#tw: mental health mentions / concussions

[jreso]

the basics:

full name: william jason reso nicknames: christian, christian cage, jay prefers: christian, jay birthdate / age: november 30th, 1973, 50 yrs old pronouns / gender: cis male, he/him residing: tampa, fl relationship status: single

headcanons / personality traits:

struggles with mental health due to concussions throughout his career and has a major fear of them reenterring his life.

with an insatiable hunger for recognition in his early career, jay tossed his safety aside, diving headfirst into risks that as a grizzled vet now he’d look back on as reckless and foolish. those early days were a wild ride, filled with innovative tlc matches that he was hell-bent on topping night after night. sure, he racked up a few wear-and-tear injuries along the way, but it was the concussions that hit him hard. in just seven months, he suffered two pretty major concussions. due to these, he’s suffered from depression, headaches and insomnia in various points in his life.

jay was pushed into retirement for seven long years, but he didn’t just sit back and sulk. he took on the role of a road agent with wwe and quietly faded into the background. it wasn’t the end for him.he dedicated himself to transformation, both inside and out, becoming the toughest version of himself yet. finally, he earned the medical clearance to return to the ring, ready to take back his legacy on his own terms. but those ghosts of the past? they cling to him, making it hard to shake off the fear of history repeating itself.

divorced on good terms.

that divorce was way overdue by the time the papers hit the table. jay, a guy who grew up with both parents under one roof, couldn’t wrap his head around bailing, even when they were both miserable. they tried to make it work, forced smiles for a while, but reality finally set in: it was over. his ex was the one who pulled the trigger and filed, ending the dance they’d been doing for too long. no cheating or backstabbing, just two people who couldn’t find their way back to each other despite all the breaks they took. now, they’re on good terms and are a lot better friends than spouses.

great, present dad.

being a girl dad is easily jay’s favorite part of life. he’s finally in a spot where work hours don’t run his world, giving him all the time he needs to show up as the dad he wants to be. he’s there for every big moment, never missing a thing, with a solid 50/50 custody split with his ex.

while this portrayal acknowledges her, he won’t post photos or media of his daughter and i ask you respectfully do the same (reblogging gifs or photos with them visible). they’re underage and it’s a little weird if they were ever to come across them.

funny, but competitive.

jay’s a laid-back goofball who doesn’t take himself too seriously, but don’t mistake that for a lack of fire. he’s competitive as hell, turning even the smallest game into a battle, trash-talking and pushing limits just to keep things interesting and seeing how far he can go with it.

hopeless? romantic.

jay’s a guy who’s in love with love, no way around it. he’s the type who falls hard and believes in the whole fairy-tale vibe, even if he doesn’t always admit it. he’s got some tough walls, years of life built up around him, but get past them, and you’ll see the hopeless romantic underneath.

still an asshole.

jay can definitely be an asshole at times and he knows it. he’ll crack jokes that push boundaries and throw out sarcastic comments that catch people off guard. he thrives on that playful banter, but sometimes he takes it too far. he’s got a sharp tongue and doesn’t hold back. on thing about him that he keeps it real and raw, no sugarcoating.

fear of loneliness.

though you’d never know it, jay’s got a real fear of loneliness that gnaws at him beneath the surface. he puts on a tough front, cracking jokes and acting like he’s got it all figured out, but that fear creeps in. he dreads the thought of being alone, of going home to an empty place after a long day. he's scared as hell of being alone but the idea of letting people get too close makes him anxious, leaving him stuck in a messy tug-of-war.

struggles with vulnerability.

raised with two brothers and a third picked up along the way, jay harbors a fear of being seen as weak. he’s been conditioned to believe that showing any sign of vulnerability is a sign of failure, so he masks his true feelings with sarcasm and bravado. when he’s hurting or struggling, he puts on a tough front, refusing to let anyone see him sweat. but inside, he’s battling a storm of emotions, wishing he could just be real without worrying about how others perceive him.

perfectionist.

jay has a relentless drive for perfection that can be suffocating. he sets unrealistically high standards for himself in every aspect of life and when he falls short, it sends him into a spiral of self-doubt and frustration, making him hesitant to try new things. almost paralyzingly so.

hates silence.

following one particular concussion, jay developed a fear of silence. after the chaos of the match and the dizzying aftermath, he has found himself uneasy in quiet moments. he hated the way silence made him confront his fears and insecurities, so he fills every space with noise, music, conversations, anything to drown out the creeping anxiety that threatened to overwhelm him when left alone with his thoughts.

shipping and other ooc notes:

my direct messages are open for plotting. all romantic ships require chemistry and i prefer them to happen naturally and over time (preferably 30+). writer is 21+ and on est.

