctor and he excused himself.

Now, Jackal turns to face Rook. How wrong he had been to hold the same faith he held for Buck to the others of Rainbow. He knows why Rook stands at his door, caught in his own silent battle. It had been late. Rook was tired. He simply wanted to finish so he could retire to a much needed rest. He should have looked closer. It was there, screaming at him in the form of little inky letters; A setup. More than just a rookie mistake. Buck is dead, and they both know who it is to bare the blame. Rook's face is a mess of tears and fear and guilt.

The funeral is a blur for Jackal. He hears the quiet murmuring and can feel the looks of sympathy burning holes in his soul. He hears the words they speak, offering sincere condolences. Outwardly, one might believe he was taking the whole situation surprisingly well. He sits slouched in his chair, but his eyes remain dry, albeit hazy and unfocused, staring straight ahead but not quite seeing. When it's his turn to speak, he recounts each memory he spent with Buck with a strong clear voice and his head his held high. On the inside, he breaks with each word he forces out. He spent so much time crying in the days leading up to this moment that he doesn't believe he could possibly shed more tears even if he wanted. His fingers tap on the podium. He avoids eye contact and instead opts to stare between the isles or at the paper between his fingers or anywhere that isn't Buck.

It's all surreal, and he's unsure of what to do with himself other than stare blankly at the engagement ring that adorns his finger. He gently twists it with his right hand and runs his finger over the simple band. A symbol of Buck's promise to always love him, in sickness and in health. To always cherish him.

Till death do them part.

"What the hell were you thinking?" Jackal barely reacts when Mira's hand slams into his shoulder and forces him to turn and look at her. "You could have been killed!" Her tiny face is alight with anger. Beneath that she hides her fear. Jackal has become reckless in the weeks after the funeral. He's sloppy when he checks his corners and on more than one occasion fails to clear a whole room. It put him at odds with Ying, who believes his careless behavior should have him removed from the team until he can clear his mind and realize he is risking more than himself.

The next thing she says breaks whatever is left of Jackal's heart. The wound left on his very soul is ripped open once more, and this time around, as Mira turns her back to him, he is left by himself to bleed and die. "I am glad Sebastien is not here to see you like this, mi hermano. How his heart would break.."

The range becomes Jackal's haven after his argument with Mira. He finds himself there in his free time, mindlessly shooting targets. His aim has gotten sloppy, and some of his shots miss the targets entirely. He doesn't stop, though. It becomes a repetitive task the slips past his thoughts and into his subconscious; Remove the empty magazine. Insert the next. Pull the slider. Fire. Reload. Fire.. Reload..

When he's not at the range, Jackal wanders the Hereford base. He appears less and less in the cafeteria until eventually he simply stops going, stops eating. He starts to drop weight. He rarely sleeps. Avoids contact with the other operators whenever he can. He's become a mere shadow of the man he was, and Mira finds herself afraid her brother-in-arms would never cope.

He's back at the range again. Another argument with Mira. It was common these days and it was tearing the GEO team apart. Fire. She said he couldn't be trusted. Fire. Claimed he was a danger to himself, to the team, to the operation as a whole. Fire. How dare she? Fire. Him, of all people, untrustworthy? Fire. He wasn't the one who slacked off. Fire. He wasn't the one that got Buck killed. Reload. Fire. There was blood on his hands, oh yes. Fire. He was ruthless, then and now, on the field. Fire.. He took the lives of many terrorist. Fire... There would be no room for him in heaven. Fire. But at least he could say he wasn't responsible for the death of one of their own.

Jackal pauses with his finger hovering over the trigger. It's the last round, the last magazine. His thoughts are ablaze with frustration, anger, and grief. He takes this moment now to stop and breathe. Turns the pistol over in his hand. It's a beautiful thing, with an ivory grip and well-polished sleek black barrel. It'd once been Buck's but was given to him as a gift shortly after their first date. Jackal had always treasured it but did so now more than ever. His last relic of Buck was both an image of beauty and destruction. Suddenly, a great calm settles over Jackal. Holding the pistol in his palm once more brings the answer to him. He should have seen it from the start. Mira was right, always had been. He is finally ready to heal. But first, the final shot. He takes aim just as he always did. There was no uncertainty left in his grip. Fire.

After her argument with Jackal, Mira seeks out Rook. He's no better off than Jackal is. The difference is he surrounds himself with his friends, seeks solstice in their words. He's fighting his own internal war and paying the price for his mistakes. Mira doesn't blame him. It was a mistake, yes, but what has been done is done, and no amount of wishing or 'what if's' was going to fix that. She knew this, and so did Rook. She seeks the man out. it's a conversation long overdue, but he takes it well.

"Please, Julien. Talk with him. He is hurting, and I think now you are the only one who can help him." Rook hasn't spoken to the Spaniard since delivering the news of Buck's death. He approached the man a time or two only to be brushed away, though he couldn't say he blamed Jackal. He was responsible for Buck's death. It was a tough pill to swallow, but he did it, and he paid his amends. There was still a loose end, though, and it was time for Rook to mend that, too. "Of course, Elena. I shouldn't have waited so long.." Mira sends him away to the range- no doubt Jackal would be there blowing off steam- with an understanding and relieved smile.

Rook swallows an assortment of emotions once he reaches the doors to the range. Anxiety, doubt, guilt, uncertainty. He reminds himself that this is to provide Jackal the closure he needs, to help both of them move past the loss of the departed beloved, to heal and continue to fight for what was right. Once he finds his resolve, he gives himself a tight determined nod and pushes his way inside.

He finds Jackal at the fifth stall on the right. The moment he spots the man, all of his doubts and worries flood back in an unstoppable torrent. As always, Jackal's ivory pistol is well groomed. If inspected under a microscope, Rook was sure he wouldn't find even the smallest speck of dirt. The man himself has a serene visage, as though he’d found what he needed to accept... everything.

And as Rook watches the fresh trickle of blood pool beneath Jackal's head, he realizes he killed more than just Buck that day on the tower.

[overdrivels]

Could I request the soulmate AU! where all your scars appear on your soulmates body and vice versa with soldier 76? He has some big ass scars

….oh my god, I thought my fucking heart stopped when I read this. That hurts. This reminds me of another fic that I read at some point on AO3 and I can’t seem to remember the name of it. 

This is going onto the angst train because while I love soulmate!AUs, they’re always going to be a point of angst for me. Sorry, I’m driving this train without a license, and you’re going for a ride.

Scarred for Life (Drabble)

Many people found their scars to be a blessing–a sign that their soulmate existed and that they’re not alone in this world, that there’s someone special out there who is destined to be there for them forever and share their pain. So, it’s easy to understand why people are so desperate to find their fated other. Some never do; it’s a fact of life.

To increase those chances, sites where people posted their scars are common–rampant, almost, everyone hoping to find their match. There’s even an international database that tries to connect you to people by using their interactive application–you select the body parts your scars are on and describe them, and then you’ll be matched with your most likely candidates. It is fairly successful (barring the fact that not all people used this database).

Scarification, in particular, is a common (but morally dubious) trend, people paying upward of thousands of dollars to create something unique on themselves and  soulmate (once a point idle daydreams, but now you regard with disgust)–you didn’t indulge in the practice, didn’t have to, not with the way your soulmate so recklessly decorated their body with various injuries.

In the past, you, too, had once been fascinated by this ever since that first scar on your knee that you knew was not your’s. But when the scars became more and more frequent and in more conspicuous locations, your idealization turned into sour irritation. 

‘You’re so lucky!’

‘At least you know your soulmate’s out there!’

‘Your soulmate must be so hardcore!’

You hated those sorts of words. They wouldn’t be saying it if they saw how systematically these scars took over your body: across your arms, your back, your chest, your face–you took to concealing them with make-up. No one could tell they existed. 

Worst of all were the ones that circled the entirety of your legs, an uneven and jagged ring around the top of your knees–you have asked doctors about them and they, in their all their professional wisdom, could only give you and your soulmate their sincerest condolences. 

You didn’t really have an appetite for the longest time after that, almost certain your soulmate was dead in some terrible accident. It wasn’t until you finally met him that you realized that he was, indeed, very much alive. 

Although, you’ve been long acquainted with the man, you just didn’t know it. 

Soldier: 76 wakes with a pounding headache and a sour taste in his mouth. Not unusual, but unexpected given that he doesn’t remember having been drunk in the past how many hours. (He doesn’t very much like drinking any more anyway. He metabolizes the alcohol too quickly for it to do anything other than dehydrate him.) 

How many hours indeed?

“Oh,” you breathe from across the tiny space, wide-eyed and looking like you’ve seen a ghost. The yellow of the fading biotic canister dances off your face, highlighting the shadows beneath your eyes, and makes you seem sicklier than you probably are.

Snapping back to the reality at hand, you repeat, “Oh!”

And then you’re in his space, skittish, appraising hands running restlessly over his face, his chest, arms. He hates your fussing, but the pain debilitates him. He hisses whenever you press against something painful, and then you’re babbling apologies and inquiries that sound like just plain gibberish to him.

“Stop that.” 

Your hands stop their roaming, but you smooth one over his forehead, thumb stroking the skin. It’s significantly cooler, clammy, even, but he leans up into it nonetheless. It keeps the throbbing at bay, if only a little bit.

“What happened?”

There’s a pregnant pause that makes his ears ring–he wonders if it’s Lucio’s favorite ailment–before you answer with a question of your own.

“What do you remember?”

He doesn’t want to think. “Not much.” A half-lie. He remembers the ambush, he remembers going off alone contrary to the orders from the lumbering scientist in his ear, he remembers the cave-in.

But he doesn’t know why you’re here. You should’ve been in the ship, securing the payload. So how is he with you right now in a space that is nothing resembling a carrier?

“When you went in after Talon, I followed because I had the most maneuverability and was available at the time,” you explain. “Winston didn’t want to leave you alone.” 

Soldier quietly curses the primate. It figures he’d be sentimental enough not to let him do anything alone. Especially not when he suspects his identity. 

His face screws up in pain–it is too much work to pretend that this doesn’t bother him. But your soothing motions help. He just wishes you’d stop looking at him like that. Pitying, like the way someone would look at an injured animal.

He closes his eyes hard.

But the image wouldn’t leave him mind, and he has to bite back a frustrated groan. He’s not supposed to be coddled by you. Or anyone for that matter. He’s too old, but not old enough to be considered senile or helpless. Far from it.

He coughs, and the pounding in his head gains vigor that the rest of his body is so devoid of. 

It takes a little long for him to register–he must’ve suffered a concussion or something–but you touched his face. His bare face. 

His mask, where is it? He shoots straight up with a harsh gasp, and snatches your wrist tight, partially because he’s not in the mood to indulge your roaming touches and because the pain forces him to use you to steady himself. 

“My mask.” 

“Ow.”

You wince and grit your teeth when his grip tightens. Soldier doesn’t care, not when you’ve seen something that he’ll have a hell of a time explaining to everyone. Yes, he’s entirely aware that the scars make his face a mess, but not any less recognizable to anyone born in the past thirty or so years. You don’t meet his gaze, shaking your head slowly, nodding at the heap of gnarled metal that barely resembles his protective cover at his feet.

“The mask was broken, 76. Had to get it off, it was crushing you–you couldn’t breathe.” 

That explains the pain in his face. 

“Agent.” His tone is harsh, low, the urgency clear--threatening. “You cannot tell anyone what you saw. You cannot tell anyone who I am.”

“No, 76, I–” 

The fact that you don’t call him ‘Jack’ isn’t lost on him. But he knows you recognize him.

“What?” It’s sharper than he intends, but he can’t take it back, not when you look frustrated enough to tear him a new one. You snatch your hands back, and he lets you, a small tinge of guilt thrumming through him. Undeniably, he overreacted as evident by the way you wring your hands. 

You’re looking left and right, occasionally flitting to his face before going back to looking around, searching for answers in the rubble surrounding you both. He knows you find none when you give a throaty cry of irritation, rubbing furiously at your face.

He watches you with heavy eyes. The frustration you must feel is understandable. A once-legendary hero suddenly appearing before you, living in squalor and the darkened life of a worthless vigilante. It’s a lot of information to take in, after all. He drops his gaze for a moment, sighing. Exhaustion and pain drags at him, willing to pull him under. 

“76...look at me.” 

He blinks, clearing his vision of the blurriness that occupied it. The sleeves of your clothes that you hold you in front of you are smeared in the color of your skin. He travels up those arms, confused, before he sees your face. 

Your head is raised sharply, resolute in your actions when you meet his eyes. 

The world stills.

He can’t breathe.

The pain and dizziness tosses his insides around, determined to stem his brain function and distract him from the truth before his eyes. 

The scars on your face look back at him, puckered and in stark contrast to the rest of your skin, rubbed raw. 

They’re the exact ones he sees when he passes a mirror with his mask off. The ones who lamented because he knows that if his soulmate existed, they’d be scarred for life, living in anxiety and fear. The ones he hides because he never wanted to meet you.

“…you’re…”

“Yes.” Your voice trembles, wet and borderline emotional. “Yes. I thought you were dead this whole time.” 

He’s at a loss for words. The hard ground beneath him wobbles like it’s going to give out underneath him. It must be the concussion. Your hands immediately on his shoulders keep him steady. He wants to throw up, and slaps your hands away. 

No, he can’t deal with this. Doesn’t deserve this. He has nothing to offer. He knows it’s the lifelong wish of every person--himself, included at one point--to meet their fated other half. A sign that they are not alone in the world, that their struggles do not have to be shouldered alone. 

But some things are better left alone. Like himself. You should not involve yourself with his all-consuming quest for answers. It’s not right. 

Undeterred, you turn his face toward you, forcing him to look at the scars that he indirectly inflicted upon you. You look exhausted, hopeful even, and Soldier’s chest constricts painfully. 

“I can’t--”

“76.” You cut him off firmly, but softly, as though already aware of what he wants to say. “Just go to sleep, we can talk about this later.” 

When he doesn’t want to sleep, but the exhaustion catches up quickly, yanking his eyelids close. He grumbles as you help him lay down again, displeased with the turn of events, especially with the ginger way you handle him. It might not be because he’s old or injured, but maybe there’s another reason now. 

When he wakes up, he knows he’ll have a soulmate to talk to, and potentially a lot of explaining to do. But knowing you, you probably wouldn’t let him do it alone.

[authoramandaleigh]

Talking About My Journey with Anxiety and OCD

I'm not good at sharing. I'm starting with that sentence so if this doesn't seem like I'm sharing much you know why. It doesn't come naturally to me. I tend to keep things close to the vest. Here's an example. When I'm in the hospital the only reason my friends and extended family find out is if my mom tells them. I might not even mention it after it happens. So they may never know if it weren't for someone else telling them. That's just the way I am. So to share is not a natural thing for me. Maybe this has to do with my social anxiety, I don't know. Anyway, I know that we as a society have such a hurtful stigma against mental illness. Just the term often brings about feelings of shame. I want to change that. I can't do it single handedly but I can be a part of it, I can help. And I think that helping starts with sharing my story. Even if it's just some of it. You have to start somewhere, right?

I know it looks like I'm choking my cat here, I'm not. hahaha. Just hugging him and having him protest. He actually lets me hug and cuddle and kiss him quite a bit and does the same to me quite often. What does this have to do with anything? Well, Sawyer (my cat) is something that helps me immensely. Just petting him and cuddling with him calms me down. Oh, how I love this little guy. <3

So, my mom says she noticed signs of my anxiety and OCD (which is technically an anxiety disorder) from the time I was quite young. I don't really remember doing anything compulsive when I was younger, but that may just be because it was normal to me.

Wait. Before we go on, let me put the definition of OCD right here:

"Obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD) is a  mental disorder in which people have unwanted and repeated thoughts,  feelings, ideas, sensations (obsessions), and behaviors that drive them  to do something over and over (compulsions).

Often the person  carries out the behaviors to get rid of the obsessive thoughts. But this  only provides short-term relief. Not doing the obsessive rituals can  cause great anxiety and distress."

This definition is taken from MedlinePlus. I include it because too many people believe that OCD only encompasses wanting things neat, orderly, tidy, et cetera. Like when you see someone line up their pencils in a perfect row. I'm not saying that isn't part of it I just want it to be clear that it is much different than what society tends to portray it as. A well known example would be someone who has to repeatedly wash their hands. For no apparent reason, they just keep washing. There are infinite numbers of compulsions, though. Counting is a popular one. And it's one that I share to a degree. Which I find sort of ironic because I hate math. (Just trying to diffuse a little humor...) My number of choice is 4. I count things in rounds of 4. Once I get to 4, I start again. I sometimes count my steps.

I prefer even numbers to odd. I find it hard to do anything in odd numbers. To give an example. the volume on the television. It has to be on an even number. If it starts on 26 I can't go up to 27, I have to turn it up to 28. Now, to throw a wrench in what I just said, there are exceptions to this even number rule of mine. One is if someone else puts the volume on an odd number. Then I don't have to change it because it wasn't me who did it. Something else, though. Well, it's hard to explain. There are certain odd numbers I'm okay with, but there are very specific reasons for it. The number 7, for example. I'm okay with that number. Why? Well, in history 7 is meant to be a powerful magical number. There are also 7 Harry Potter books. So, I'm okay with that one. There are others, too.

I'm not being neat and orderly isn't part of it for me. I do often have to straighten things out that are uneven. Like pencils. I fix the books on the shelves in Barnes and Noble. And I can't even tell you how many times I've said my room is messy and anyone there strongly disagrees and says it looks neater than their room ever has.

Trying to explain your compulsions to people, oh boy, is that a nightmare. Many people (including me) often try to hide these things, but sometimes it's just not possible because you HAVE to do it. You HAVE to. Why? Because if you don't, whatever the obsessive thought is will then happen. Does that make sense? No. And I'm well aware of that. But it's almost like two separate parts of my brain. Two separate voices. Two little beings on my shoulder. One telling me I don't have to and one telling me I need to, or else that thing will happen. The second voice tends to win out. What causes OCD? There's the kicker. We don't know yet. Here's another snippet from MedlinePlus.

"Health care providers do not know the exact cause of OCD. Factors that  may play a role include head injury, infections, and abnormal function  in certain areas of the brain. Genes (family history) seems to play a  strong role."

It's often infuriating. I think some people may be able to do the compulsion a certain number of times and then go on. With me, yes, a number comes into play but I have to do it right. If I don't, I need to repeat the compulsion over and over until I do get it right. What's worse? Usually, I'm not even sure what right means. Something in my brain just clicks to tell me that I got it right and then I can move on with my day. I have spent fairly significant amounts of time trying to get it right. As I said, infuriating. And to try to explain it...might be more infuriating because it's so hard to explain. But the jury is out on that.

That brings us to anxiety. General and Social Anxiety. The first panic attack I remember having I was seventeen. We were going to Florida. I was on an airplane. I'm terrified of flying. I started having a panic attack because it wasn't as if I could get off that plane, and I was stuck doing something that terrified me to the bone. Even just writing that brings up some of that panic in me.

Things went pretty well for a while. What's interesting is, looking back, it's quite possible I had smaller anxiety attacks in the years between this one and my next big one.

This panic attack took place in college. I was twenty-one, sitting in the library with a few friends. I'm not sure to this day what brought it on. I know that my friend brought me home. I thought maybe it was because of the people around but I'd been in the library countless times.