[certaimromance]

ꫂ ၴႅၴ Tall Child.

Aaron Hotchner x BAU!reader (platonic)

Summary: No matter how hard you try to impress him, Agent Hotchner never seems to be satisfied with your work. And it all comes crashing down when you decide to confront him.

Words: 2,7k.

TW: mentions of crime. reader was injured (nothing serious). angst WITHOUT happy ending. hotch being a father figure. soo much angst (yes, again). father and rebellious daughter type discussion. temporarily located in the first season. english isn't my first language (sorry for my mistakes, be kind please).

Note: He is so ❤️‍🔥daddy❤️‍🔥 but also 💔dad💔 for me, okay?

This was painful to write, so I loved it (I literally wrote it with I Bet On Losing Dogs by Mitski in the background).

♡ Enjoy! ♡

Anyone who knows you knows that your lifelong dream was to help make the world a better place.

And from your day one at the BAU, you felt like your wildest dreams had come true. You were saving lives, reassuring victims, and helping to bring to justice those who tormented them so they could never do it to anyone else again. You were making a real difference in the world, even if you weren't the caped superhero you wanted to be as a kid.

But, as they say, nothing's perfect. And your job had more contradictions for your mental and physical health than there were fingers on your hands to count. The long and unstable schedule, the few hours of sleep, nightmares about the atrocities you saw, no social life outside the team...and of course, the constant disappointment you felt from Aaron Hotchner, your boss.

From day one, you had worked tirelessly to prove yourself. You craved the approval of your superiors, the respect of your colleagues. The job was demanding, yes, but you wanted to show that you could not only handle it but thrive under the pressure. And you had earned the trust and admiration of everyone around you, except for him.

Agent Hotchner was an enigma to you. There was something about him that both intrigued and intimidated you. He was always so calm, without showing much emotion, without so much as a smile for you. He was a wall you couldn't break through no matter how hard you tried. You had tried so hard to impress him, to make sure he saw your dedication, your work ethic, but you always seemed to fall short. His approval, or lack thereof, hurt more than anything else. You had gotten used to it by now, but it didn't make it any easier.

And now, here you were, in his office, watching him scrutinize your medical diagnosis. He had just glanced at the report from the doctor that had followed you back from the Utah case. Your shoulder, a minor injury, but one that could’ve been avoided if you hadn’t thrown yourself headfirst into the danger in the way you did.

Finally, after several moments of awkward silence, you dared to speak. “What do you think? I am practically at my best.”

Deep down, you knew you were lying through your teeth and that you were not well with an injured shoulder, a concussion, and several bruises, but you refused to say so out loud. You were a brave girl, and he should know.

Hotch looked up from the report in his hand and stared at you. It was the kind of look that made your hair stand on end and gave you a feeling that something was wrong.

“No, you're not.” He sighs and closes the folder before walking over to the desk you were sitting behind. He leans against it as he looks at you, arms folded across his chest. “You disobeyed a direct order during the case. You abandoned your partner.”

“I didn’t abandon Reid,” you replied, your voice sounding more defensive than you intended. You straightened in your chair, wincing slightly as your shoulder protested the movement. “I simply suggested he wait behind me. And it worked, didn’t it? He saved the victim, and I stopped the unsub.”

Teamwork, as you liked to call it.

“It paid off this time,” he said, his voice low but firm. “But that doesn’t excuse disregarding protocol. You put yourself and your partner in unnecessary danger. That’s not the kind of decision-making we can afford here.”

Oh no, here comes the usual chatter you didn't want to hear this time. Normally, you would be quiet, listening and nodding at his every word, but this time there was something different. You just longed for congratulations. Was it really so difficult for him to tell you once that you did something right?

You stiffened in your chair, the ache in your shoulder suddenly more pronounced. “With all due respect, I evaluated the situation and made a hard decision. I’m not some rookie who doesn’t know how to handle themselves in the field.”

Even as the words came out, you felt very nervous. You didn't know if it was the drugs they gave you in the hospital to fight the pain or if it was just your shyness leaving your body completely for no reason.

“I’m not questioning your skills,” he replied sharply. “But you’re not operating at one hundred percent, and that affects your judgment. You’ve been pushing yourself too hard for months—longer, maybe. And now you’re injured. You need time to recover and think about this.”