I also remember sitting in my Poetry class after having been in the hospital and starting to feel a panic attack come on. Shortness of breath, light headed, this feeling in my chest...it's so hard to describe, so hard to do justice to it. I got up and nearly ran outside to get fresh air. Mind you, it was February. I had on a sweatshirt but I had a coat, too because it was freezing. I didn't bring my coat with me, I needed that cold air hitting my skin.

In one of my Literature classes, I felt the symptoms come on once more. I got out of class as quickly as I could and locked myself in a bathroom stall to ride it out. I think I threw up that time, as well.

Another time, I didn't catch the symptoms in enough time to get away and ride it out. I'd just come back from the ladies room, I thought everything was fine. I sat down in my Spanish class and it came on quite suddenly this time. My Spanish professor noticed and came over to my desk. She picked up my things and told me to come with her to her office. I sat there with her and she actually told me to call someone to take me home, that was how bad it was.

Social Anxiety. This is something I remember having for well, as long as I can remember. I didn't call it social anxiety I just remember always being nervous around people. I most definitely still am and would usually prefer to be alone. Or just with a small group. Again, just thinking about this makes me a little nervous. Honestly, there are very few people I've never been nervous around. Even the people I love.

I think my General Anxiety and OCD have gotten a bit better. What's difficult is trying to pin point why, what did it. I think routine is a part of it, at least for my anxiety. A lot of the time, my anxiety would stem from being literally paralyzed by not knowing what to do first. To the point that I just did none of it. This did not work so well for me. With a routine, I know what to do when. Maybe it sounds restrictive but it's really not. It's not a down to the minute plan every minute detail routine. It gives me enough structure to know when I'm doing my morning ritual, when I'm setting up medicine for the night, when I'm working on content or when I'm writing or editing, when I'm off of work for the day. And it's not rigid, I honestly believe it's more about the order of the things.

My mindset is another thing. And I'm sure some of you are rolling your eyes. I get it. I don't think mindset can cure anxiety disorders like some people do but I DO believe that it can help. Having a morning ritual with some meditation (by the way, it's only 2-5 minutes), reading and journaling has honestly done wonders. I also do yoga nearly every day now.  I try to workout every day, too (and have been pretty consistent) but yoga is something I've grown to love. It's sort of another form of meditation. And carving out more time for writing my books is helping a lot. That's something I've quite recently started. I decided I was too focused on the media and not the writing. So I decided to change that and it's helped a lot. I mean, the writing is what I love to do. It's what I'm here to do.

Gratitude. Thinking about all the wonderful things and people I already have in my life. All the experiences. The books I've written, people I've met. The fact that I'm still here even though my doctors gave me until age sixteen when I was diagnosed with Nephropathic Cystinosis. I feel immensely grateful and I realize how amazing life is.

Trying to go easy on myself when I have a bad day. Sometimes it's going to happen. It'll be a struggle to get one thing done. Or even to get dressed. I'm making a more conscious effort not to beat myself up about it.

Music helps quite a lot. It's hard to be anxious belting out a song. Or if I am anxious (or irritable, etc.) by the middle of the song I'm usually fine. Reading, books, stories. Any type of storytelling helps. It always has. I'm quite attached to many fictional characters, as you know, but did you know those characters ease my anxiety and even my OCD at times?

I think over the past five years my anxiety and OCD has gradually gotten better. And in the last year I've seen myself make huge progress. It will never go away, and that is okay. It's a day to day thing. And I'm proud of how far I've come.

If you want to talk you can send me a message on Facebook, Instagram or through email. But remember, I am not a mental health professional. If you need to reach out to someone (and it is totally OKAY if you do) please look for someone in your area. Or, if you'd rather check into online counseling, BetterHealth is one site you could check out.

Here's a link to a free anthology where people write letters to their mental illnesses. It's a powerful book and it shows that you are not alone. Far from it.

[cathcacen]

Tethered

Still naming Learei drabbles after songs XD

Tethered by Sleeping at Last

“You'll be balance when i waver. I'll be warmth when you are shivering cold. You'll be patience when i've had enough of this waiting game. I'll be the anchor cast below.”

Lear misses a date, but also needs to make sure Rei knows he’s alive and well. Rei realises with a little sleuthing that she does, in fact, have the means to check on Lear.

He doesn’t show up. She spends the entire weekend in Santorini by herself, anxious and concerned; she doesn’t have a way to contact him, nor does she think he'd appreciate having his focus broken by something as trivial as a date. Especially if he’s been called away so suddenly he can’t even get word to her.

It has to be something important, she tells herself. I hope he's okay.

By the time she gets back to her apartment, she's come up with at least seven different scenarios for why he hadn't showed up. The first is the most terrifying - that Sagen could be lying dead somewhere, and she would have no way of ever finding out.

She doesn’t want to think on that, so she concentrates on her unpacking. Despite the anxiety bubbling inside, she’d made the rounds of the island on a rental moped, trying out the local cuisine and chatting with some other tourists. She’d bought some local souvenirs for Sagen - Greek spice rub, thyme honey, fresh baklava, and a jar of luscious, fat Kalamata olives. There are some photographs of the villa they had rented - whitewashed with a bright blue domed ceiling, square windows, and a soft, baby blue door that opened onto a sunny balcony overlooking the glimmering sea.

The movies don’t do the island justice.

She puts aside Sagen’s souvenirs and finishes off with her unpacking and laundry. Her flight had put her back home with plenty of time to spare, so she’s just wondering what to do for dinner when a soft knock brings her to the door.

Sagen is standing there when she throws it open, at once sheepish and apologetic. “Sorry I didn’t call.”

She lets out a breath, and can’t muster up the energy to be angry. Relief floods her senses, and she throws her arms around him, burying her face into the crook of his neck and shoulder.

There are words that linger at the tip of her tongue, begging to be said - thank goodness you’re safe. I missed you. I was so worried about you.

Instead, she chuckles, the sound coming out less convincing than she would’ve preferred. “It’s okay, I got the bed all to myself.”

He grins broadly at her, and she steps aside to let him in. Only then does she see the paper bag he’s holding, the cork of a wine bottle only just visible from the top. “I’m sure you made the most of everything we’d planned. Did you see Nea Kameni?”

“Yes, and I took some photos for you too.” Out of habit, she glances out, checking that the corridor is empty before closing and bolting the door. “I wanted to go to Therasia for the hot springs, but I ran out of time.”

Sagen finds the stemmed wine glasses in her cabinets with ease, then sets about uncorking the bottle. She recognises the label from her second night in Greece - a light, tangerine-and-flower white. “We’ll go together next time.” He hands her a glass, clinking the mouth of his glass to hers.

“Exactly how did you get a Moshcofilero if you weren’t even in Greece, hm?” She peers at him, but takes a sip anyway. It’s as delicious as she remembers.

“I know a guy.”

“You know many guys.”

He gives her a smug sort of smile as he takes a seat on one of her bar stools. She rolls her eyes, but goes to him anyway. “This one in particular has a taste for uncommon wines. I was going to bring you to taste this label, but it would appear you’ve already had some.”

“Not my fault you booked us that wine-tasting daytrip and failed to show up for it.” She swirls the wine in her glass, then takes another sip. “I got you some food, anyway. It’s good you showed up before the baklava went bad.”

Sagen squeezes her briefly before turning around, reaching for his paper bag. “I can’t stay long, but I brought dinner. You hungry?”

She watches as he pulls out an assortment of fillets - whitefish and shellfish, and a few small boxes of assorted salad greens. It’s his way of making up for lost time, she knows - charm and apology in one. He’s done it before.

She falls for it every time. “Starving.”

It’s a slow day; she’d spent it updating the files of her current patients on the encrypted server where the medical histories of military personnel were stored for easy access. She’d brought a leftover piece of baklava - the last - back to base. It’s all but lost its crispness by now, but it’s no less tasty and the memory of Sagen cutting into it brings a smile to her face.

He’d cooked them up a delicious dinner, and they’d eaten it outside in the balcony. She’d showed him the pictures, from the volcano to the marketplaces and temples and vineyards - then they’d deleted them, out of habit. While she cleaned up after, he’d dug into her cupboards for the artisanal spiced tea she kept around for him, sweetening the pot with the Grecian honey after. Then they’d lounged about for a little while before he’d had to leave.

Got somewhere else to be, he’d said. She’d recognised the shit-eating grin.

Something clicks inside as she chews and swallows. Throughout the course of the night before, it had been clear that Sagen was favouring his right side. He’d hidden it well enough, but there was a wince, a bit of a grunt, when she’d hugged him too tightly - and then again when she’d nuzzled into his side post-dinner.

Out of respect and a desire to let him play out his planned show, she’d neglected to ask.

But that doesn’t mean I can’t look into it. She washes down the last of the baklava with her coffee, then types his name into the page. The history she’s after is password protected, but she’s been listed as Sagen’s primary doctor in the military since before his four-month hospital stint, so her passkey gets her through with no red flags raised. A cursory glance at the latest updates show he’s mostly had minor procedures done at her base - stitches, overnight observation, antibiotics for infection, and a case of mild pneumonia that had resulted in a week of infirmary time with lots of chicken alphabet soup.

He’d spelled out the silliest things with his pasta. Elevator. Spidermonkey. Ice cream. Steak sauce. Limoncello. Cicero.

The last one had had the entire infirmary in stitches. Enema.

She scrolls down to the very end of the page and reads through the latest notes. Her breath hitches and she has to stop herself from crying out.

Sagen had gotten into trouble after all. The new notations are the work of a civilian General Surgeon - a certain Doctor Schaefer, currently employed in the hospital nearby her apartment in town. She grits her teeth, swearing through them. GSW through the left side - there had been no injury to his vital organs, but the bullet had lodged itself in one of his metal ribs. The fool had gone and gotten himself shot, admitted, and into surgery during her flight to Santorini.

She’s not even surprised.