God, no.

“I don’t need time; I need to work,” you shot back, frustration lacing your tone. This job was your lifeline, your purpose. Without it, who were you?

“You know we work as a team. A unit. And when one part of the unit breaks down, there are consequences.” His voice wasn’t just firm; it was unyielding, like a warning. The way he said it almost felt like he was speaking to a child—a reprimand you didn’t want but knew you had earned. “No one is above the team, not even you.”

You didn't know if it was the way he said it or the words he used, but it was like the straw that broke the camel's back, and you were tired of putting up with the situation. This was the first time you had made a decision on your own, the first time you had not discussed your ideas with the team only to have them ignored and then spoken louder by someone else. Finally, you had acted, and even that was wrong.

You were tired, fucking tired of being ignored and judged much more harshly than the rest.

A bitter laugh escaped your lips, barely audible but heavy with frustration. The ache in your shoulder seemed to flare as if your body was responding to the tension in the room. “And what consequences are you thinking of, sir?” you asked, your voice dripping with sarcasm. There was no hiding the venom now. “What’s worse than not being valued even when I do my job?”

His gaze turned hard as if your tone had cut him deeper than any physical injury could. He didn’t take kindly to disrespect, especially from someone who had otherwise followed his orders without question. You saw the shift in him, the quiet fury simmering beneath his usually controlled exterior. If you were anyone else, the conversation would have already escalated. But you weren’t anyone else. You were someone he knew far too well.

“Don’t use that tone with me,” he bit back, his voice low and steady but carrying a weight that made your stomach twist. There was no mistake now—this wasn’t just about the case. This was more personal. “You are suspended. Your gun and badge on the table. Now.”

Oh, oh, oh.

The words hung in the air between you like a guillotine, sudden and final. The room seemed to close in on you, the breath in your chest catching in surprise. You didn’t know if it was the shock or the disbelief, but your mind struggled to grasp the magnitude of his command. Suspended? Your world was spinning.

You opened your mouth to speak, to argue, but the words caught in your throat, leaving you with nothing but a hollow sound of confusion. “What? Why?”

“Agent, you disobeyed a direct order and endangered yourself and your partner,” he said firmly. “I don’t take your actions lightly. Suspension is not a punishment—it’s a consequence. You need time to heal, both physically and mentally.”

The idea of being sidelined was incomprehensible. The thought of doing nothing—being stuck in your apartment, forced to be still—felt suffocating. No. You couldn’t accept it.

“This is ridiculous. I did my job! I stopped the unsub! Reid saved the victim because I made the right choice!”

You saved a life, even if it meant risking a little of your own. You did save it.

“And what happens next time?” Hotch shot back, his voice rising slightly. “What happens if your judgment falters again because you’re running on empty? What if next time, it’s Reid who doesn’t come back?”

Then, silence.

The thought of Spencer getting hurt turned your stomach and made you question your actions. If anything happened to him, you would never forgive yourself…His life did matter, a lot.

“Gun. Badge. Now.” Your boss talks again. He gestured toward the desk.

Your fingers trembled, betraying you as you reached for the gun on your hip. The cool metal felt foreign in your hands, like something that had never truly belonged to you. Your mind screamed for you to stop, to stand your ground, to fight this. But your body, exhausted and broken, refused to cooperate.

You opened your mouth to speak, but your voice cracked before you could get the words out. “I…I didn’t mean…I just…”

Finally, with a shaky breath, you placed your gun on the desk. The thud it made as it landed felt like the sound of everything you had worked for being shattered in front of you. You could feel the sting of unshed tears burning in your eyes, but you wouldn’t let them fall. Not here. Not in front of him.

It didn’t matter what you said. It never seemed to matter, not with him. You had tried so hard to be the one who did everything right, to be the one he could rely on, and yet all you had earned was this—this cold, final judgment. He wasn’t just your boss in that moment; he was the embodiment of everything you had tried to prove yourself against. A reminder that, no matter what you did, it still wasn’t enough.

The words spilled from your mouth before you could stop them, the bitter taste of them already familiar. “You think I’m weak, don’t you?” The tone you had intended to be defiant came out more like a desperate plea. “You think I can’t handle this, that I’m just some liability?”

He didn’t flinch at your outburst. His gaze softened, but just barely. “No,” he said, his voice surprisingly gentle but firm. “I think you’re pushing yourself too hard. You’re not weak. But you’re hurting, and I can see it. You need time to recover.”