Damn it, Sagen.

There’s a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach that corresponds with the feeling of bereftness coupled with genuine terror. For one brief moment, her mind slips into the dark place - one where she opens Sagen’s chart to find out he’s dead. She shakes away the thoughts and gulps down more water - her mouth has gone dry, and she’s suddenly very aware that it could happen for real. And beneath the underlying thread of terror is the realisation that he had snuck out of the hospital to see her.

She doesn’t even know whether to be touched or angry, and settles on exasperated. According to the records, Sagen is meant to stay in the hospital for another two days, so she packs up her things, clocks out for the day, and takes a bus downtown to ‘check on her patient’.

A few nurses at the hospital are familiar with her, so none of them question her presence there. She makes her way to Sagen’s private room without much trouble. He jumps when she strides in, with all the grace of a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar, but recovers spectacularly.

“Tah dah!” His voice is light, the words coming out in a sing-song manner as he opens up his hands and arms. As if he’d meant all along to be found in all his hospital-bound glory.

“How the hell did you manage to get out of a camera-filled hospital with a gunshot wound to the chest?” She shuts the door and closes the blinds, then sits on the chair beside his bed, scowling.

Sagen chuckles heartily; he doesn’t look at all unhappy to have been found out. If anything, he actually looks pleased for the company. “The same way I managed to cook you dinner and give you snuggles after.” He pauses for dramatic effect. “Determination and painkillers.”

“You could’ve just called.”

“But then the baklava would’ve gone bad.”

She levels a flat look at him, and he grins back at her. “It’s not funny, you idiot. You could’ve torn your stitches open.”

“Good thing I was going to see a doctor, then.” Sagen drums his fingers lightly upon his sheets, then reaches out to brush her cheek with his fingertip. “Come on, give me some credit - I didn’t want you to worry.”

“Some things can’t be helped.” She puffs up her cheeks, grumbling. “But how would you like it if I just didn’t show up one day? And then you come home from Alexandria or something to find out I’d gotten shot and didn’t tell you.”

“That wouldn’t have happened.” Sagen’s smile takes on a lighter cast. They always keep it light, even when they’re discussing heavier subjects. It makes it easier to pretend. “Because I’d want to find you and steal you away anyway, so chances are I’d be able to prevent your getting shot.”

She leans back in her chair with a sigh. “Have I ever mentioned how unfair it is that you know exactly how and where to find me, whereas I literally have no idea when I’ll see you again?”

He lays back against his pillows, his eye softening for only a brief moment before the careless, good-natured cheer returns. “You found me today, though.”

“Yes. Yes, I did.” She meets his eye. You’ll find me, and I’ll find you. “And now I’ll know where to look if you don’t show up again.” She has to admit it’s a pretty convenient trick - one she’d overlooked before. “That’s if I can count on all the other doctors you’re seeing to be accurate with their charting.”

Sagen quirks a smile. “Well, if they’re all as reliable as my cute lady doc, I’d say you’re all set.”

“Sure.” She rolls her eyes, but can’t help the smile that breaks forth. Reaching into her bag, she pulls out a foil-wrapped sandwich and hands it to him before getting to her feet. “Try not to sneak out again.”

He takes the sandwich gleefully, then pulls her down for a quick peck on the lips. “No promises. Stay out of trouble, Naveau.”

[hellosaltysaladcollectionstuff]

PAIN IS AN EVERYDAY THING for Sally Rooney’s characters. Frances, the protagonist of Rooney’s 2016 debut novel, Conversations with Friends, suffers from endometriosis, her body frequently wracked to the point that she loses consciousness. After traumatic experiences — a visit to a callous doctor’s office, bad sex with a bad date — she levies small, precise attacks on her own body: pinches “on the soft part” inside her elbow, scratches she lets bleed for a three-count before “carefully” bandaging them.

In her new work, Normal People, due out in the United States in April, pain comes in the form of depression and masochism. When Connell, one half of the couple at the novel’s center, fills out the intake form at a campus mental health clinic, he reads a prompt — “I feel my future is hopeless and will only get worse” — and finds that “its syntax seems to have originated inside him.” Marianne, Connell’s on-again-off-again lover, often seeks sexual partners willing to damage her, not because she likes the feeling but because “it relieves her somehow.”

Rooney’s attentiveness to physical suffering is in some ways incongruous with her novels’ other concerns. Praised in The New Yorker as a “psychological portraitist,” she makes Austenesque drama from how her smart yet uncertain young characters come into understanding of others and themselves. In Conversations with Friends — part bildungsroman, part adultery novel, part wry takedown of moneyed intellectuals — Frances’s willingness to take on complicated but meaningful relationships coincides with her recognition of her own principles. Told exclusively via Frances’s rapid, clinical narration, the novel sets her involvement with Nick and Melissa, an actor and his well-connected writer wife, against her bond with best friend Bobbi, an ex and an intellectual soulmate. Frances initially assumes that Nick, as handsome as “an advertisement for cologne,” has too much social capital to share her own sense of vulnerability, an outlook that likewise shades how she relates to Melissa and Bobbi, who are both wealthy and outwardly confident. When Frances starts amending her wrongs, she does so by trying to separate who she’s thought these people to be from who they actually are. “You’re not just an idea to me,” she writes to Bobbi. “If I’ve ever treated you like that I’m sorry.”

This kind of perspectival struggle is likewise at the center of Normal People, though here it becomes even more acute. As it traces Connell and Marianne’s relationship from the point they meet as teenagers (he’s the son of her family’s cleaning woman) through college in Dublin to early adulthood, the novel leapfrogs forward at abrupt intervals. Chapter titles orient us with the time that has passed since we last saw the characters and the current month and year (e.g., “Three Months Later [November 2011]”). This device gives each scene a present-tense urgency while at the same time leaving major events — betrayals, departures — to be told only in retrospect, first from one character’s perspective and then sometimes from the other’s, a divide that underscores the distance that persists between them even when at their most intimate. When, for example, we discover that Connell and Marianne have broken up after a brief, happy college romance, Marianne presents the collapse as the product of Connell’s disregard, while for Connell it’s an involuntary calamity, a by-product of his embarrassment about their class difference. Unable to afford to stay in Dublin over the summer, he pulls away from Marianne when he means to ask if he can crash in her apartment. Even as he’s doing so, he can’t understand how it’s happening: “It was too late to say he wanted to stay with her, that was clear, but when had it become too late?”

Restrained but precise, such scenes place Rooney among a cadre of authors who have renewed the realist novel by doubling down on its capacity for rich psychological description. Like autofictionists such as Ben Lerner, Sheila Heti, and Karl Ove Knausgaard, Rooney paints fine-grained portraits of emotional and intellectual experiences — particularly ambivalence, regret, and anxiety — that produce a realism specific to the post–Great Recession world. While for the autofictionists this realism is of a piece with their subversion of novelistic artifice — made-up characters, structured plots — Rooney makes such subversion feel unnecessary. Conventional novelistic interiority proves malleable and capacious enough as it is.

But it’s Rooney’s attentiveness to pain that not only distinguishes her from these peers but also makes her novels feel, despite their homage to 19th-century authors like Austen, strangely more contemporary. In The Body in Pain: The Making and Unmaking of the World (1985), essayist and academic Elaine Scarry writes, “Physical pain happens […] not several miles below our feet or many miles above our heads but within the bodies of persons who inhabit the world through which we each day make our way.”

For Scarry, pain brings about an “absolute split between one’s sense of one’s own reality and the reality of other persons.” In Rooney’s novels, though, this split is a preexisting condition, a product of social circumstances as much as of personal experience. Pain is a way of drawing our attention to our isolation and forcing us to think about its causes.

That Rooney frequently links sex and pain isn’t incidental. Both experiences solicit intimacy (pain often leaves us dependent upon others) while at the same time revealing how isolated we can feel in and from our bodies. After Frances has profoundly lonely sex with Nick, which she describes with characteristic detachment (“In bed he went on top and we didn’t make eye contact very much”), she feels like “a damaged person who deserved nothing” and asks Nick to hit her. He refuses and asks why she’s crying. The tears are news to Frances: “It was just something my eyes were doing while we were talking.” In Normal People, too, Marianne asks to be hit as a way to confirm her status as “something unrecognizably debased.” For these characters, the desire to be hit is a perverse request for recognition, for confirmation that someone else considers them as damaged and damageable as they consider themselves, and thus deserving of pain’s quarantine.

Pain’s resistance to linguistic representation is one of its hallmarks. When Emily Dickinson attempted to describe it, she did so by writing around it, delimiting its void:

Pain has an Element of Blank

It cannot recollect When it began — or if there were A time when it was not —

It has no Future — but itself —

Scarry, too, captures this quality. “Pain comes unsharably into our midst as at once that which cannot be denied and that which cannot be confirmed,” she writes. It’s a strange subject for a novelist, then, but Rooney uses it to mark the horizon of her characters’ self-knowledge. All her protagonists wield language skillfully. Both Conversations with Friends and Normal People feature preternaturally talented writers (Rooney herself is 28) and teem with written communication in the form of texts and emails. In a paradox known to anyone who has ever reveled in a never-ending text conversation, intimacy and understanding can feel easier to generate at writing’s remove. It’s in their written exchanges that characters seem most at home with themselves.

But pain, as Dickinson observed, insists on immediacy. For characters like Frances, Connell, and Marianne this immediacy can feel welcome, as when Frances pinches her elbow for a respite from her churning intellect. But it’s also part of how pain obscures its own root cause. Conversations with Friends and Normal People both suggest that depression stems not just from the body but also from the omnipresent social conditions of the person inhabiting it. “Depression is a humane response to the condition of late capitalism,” Frances tells Nick upon learning he sees a psychiatrist. It’s a glib response she’s repeating from Bobbi, but it captures something important about Nick’s sense of purposelessness. For Connell, too, depression seems to “descend on him from the outside,” Rooney writes,

rather than emanating from somewhere inside himself. Internally, he felt nothing. He was like a freezer item that had thawed too quickly on the outside and was melting everywhere, while the inside was still frozen solid. Somehow he was expressing more emotion than at any time in his life before, while simultaneously feeling less, feeling nothing.

An interface between the person and the world, the body registers what the mind can’t tolerate. In another scene, Connell and Marianne reflect on “the precise historical moment that they are currently living in, the difficulty of observing such a moment in process.” They can’t observe it, but they feel it, again and again. There’s a claustrophobia-inducing quality to Normal People’s meticulous delineation of its protagonists’ emotional lives that’s simultaneously exclusionary — the book’s other characters are always on the fringes and strangely flat. But this is appropriate somehow, a way of depicting how it feels for the protagonists to live in a world that continually frustrates their attempts at comprehension and engagement.

In a 2017 interview in The Irish Times, Rooney describes wanting to use her fiction to think about “questions that I feel we haven’t necessarily got the theory to deal with yet,” such as the limitations of feminism when addressing power imbalances in our personal lives. Her novels suggest that she is thinking broadly about the disjuncture between our politics and our daily experiences. Understanding the inequity of our “precise historical moment,” much like understanding the causes of our pain, is not the same as knowing how to stop it. Indeed, it can make our experience even more distressingly acute.

We often rope the depiction of pain in literature to ideas about empathy, valorizing it for the way it allows readers to get a sense of other people’s struggles and so come to understand them (and themselves) better. Rooney’s novels are ambivalent about such notions. Normal People’s Connell continually wrestles with just what kind of understanding literature offers him. On one hand, reading Austen’s Emma, he finds himself believing, “the same imagination he uses as a reader is necessary to understand real people also, and to be intimate with them.” Later, though, after attending a famous author’s reading, he’s repulsed by the way literature can function as “class performance,” thinking, “[It’s] fetishized for its ability to take educated people on false emotional journeys, so that they might afterwards feel superior to the uneducated people whose emotional journeys they liked to read about.”

What’s the difference between imagination that yields understanding and imagination that results in a “false emotional journey”? Maybe nothing but the reader’s own intentions.

Depictions of pain, then, serve as a kind of litmus test in Rooney’s work. To imagine what pain feels like is to bump up against what you can’t know. Only the callow and self-deceiving think that its fictional representation is anything like the real thing. Perhaps it’s by accepting the not-knowing that we get closest to her characters and their precise historical moment. Perhaps, too, it’s how we feel the truth of our own.

¤

Anna E. Clark is an assistant professor of 19th-century literature at Iona College in New Rochelle, New York.

The post Damaged Intimacies: Sally Rooney’s “Normal People” appeared first on Los Angeles Review of Books.

from Los Angeles Review of Books https://ift.tt/2urGq5m

[onceajayhawkalwaysajayhawk]

Linda Ellis-Sims

Dr. E.L. Saunders started to grow anxious. He had a patient in labor, but the veteran practitioner’s anxiety did not stem from her. It originated from the tickets in his pocket and grew stronger with the ticking of the clock. Finally, at 10 in the morning, a beautiful baby girl was introduced into the world. As the parents took their new child home, Dr. Saunders raced from Independence, Missouri to Lawrence, Kansas. The KU alum settled into his seat at Memorial Stadium just as Kansas kicked off against the No. 1-ranked Oklahoma Sooners on a sunny October Saturday in 1956.

Though Kansas lost to eventual undefeated national champion Oklahoma, 34-12, the Jayhawks gained an important victory for the program, just not in Lawrence. It was a victory aided by Dr. Saunders, who had delivered a baby named Linda Ellis, now Linda Ellis-Sims, just in time to make it to the football game. Just like she helped her doctor make it to KU by game time with her timely birth, Ellis-Sims has dedicated her life to supporting the University of Kansas and Kansas Athletics and helping Jayhawks navigate their way to their nest in Lawrence.

Ellis-Sims spent her childhood in Independence, Missouri. Though her parents did not attend college themselves, they always placed a priority on education. Ellis-Sims gained an appreciation for math and science while achieving academic success in high school. An athlete in high school, Ellis-Sims also developed a strong passion for sports. Both of her interests factored into her decision to attend the University of Kansas.

“When I was getting out of high school I thought I wanted to be a chemistry major,” she said. “Somebody suggested chemical engineering and I thought that I could try that since the job market was so much better for engineers than chemistry majors. Kansas had a great engineering program and if I didn’t like engineering they had a great business school, a chemistry major, anything else I could’ve chosen was there. It was an hour from home and travel was super easy. The thing that really sold me on it was the chance to swim for KU. Back then there were no scholarships (for women’s swimming) but it was still a chance to be competitive and swim on a team.”

What sealed the deal for Ellis-Sims was a trip to Robinson Natatorium. The ceramic Jayhawk overlooking the diving well impressed a teenaged Ellis-Sims enough to persuade a commitment out of her.

“The big tile Jayhawk is just fabulous,” said Ellis-Sims. “It was the coolest thing I’d ever seen.”

Ellis-Sims would see the Jayhawk adorning Robinson Natatorium many times during her freshman and sophomore years after she joined the inaugural Kansas women’s swimming and diving team. A true student-athlete, Ellis-Sims balanced the demands of the swim team while majoring in chemical engineering. During both of her two years on the swim team, the Jayhawks finished first in the Big Eight Conference under head coach Clair McElroy. Ellis-Sims contributed on the relay teams and swam  the 200-yard butterfly, in which she left the team as the school record holder.

“You can have a school record when it’s the first year of the program and no one wants to swim the 200 butterfly,” said a chuckling Ellis-Sims.

The introduction of scholarship student-athletes to the women’s swimming and diving program after Ellis-Sims’ second year forced her to evaluate her status on the team. Though she thoroughly enjoyed her time on the team, Ellis-Sims decided it would be better to shift her focus to her studies. She would continue her involvement in Kansas Athletics, though, as a photographer.

“(Former Kansas linebacker) Terry Beeson studied petroleum engineering,” Ellis-Sims said. “After I quit swimming, I did a lot of photography because there was lab in the engineering building you could use to develop your photos. Terry gave me sideline access at football games. It was a lot of fun hanging out and doing that.”

As she transitioned into an upperclassman, Ellis-Sims discovered a new passion that would alter the direction of her career. She found her passion sitting in Summerfield Hall, which at that time was KU’s business building.

“Somewhere around my sophomore year I realized I really liked business because I was in a class with discounted cash flows, internal rate of return, etc., and I really liked it,” said Ellis-Sims. “I looked at the economics of switching into business, and it would have been the worst business decision I could have made.”

Ellis-Sims stuck with chemical engineering, keeping an eye on career opportunities that would allow her to fulfill her passion for business and finance. When she graduated, she found that her chemical engineering degree from KU opened countless doors for her within chemical engineering and beyond. Ellis-Sims decided to start her career at the oil and gas giant ExxonMobil.

“One of the things I liked best about (ExxonMobil) was that you had to have an engineering background because you worked a lot with refining and chemical processes,” she said. “You needed it so that you could translate what was happening with the plant operations to customers, who were also engineers, as well. It was a unique opportunity to blend my engineering background with my passion for business.”

Starting her career as a sales representative and working her way up to a global account executive in charge of North American Base Oil sales, Ellis-Sims demonstrated the skills she developed as a student-athlete at Kansas on her way to building a successful 33-year career at ExxonMobil.

“The focus you had to have just to get everything done, all the things you hear athletes, later in life, say really helped them learn how to balance work, academics and athletics,” Ellis-Sims said. “I learned a lot of great skills like that, which turned out to be beneficial.”

Ellis-Sims’ position required her to travel quite a bit, something she took a liking to and would incorporate into her later life. One of her extended stops was in Memphis, where she obtained a Master’s degree in Finance, Insurance and Real Estate from Memphis State University, currently known as the University of Memphis. Despite her degrees from the two schools, Ellis-Sims makes it clear there was undoubtedly only one she was rooting for in the 2008 men’s basketball national championship game, the Kansas Jayhawks.

Throughout Ellis-Sims’ travels, she has always maintained a connection to Lawrence. Whether through the KU Alumni Association, the School of Engineering Advisory Board, K Club or the Williams Education Fund, Ellis-Sims has regularly found ways to give back to the university she loves so much. She has also spent time on various other boards affiliated with KU dedicated to everything from chemical and petroleum engineering to KU’s diversity on campus. For her efforts in forwarding the university, Ellis-Sims received the highest honor given by the KU Alumni Association, the Fred Ellsworth Medallion, in 2011.

“Coming from my background where neither of my parents went to school, there are so many first-generation students today who we’ve been able to help get some scholarships,” said Ellis-Sims. “It’s been fun to be able to participate and serve on different boards, whether it be the School of Engineering or Endowment, as long as I can be a contributor and help move KU forward.”

Anyone who meets Ellis-Sims would agree that her passion for the University of Kansas is infectious. No one knows that better than her husband, Russ Sims. Through their shared interests of college sports and traveling, Ellis-Sims was able to convert her husband into a die-hard Jayhawk fan. The pair spent the beginning of their marriage in Houston and made many trips over the years to Lawrence to watch football and basketball games, occasionally making the trips on motorcycles.

“We met while we were riding motorcycles,” Ellis-Sims said. “He was always a college sports fanatic, particularly basketball. If I was on my own in Houston, it would have been hard to make it to Lawrence for as many games as I did. The fact that he likes it so much, we went ahead and kind of planned our lives around KU sports. He loves KU and wears the Jayhawk really well.”