The words hit you like a slap, unexpected and unwelcome. You shook your head, a bitter laugh escaping your lips as you tried to fight back the burning in your chest. You refused to let the tears well up, to let them gather where he could see them. Not here. Not now. Please, not now.

“I don’t need time,” you said, your voice sharp, biting. But underneath the defiance was something raw and desperate, a quiet plea that you couldn’t fully suppress. “I need to be here. I need to do my job. I need to save lives.”

The last part came out as a whisper, as though saying it too loudly would shatter the fragile conviction you had left. You felt like you were slipping, like the ground beneath you was crumbling, and all you could do was cling to this one thing—the job. The only thing that made you feel like you mattered.

“The only life you need to save now is yours,” he said, his voice quieter but still heavy with authority.

You froze, the weight of his words pressing down on you like a crushing tide. Your stomach churned, and you fought to keep your composure, to keep from lashing out, even though every part of you wanted to scream. He didn’t understand. He couldn’t.

A bitter, trembling laugh bubbled up from your throat, unbidden and full of venom. “If it had been Reid or Morgan, you wouldn’t be doing this,” you snapped, the accusation like a raw wound exposed to the open air.

For the first time, something flickered in his eyes—anger, hurt, or something you couldn’t quite place. His jaw tightened, his posture stiffening, and when he spoke, his voice was sharper than before, each word deliberate and cutting.

“No,” he said, the firmness in his tone slicing through the room like a blade. “Because they would never have done this.”

The silence that followed was deafening. It slammed into you like a tidal wave, drowning out every other sound. His words rang in your ears, echoing in the hollow space left behind by your crumbling defenses.

They would never have done this.

Your chest tightened, a deep ache settling in your ribs, and for a moment, you felt like you couldn’t breathe. The accusation hung in the air, heavy and unforgiving. He wasn’t just saying you’d made a mistake—he was saying you were the mistake. That you weren’t good enough. That you never would be.

“Is this because I’m a woman?” you asked, the words coming out sharper than you intended. There was a bitter edge to them, a question that had been gnawing at you for far too long. “Because Elle is too, and even she has more, or is it because of my age? Reid is younger, and you never doubt him.”

“It’s not about any of that,” he said finally, his voice low and tight. But it wasn’t reassuring. It only sounded like an evasion, like he was brushing your concerns aside, and it made your chest ache all over again. “It’s not about your gender or your age.”

“It’s about me,” you said, the words like glass shards scraping at your insides. “It’s about how you don’t trust me.”

For the first time, you saw a flicker of something in his eyes—something almost like guilt, but it was fleeting, disappearing as quickly as it had appeared. He opened his mouth, but the words he spoke next were measured, controlled. Too controlled.

“No,” he said, his voice so steady it almost hurt. “That’s not it.”

You stared at him, heart racing, hands trembling, as the truth wrapped around you tighter than you ever thought possible. His words weren’t just dismissing your feelings—they were rejecting everything you had ever believed about your worth, about why you were here, in this moment, fighting so desperately for something you couldn’t even name.

But this time, it was different. You weren’t going to back down. Not anymore.

“Then what is it?” You whispered, voice breaking, tears finally threatening to spill. “What is it, Hotch? What is it about me that isn’t enough?”

“It’s not about you,” he said, but his voice lacked the certainty it usually held. “It’s not about trusting you…It’s about protecting you.” His gaze softened just enough for you to notice, but it only made the pain worse. “I can’t lose…I can’t let you lose yourself.”

The words hit you like a punch to the gut. You were trembling, your pulse racing in your ears, but now there was only a terrible stillness. You swallowed, trying to push down the bitterness that rose up in your throat.

“You don’t get to make decisions for me,” you snapped, barely holding back the frustration that bubbled to the surface. “You don’t get to decide what’s best for me. You don’t get to act like you’re my father, making me follow some imaginary line, keeping me under your control. If you want to raise someone, you already have a baby at home.”

The moment the words left your lips, you saw it—just the faintest flicker of hurt in his eyes. The barest flinch. But it was enough to make you feel the weight of your accusation like a stone, sinking into your chest. The silence that followed was thick with it, suffocating, and you could feel the air growing heavier between you.

“I’m not your dad,” he said, the words low, the icy calm of his voice unmistakable. There was no anger in it, just a hollow, painful truth. But the sting of it was sharp enough to leave a mark.