Together, Ellis-Sims and her husband have gone on some incredible trips on their journey to support Kansas Athletics. Ellis-Sims counts the 2008 Final Four in San Antonio, the 2008 Orange Bowl in Miami and the 2015 World Games in South Korea among her favorite travels. An avid supporter of all KU teams, Ellis-Sims has been able to show her support for KU’s other teams since her move back to Independence nine years ago and her retirement five years ago. Like a true Jayhawk, she made sure to time her retirement to occur right before the 2012 NCAA Tournament so that she could devote the first month of her golden years to Kansas basketball.

Fans of all of Kansas’ teams have probably seen Ellis-Sims at a Kansas Athletics event. In addition to watching games in Lawrence, Ellis-Sims has also made it a point to travel with as many teams as she can. This past academic year has seen her travel to Stetson University in DeLand, Florida to support the softball team and walk with the men’s golf team in Palm Desert, California.

Ellis-Sims’ passion for Kansas has permeated all facets of campus. From athletics to academics to campus life, Ellis-Sims has affected almost every aspect of the KU experience. The Class of ’79 alum has been thrilled to see the evolution of the university and is excited by the plethora of construction projects on campus.

“It’s unbelievable what KU has been able to accomplish under Chancellor (Bernadette) Gray-Little, a lot of it funded by philanthropic gifts that KU Endowment is charged with raising,” Ellis-Sims said. “A lot of people believe the university is heading in the right direction and are willing to give up their money to make that happen. The new business school is phenomenal and we have top-ranked programs in so many places. It’s amazing to see.”

A particular area of focus for Ellis-Sims has been helping both students and student-athletes receive financial aid to attend KU. She knows the value of a degree from the University of Kansas and is determined to help as many people as she can reap the benefits of being a Jayhawk.

“I think KU gave me the life experience, with athletics being a big part of it, to be successful in the world,” explained Ellis-Sims. “I use that every day and that’s what allowed me to accomplish what I have in life. If I can do anything to help future students, that’s behind my motivation to take what KU gave me and pay it forward.”

Just like she did with her first breaths, taken with just enough time for Dr. Saunders to rush to Memorial Stadium, Ellis-Sims’ life has been dedicated to helping people find their way to Lawrence and becoming what she believes to be the best thing on earth, Jayhawks.

Once a Jayhawk, Always a Jayhawk

[wallythayer]

The New Science of Concusssions

More than three years later, Amy Zellmer can still recall the sound of her head hitting the frozen concrete. She slipped on ice near her St. Paul, Minn., home in February 2014, and that noise signaled a change in her life that resonates even today.

“It happened just like that!” she says, snapping her fingers. “I imagine I looked like Charlie Brown.”

Zellmer landed on the back of her head and estimates she was knocked out for a minute or two. When she stood up, she realized something wasn’t right. She was dizzy, wobbly, sick to her stomach. “It was like little lightning bolts going off in the -corners of my eyes — the proverbial ‘seeing stars.’”

She realized she needed to go to the ER, but when she tried to locate the nearest hospital on her computer, she couldn’t read the screen: “That’s when I knew I had a problem.”

So she telephoned a neighbor, who soon arrived and soothed the bump on Zellmer’s head with a package of frozen peas. The neighbor then asked the time-tested question, “Who’s the president?” Zellmer answered “Bill Clinton” — two presidents off. A friend’s husband happened to be a chiropractic neurologist and he immediately made time to see her at his office. He told Zellmer she had suffered a concussion and major whiplash, including torn muscles and a dislocated sternum.

The stars disappeared in a couple of days, but effects of the fall lingered. Zellmer experienced aphasia and short-term memory lapses. She got lost while driving. She struggled to concentrate and tired easily. Dizziness made her head spin. Strange mood swings disrupted her days.

“It was like I had been on a boat for a long time, or had just taken off roller skates, and I still felt like I was moving. It was constant, like I was drunk all the time.” Other days, it seemed she had an evil head cold and was lost in a never-ending fog.

Zellmer, now 43, saw several doctors, ophthalmologists, and other specialists over the next two years. Nothing seemed to help. She was finally referred to a craniosacral therapist, who gently massaged her scalp. After a couple of treatments, she remembers hearing a distinct noise in her head and feeling a huge sense of relief. That sound signaled a release of pressure, which instantly cleared her fogginess. (For more on craniosacral therapy, see below.)

Still, Zellmer’s cognitive issues endured. She consulted a neurologist, who referred her for a four-hour exam: She scored worse than a dementia patient. A neuropsychologist prescribed Ritalin and antidepressants, but Zellmer refused to take them, viewing the pills as Band-Aids for the real problem. Whatever that real problem was.

The Invisible Disability

Seeing stars. Getting your bell rung. A knock on the noggin. In the not-so-distant past, we shrugged off head injuries with quaint euphemisms — a cute way of skirting the seriousness of a traumatic brain injury, or TBI.

These days, the medical world takes TBIs seriously, as we now know that seeing birdies is more dangerous than we ever imagined. The far-reaching and seemingly disparate health effects of TBIs can include cognitive problems, coordination dysfunction, hormonal disruption, digestive issues, and mood disorders. At the same time, we’re learning more about how to treat TBIs and their repercussions.

TBIs cover a spectrum of severity, from subconcussive to concussive (which account for 70 to 90 percent of all cases) to fractured skulls and worse, explains Vani Rao, MD, a Johns Hopkins University School of Medicine neuropsychiatrist, in The Traumatized Brain.

The brain is jarred in a concussion. It accelerates forward, crashing into the skull (known as a coup injury), then it often bounces back and hits the rear of the skull (contrecoup). Sometimes, it twists atop the brain stem as well.

Contrary to common perception, you don’t actually have to hit your head to get a concussion: It can result from whiplash, or even from the shock waves of an explosion, like those that troops experience in combat. This can lead to or exacerbate PTSD, according to a recent study.

A TBI can harm the brain in numerous ways. It may cause bleeding (an intracranial hemorrhage) or create a blood pool or clot (a hematoma); the brain tissue itself may be bruised or torn. These injuries can then put pressure on the brain, resulting in harmful inflammation.

It can also cause oxygen deprivation, leading to the death of brain cells, and twisting on the brain stem might result in vestibular or endocrine issues. In addition, a TBI can damage the axon fibers that carry messages between different parts of the brain.

The effects might be subtle or dramatic, singular or myriad:

• Physical conditions, such as headaches, seizures, hearing loss, and vision issues, including seeing double, blurriness, eyestrain, light sensitivity, and depth-perception dysfunction.

• Hormonal disruption resulting in blood-sugar dysregulation and emotional problems, such as depression, anxiety, mania, or apathy.

• Digestive issues, including microbial changes, motility problems, and increased gut permeability.

• Behavioral upsets like sleep disturbances, impulsivity, aggression, even psychosis.

• Cognitive issues including problems with attention, memory, language, and executive functions, such as organizing, planning, sequencing, and monitoring or modifying behavior.

“Most people with mild TBI make a spontaneous recovery within the first few months of injury,” Rao explains. “But mild brain injuries are not always benign.

“Traumatic brain injuries are, in a sense, a silent epidemic, because often, after persons with TBI have been treated in the emergency department or released from the hospital, family members or friends may assume that they are now ‘fixed.’ There may be no physical evidence of injury, so it is easy for others to believe that everything is back to normal. Unfortunately, that is often not the case, especially with more severe injuries.”

Accurately determining how many head injuries Americans sustain each year is difficult because many of us don’t visit a doctor after hitting our heads. Still, the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC) estimates that Americans suffer between 1.6 million and 3.8 million sports- and recreation-related concussions annually. This discrepancy is huge because so many TBIs are never reported.

But those statistics don’t reveal the true scope of the issue for one crucial reason: While sports-related TBIs get the spotlight, they account for a minority of all head injuries. Forty-seven percent of all TBIs are the result of everyday falls, according to the CDC. These incidents are especially prevalent among the elderly; a new CDC study finds that one in 45 people age 75 and older suffers a fall and TBI.

Innocuous falls happen to all of us in daily life as we slip on stairs, trip over rugs, tumble from ladders, or stumble while carrying items when we can’t see where we’re going.

Because of these everyday head injuries, an estimated 5.3 million Americans are currently living with a lifelong disability — that’s roughly one in every 60 people. TBIs also account for 30 percent of all injury-related deaths.

The fact that there’s no clear count of head injuries suggests we’re still largely in the dark concerning their dangers. Public awareness is growing, however, thanks — ironically, as it turns out — to one source: The National Football League (NFL).

“Shaken Up On the Play”

Football players wear helmets — exhaustively engineered, thoroughly tested, incredibly expensive helmets — that are supposed to protect them from TBIs, even after the uncountable instances of head contact many sustain during every practice and game.

But in 2002 a young forensic pathologist named Bennet Omalu, MD, in the county coroner’s office in Pittsburgh, performed an autopsy of “Iron Mike” Webster, the legendary Pittsburgh Steelers lineman who died at age 50. A Hall of Famer, Webster was known for his durability, never missing a game during a 10-year stretch between 1976 and 1985. He spent the last decades of his life struggling with dementia, delusions, paranoia, and explosive moods. Though Webster was believed to have died of a heart attack, Omalu sensed something else.

CT and MRI scans of Webster’s brain found nothing abnormal. So Omalu did a specialized protein-stain test; the results were startling. Webster’s brain was clouded with massive accumulations of tau, one of the proteins that causes Alzheimer’s.

Omalu believed that Webster’s brain had been rattled by the cumulative effect of all the subconcussive head injuries he suffered over his 17 NFL seasons. His report on Webster’s autopsy was published in the peer-reviewed journal Neurosurgery, where Omalu coined a name for the syndrome — chronic traumatic encephalopathy, or CTE. Encephalopathy is a broad term for a disease that alters the brain’s structure or function.

Omalu’s report garnered wide attention for CTE, and for TBIs generally, prompting a slew of studies. Among the more notable is an ongoing study at Johns Hopkins School of Medicine that began in 2014, in which researchers are examining a group of retired pro football players; their findings to date suggest that repeated brain trauma causes molecular changes to brain tissue that can have consequences for decades after.

Notably, some brain injuries happen without a concussion: They can result from a single blow to the head or repetitive hits over time. “There’s no such thing as a safe blow to the head,” says Omalu.

Fearing for football’s very existence, the NFL went on the offensive. League lawyers and doctors took a page from Big Tobacco’s playbook to obscure the link between cigarettes and lung cancer and worked to discredit Omalu and downplay CTE. At the time, the NFL didn’t even have concussion guidelines for assessing players — as sports commentators like to say, they were merely “shaken up on the play.”

The NFL seemed to be winning the game in dismissing CTE. But after Omalu found CTE in autopsies of four more NFL players, the media, and soon the public, took notice. Head injuries became big news.

Brain Games

Head injuries are not limited to football, of course: They happen in hockey, cycling, soccer — most any sport. Nor are they limited to the pros.

In a study published in Radiology in 2016, researchers examined the potential effects of subconcussive head blows on the 3 million U.S. kids playing organized youth football. They studied 25 players age 8 to 13 over a single football season, conducting advanced neuroimaging using MRI with diffusion tensor imaging (DTI) scans both pre- and postseason. The players’ helmets were fitted with Head Impact Telemetry System (HITS) sensors to assess frequency and magnitude of impact.

The kids were “hitting their heads hundreds of times over the approximately three-month season” without suffering actual concussions, says lead study author Christopher Whitlow, MD, PhD, chief of neuroradiology at Wake Forest School of Medicine in Winston-Salem, N.C. He was interested in understanding the cumulative effect of these subconcussive hits.

Whitlow’s team found “measurable brain changes” to the white matter in the youths’ brains: “When you look at these players, they don’t look any different; they’re not behaving any differently. Do these changes mean anything at all? Perhaps not. Maybe these changes all go away like their bruises after the season and this is just another manifestation of a physical sport.

“But the issue is that we don’t know,” he says. “What happens after two seasons? And ultimately, is your lifetime cumulative head-impact exposure the thing that makes a difference?”

In a 2016 study of amateur soccer players published in EBioMedicine, researchers found that heading a soccer ball — just once — causes instant changes to the brain. They did trans-cranial magnetic stimulation (TMS) and electromyographic (EMG) recordings followed by cognitive tests of 19 players age 19 to 25 before and after routinely heading balls. They discovered alterations in brain corticomotor inhibition and cognitive function — in particular, memory-test performance was reduced by up to 67 percent.

“The good news is that these changes in brain function were transient, with effects normalizing within 24 hours,” explains lead study author Magdalena Ietswaart, PhD, professor of psychology at Scotland’s University of Stirling.

“The bad news is that we do not know whether there is an accumulative effect when this biochemical disruption is repeated over and over again through weekly heading-practice drills, or what the long-term consequences of heading on brain health are.”

The Road Back

As doctors learn more about the consequence of TBIs, their knowledge is leading to new treatments. Given the range of seemingly disconnected symptoms, protocols are often individualized based on the results of sophisticated tests.

“Treating head injury requires a multifaceted approach,” explains functional neurologist Brandon Brock, DC, of Cerebrum Health Centers in Dallas–Fort Worth. “Sometimes it requires medication to control symptoms. Sometimes it requires diet and nutrition to allow appropriate healing. Sometimes it requires the appropriate neurological exercises to give the brain harmony and symmetric function.

“We need to make sure there are no underlying triggers that were there beforehand that would keep the person from healing, like diabetes, thyroid problems, or infectious disease that can make the inflammation so sustained that people can’t recover.”

Receiving treatment soon after an injury is preferable, because the brain remains plastic and responsive for days or weeks, Brock says. The longer you wait, the more likely the brain gets set in new, problematic patterns. But if an injury is months or even years old, a new battery of functional-neurology tests can still detect symptoms, and treatment remains possible.

For Amy Zellmer, it wasn’t until two and a half years after hitting her head that she found hope for recovery. She connected with functional neurologist Jeremy Schmoe, DC, of Minnesota Functional Neurology and Chiropractic in Minneapolis in August 2016. By this point, she was begging for help. She described her many symptoms — and, for the first time in all her consultations with specialists, Schmoe validated them. “I was like, Hallelujah, somebody understands!” Zellmer remembers.

Using a platform posturography test, Schmoe examined her balance. He conducted video analysis of her gait. He checked her autonomic nervous system, since concussions often skew heart rates and blood pressures; the combination of a higher resting heart rate and uncertain spatial awareness can result in an overactive startle response and hyperanxiety. He used videonystagmography (VNG) to check her eye tracking. Then he outlined a course of vestibular rehab to improve her balance and dizziness, and manual therapy to treat the effects of her whiplash.

Schmoe prescribed neuro-orthopedic rehabilitative exercises to help Zellmer restore her eye–brain coordination. And he recommends yoga — in particular, TBI survivor Kevin Pearce’s Love Your Brain program (www.loveyourbrain.com).

“We challenge the nervous system with different types of sensory inputs to activate the brain to make changes to the objective findings that we identify during examination,” Schmoe explains. “If we see that you’re off balance to the left, we might do an exercise to stimulate the left side of your body to give your brain better awareness of where you are in space.

“The nervous system is amazing. It’s elastic: You can make changes to it with repetition, intensity, and frequency. You just have to give it the right stimulation to help build plasticity.”

He next ran blood labs to check Zellmer for anemia, infection, inflammation, thyroid and hormonal imbalances, autoimmune disorders, and vitamin D or magnesium deficiencies — all of which can affect recovery.

Hormonal disruption can cause issues ranging from emotional imbalance to mood disorders, as well as blood-sugar dysregulation, says Schmoe. “When you hit your head, the midline areas of your brain get torsion, which can injure the areas that affect your pituitary output. This can affect the adrenals and thyroid. We see people develop a whole metabolic cascade of symptoms after a brain injury.”

There’s an axis between the brain and gut, he explains, and “literally within a couple of days after a brain injury, your gut lining could start to be affected.” Schmoe explains that this can cause recurrences of past gut issues, including infections and insulin dysregulation.

“If you can address the brain and you can improve the circuits in the brain, you can make changes to the gut — it’s a bidirectional pathway,” he says. “By improving the brain, you can improve the gut. Then if you loop back around and improve the gut even more, your brain’s going to heal faster. You have to look at everything when it comes to brain injuries.”

For Zellmer, the improvements were swift.

“Within two weeks, my dizziness went from a nine out of 10, to a two. Once I got the dizziness under control, it freed up so much energy.”

Today, she continues her therapy and is improving. She runs her own business as a photographer, but has also started new work: raising TBI awareness. She lobbies state and national legislatures, serves on the advisory council of the Brain Injury Association of America, and has self-published two books on the subject.

Her recovery is still in progress, but Zellmer is optimistic. She says she is now on “the road back to normal.”

Get the full story at https://experiencelife.com/article/the-new-science-of-concusssions/

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Lying face down on my bed, googling pain free ways to kill myself with a whole packet of paramol in my hand ready for digestion was the time that I realised it was my responsibility to pull myself out of the hell hole I had transcended into, no one else's. It really does not get any lower from a mental perspective. On the outside I had a lot going for me. A Director level job in an amazing company with a culture many would envy, the confidence to walk into a room of C-Suite Executives and pitch our latest solution on the fly, batting back questions thrown at me like a game of tennis. I had two beautiful boys; Jackson (4) and Carter (18 months), who were and still are as special as it gets. I had the sort of family people wish for, loving parents, kind hearted, warm sisters who would never have a bad word to say to anyone. My family was extremely close, choosing to spend time with each other often over time with respective friends. I lived in a fairly affluent area, wanted for very little and had my whole life ahead of me. Yet the issue was, I didn’t want my life any more. I was a failure, a fat, lazy, ugly, horrible, selfish human being who did not deserve to be surrounded by people and could not let my young children grow up to ‘find me out’ and resent me for who I was. This was the constant dialogue I had run in my head for nearly a year. 2016. The toughest year of all. I’m not going to go into the finer detail here because I respect the person I am writing about greatly and some things are better kept to yourself, however, I had split with my wife and it had hit me hard. Having been with her since the age of 16 and 31 at the time, the life I had always known was gone and I was left with this extremely daunting one. Being alone for the first time in my life. During the break up was when the anxiety started. I remember thinking to myself “Fucking hell. NO ONE would understand what this feels like unless they had it themselves”. It was crippling. I’m talking about anxiety so severe that I would begin shaking in the car on the way to work, and by the time I parked up, I would have to play a certain song to get me moving or I would very likely just drive through the space and go home again. Sometimes I did just that. Sometimes I would be sat at my desk and would see two people head off to the board room for a meeting. Stars would appear and the extreme paranoia that they were meeting to discuss how they could get me out of the company and sack me, because I wasn’t good enough to be doing what I was doing. I wasn’t good enough at anything in my eyes, and this had been with me for a very long time. It felt like someone had taken away my armour and that even the smallest of things could cut me deep. A look in the wrong direction, an ill word from my ex wife. Things that normally would have fallen away like the proverbial water off a duck’s back, were just too much to take. I was fragile beyond my means and as a result, depended heavily on my amazing mother. Often worrying her with panic after a call or a text message for some support. What she went through must have been so taxing but I was too ill and selfish at the time to care, I needed support and sure enough, her phone would beep. Intimacy with anyone or anything was a huge challenge. My heart would beat 10 times faster than it needed to the minute anyone got close to me, it was so noticeable that a certain someone would notice it jumping through my skin and comment, which only made it worse. I remember often telling anyone w ho’d listen that I was ‘broken and beyond repair’ I truly meant it. I was hopelessly lost and careering towards disaster. The only time I ever felt great was when I drank alcohol, and drink it I did. I’ve learned that this is an extremely common trait amongst those with mental illness but at the time I was entrapped in the most vicious of cycles. I would live for the next time I could drink myself stupid and have an ‘amazing night out’. Of course I was the life and soul of the party, because I was always the instigator. This behaviour stemmed right back to my teens and I’m not stupid enough to think that a separation made me depressed, I had been depressed for a very long time. It just heightened it and tipped me over the edge. I would get blackouts and forget chunks of the night and in some cases, the entire night itself. I would do things I am just so ashamed of, say the most obnoxious of things and then wake up the next morning feeling like death. For years I had told myself and everyone around me that I always got the worst hangovers, quizzically wondering why friends could just get up and get on with their day while I was unable to move, petrified of what was happening and dreading going to bed. It wasn’t my affliction to alcohol, I was seriously ill and just didn’t understand it. Day two of the hangover always felt worse, day three the anxiety kicked back in and day four the self loathing started. Ready for another weekend of drinking again. It’s funny how those who mask things with drinking never remember the agony they went through following the last session. The problem with a vicious cycle is that it only ends one way, destruction. And destruction for me came in the form of a small pitch looming at work. For some perspective, I had pitched hundreds of times in some form or another, it was my thing. It was supposed to be my core skill. However this time was different. After an entirely restless night (solid sleeping was non existent in those times) I had convinced myself that the people pitching in my team and the clients we were pitching too were going to ‘ find out’ about me. I can’t really explain what this means because I’m not really sure myself but needless to say, I completely broke down. In the carpark at the back of my work. The dread had got the better of me and something had to be done. The issue was, I had been soldiering on at work filled with dread for so many months, fuelled by the fear that if they found out how I was feeling they would remove me from my position. I felt a huge responsibility to deliver for them and I needed my job more than anything, the financial pressure of splitting up and caring for my two boys had me desperate. My Mum’s phone beeped and this time her response was very clear. “ We’re going to the doctors”. So she called my work on behalf of me, she explained the situation and they reacted in a way that still fills me with a sense of warmth. They truly cared. They handled everything, told her to look after me and to take as much time as I needed. To this day I will never forget those words and I will always ensure that, if given the opportunity, I will use them to help someone else through a tough time. The Doctors was truly an experience. I don’t want to belittle Doctors, they work extremely hard over a long period to achieve the status and knowledge they have. The issue is, Doctors are simply not equipped to understand mental illness. Mine even admitted so to some extent. Nice as he was, he listened to what I had to say, and advised I take the drug ‘Sertraline’ to help give me the boost I needed to start feeling better. It was so easy. I could have told him anything. I’ve thought a lot about it since, and had I walked in portraying another mental illness he’d have prescribed me with something totally different. There was no process. ‘H ere’s your tablets, report back in a couple of weeks’. I had to trust the process, but I did not want to take them. Take them I did. The first two weeks were fine, I had been signed off work, I was relaxing. Planning small tasks to accomplish each day, trying hard to walk out the house but often failing. I even began to make the gym, to get rid of the disgusting belly I had grown. Then suddenly things changed, and my world dropped beneath me. We’re back to the ‘ they would never understand how I feel’ phase but unfortunately that’s where I found myself. I remember the morning like it was yesterday. I had returned to work, I was over the dread of returning to a room of people gossiping about me (they never did) and starting to settle back down. I had woken up and I knew something was hideously wrong, it’s like I had opened my eyes to an extreme version of the bedroom I had once known, it felt like hell. I was shaking, I was anxious out of my skin, my heart beating so fast that I thought I was going to die. I poured a triple vodka and diet coke at 10am in the morning just to try and make it stop, take the edge off. I walked to the bathroom crying. I picked up a packet of paramol. I lay back down on the bed. I was still crying. I was always fucking crying. I wanted to die and was going to do it. I didn’t. What I did instead was send out a cry for help that ultimately save me. I sent a text message to my Dad simply saying “ Dad I’m so sorry, I’ve had enough and I don’t want to be in this world anymore” He was at my house in under 15 minutes, packing my bag and bringing me back to his home. Something within me stopped me. I don’t know whether I bottled it, or whether I thought of my two beautiful boys and my family and realised the effect it would have on them and to be honest, I don’t care. I’m just glad I sent that text message and I’m glad my hero of a Dad got to me to take me home. The next thing I know, I’m asleep in my Mum’s house for near on 12 hours, probably the deepest sleep I had ever had. I woke to sit at my Mum’s kitchen table and we went through the potential side effects of Sertraline with a highlighter to establish which ones I had. We stopped at 27. Enough was enough and an emergency appointment was called with the doctor. I had been asked to outline how I felt so he could understand and decide on the next steps. I’m reserved to share what I wrote down but I feel it’s necessary to give you an insight into the severity of the situation; - When I wake up I feel tired and drowsy regardless of how much sleep I've had - I can never get to sleep because my mind is racing - Sometimes I just go to the toilet and cry and I have no idea why. Then I wait for ages because I don't want people to see my red eyes - I am surrounded by people who are happy and successful and sometimes that thought is so intense that I am physically sick in my toilet - I constantly think that people are talking about me and trying to do things that would upset me. Plot to sack me, friends speaking to my ex wife - I absolutely dread walking into rooms of people because I think they've just been talking about me - I am unable to think about my job. The simplest task requires huge effort and I have outer body experiences and get dizzy - I subject my people close to me to emotional blackmail one minute and treat them amazing the next. Even though I know I'm doing it sometimes I can't stop - my life is uncontrollable. I can't manage money, I don't open mail, I don't eat properly, I depend heavily on my parents and hate it - the simplest task like cleaning just seems impossible to do so I ignore it - I regularly think about alcohol and how I never want to go near it - I feel so much better when I drink, on top of the world. It’s when I feel the most happiest - I am then petrified of what I'll feel like the next day so sometimes I just have more drinks - I drink on my own some nights and take it too far and feel crap the next day - My hangovers make me suicidal. I do not see a reason for living any more because I just ruin everything I touch - My hangovers last 4 days minimum - When I drink I make so many horrific decisions. Things I simply can't even talk about. I become a different person - I feel trapped, I need to go on holiday but I can't ever afford to. I need to work because my bills are so high - I DETEST how I look, I'm overweight - I DETEST my lack of discipline and inability to go to the gym - I tell everyone around me that I will do things and then never follow them through. I'm a failure every time - Sometimes I can't talk about my children because it just makes me so sad and I cry all the time about it. They're so happy and nice and I am such a shit person - I've lied about so much to keep people from hating me - I have credit card companies chasing me 10 times a day for payments that I can't pay Physical Symptoms - Heart beats fast - Sore tongue & ulcers - Chills and tingles down my arms - Stiff legs and body in the morning - Feel hungover and drowsy until 10-11am - Puffy eyes sometimes Mental Symptoms - Simple things make me highly anxious - Paranoid that people are talking about me and trying to mess with me - Feel completely helpless/Nothing is in control - Often feel like it would be better off if I'm just not here - No motivation to go to the gym - Can't concentrate on anything - Failing at everything - Needy The Doctor’s next suggestion? Take more medication. My answer was a simple one. ‘Over my dead body’ Quite literally. I asked for him to refer me to a counsellor and so he did, with the promise I’d have contact from someone within 48 hours and an appointment within the week. I also went cold turkey on the medication. Two things happened next. 1) Cold turkey is a bitch, withdrawal is a bitch. I may as well have taken heroin. 2) I never got a call, I never heard from anyone. And so I began chasing the local counselling service I had been referred to, desperate for someone to talk to, a way out. Still very much hiding it from those around me that I was still feeling like I did. I was fighting it and that was something. I’d ring them and they would tell me a call was coming. This went on for three weeks until I got to the end of the road with it. Useless. And so my amazing parents emerged from the smoke again, and gave me money to go to pay for weekly counselling. At the same time I figured a few things out myself. 1) I needed to invest myself in getting better 2) I needed to read books 3) I needed to watch motivational videos 4) I needed to visualise my path out of the situation 5) I needed to draw on the amazingness of those close to me 6) I needed to do small but good things for other people 7) I needed to get fit again And so I devised a plan and I worked at it. And soon enough, the mental process of removing certain people from my life, surrounding myself with happy, nice people who truly cared for me began to pay off. I began treating the gym like my church, enjoying pushing myself and seeing the progress I was making. I wasn’t competing with anyone but myself, I wasn’t cutting carbs or starving myself. Working alongside Matt and other people in my life, I was systematically putting my life back together again. Am I 100%? Absolutely not. I still have my moments. But what I have replaced the misery with is this burning feeling you often hear people talk about. I guess they call it ‘burning’ because it feels so hot you have to do something with it quickly! The National Health Service is fundamentally flawed. Doctors have no funding or support to ultimately sort those who truly need it. The UK has a suicide rate on the increase, with men three times more likely to do it than women. There are thousands of men and women out there with or without mental illness who feel utterly helpless and filled with self loathing. They just want to get fit, look better, be happier, and see a future ahead of them. Together with Matt my vision is to grow a brand that achieves a few things. Firstly I want to raise awareness to mental illness and let people know that it’s ok to talk about it, secondly I want to show people that fitness is a fantastic catalyst for changing your life if done the right way, thirdly I want to give back. I want to show people that there are people there to help, I want to create initiatives for those feeling desperate, and alone. I was extremely lucky to have some of the world’s nicest humans around me. Others aren’t so fortunate. Finally, I want to build and grow a fitness community of like minded people; people who either need motivation and support or those who have been through something and want to harness that experience to help themselves and others. If you made it through the essay then I thank you and appreciate your attention. I urge you to become part of our community, benefit from our hard work and replicate it in your own life. Pay it forward, help other people and hopefully, our brand can have a ripple effect big enough to make a small dent in the world. Peace and love, 

Rich