You blinked, the sharpness of his response cutting through you like a blade. You wanted to fight back, to lash out with everything you had, but something stopped you. Instead, your voice came out quieter, almost hollow as you whispered, “I know…Do you know that?”

And then, just like that, you turned away, your breath ragged in your chest. You didn’t wait for his answer, didn’t wait for anything. You couldn’t stand the ache that had taken root in your chest, the fear that had begun to take shape in the corners of your mind.

And the door slammed behind you.

[miscellaneoussmp]

This fic was written purely to spread the word of two of my personal headcanons. That's literally it. This is propaganda. Anyways, here's Pac looking at himself in the mirror (cw/tw: blood/injury mentions, referenced drug use, implied mental health issues):

Pac doesn't like looking at himself in the mirror for longer than absolutely necessary. Is he scared of what he might see, laid bare in front of him? Maybe. Today was an exception. Today is perfect, great, amazing, in fact. Pac has painstaking put this outfit together. Of course, he'll look at it in the mirror.

His gaze turns to the myriad of clips in his dark hair. One specifically catches his eyes. He brings his hand to the green clip with a creeper face charm. He's fine, he's fine, it's a game, he'll be back soon, it's fine, perfect, actually. His hand falls. Why do his eyes sting? This day is great. Next, his eyes land on the nondescript face stickers and bandage across his nose. Typically, the bandage would just be decoration. In Pac's case, it was not. It has hiding where he accidentally cut the bridge of his nose open.

The thump of his forehead against the table he was working on, and the way his nose moved against the edge of it, gone from Pac's mind. Was it a concussion? Probably not. Today is great. He didn't have a stupid concussion. He didn't have to re-set his nose bone mere hours ago.

His eyes then landed on his white hoodie sleeves mostly covered in beaded kandi bracelets. Pac made them himself. It was something to do to keep himself grounded. Each of his bracelets represented a person, be that a family member or friend. Pac tried not to stare at the green and pink bracelet or the bracelet with a paint brush charm for too long. He's crying. Why? Today is amazing and perfect. He'll ruin his face stickers if he cries. Today is great, perfect, absolutely amazing. Why does his chest hurt so much? Please find the antidote, please. He's fine. The tears running down his cheeks don't mean anything. He's wearing fingerless gloves under his hoodie that just peak out under his sleeves.

It's a lot. He's drowning himself in a lot. Pac thinks it's easier if he let's himself quietly slip under. If he lets himself fall beneath the waves, then maybe people won't be hurt by this experience like he has. Hurt? That isn't the right word. Today is great, absolutely amazing, perfect. Pac's chest hurts as his heart rapidly beats against his ribcage. His vision ends up on the colorful plastic chains clipped to his belt loops, along with the color straps of fabric clipped to the waist band. The starts of the chains and fabric are hidden under the hem of his hoodie. Today is great, absolutely perfect even. Why is he sobbing? Why does his chest hurt so much?

Lastly, Pac stares at his shoes. They're platform boots with leftover colorful beads strung on the laces. He had painstaking strung the beads on the laces while tissues were stuck in his nose to catch any blood. He should have been working on the antidote, really, but everything hurt, so he stopped for a moment. Underneath Pac's skin is a steady buzz, and he feels like his blood is full of pure euphoria. Were his hands always this shakey? His chest hurts. His cheek hurt.

Pac can't decide which version of himself he hates looking at more. Does it matter? Today is supposed to be great and perfect and fine. The white pills dissolve on his tongue like sugar. He wishes they tasted like sugar, too. He's always caught off guard by the plastic taste. Why is he crying? He wipes his tears away. Today is perfect, but he still hates the mirror.

[borderline-culture-is]

Vent, TW Suicidal ideation, Self harm, ED mention....idk what else //

BPD culture is waNTING TO FUCKING KILL YOURSELF BECAUSE YOU'RE NEVER FUCKIN TAKEN SERIOUSLY

Even your own mother who deals with similar shit DOESN'T FUCKING BELIEVE ME AND THINKS IM A SPOILED FUCKING BRAT

WHAT DID I DO WRONG?? HM?? WHAT DID I DO WRONG??

now it's to the fucking point where my sister thinks it's fun and quirky to tell every fucking kid she meets "oh I love being sad and depressed!!" AND I FUCKING HATE IT. SHE KNOWS BETTER. SHE FUCKING KNOWS BETTER.

I've explained it to her, my mother has explained it to her, SHE'S SEEN MY MOM GET SO SUICIDAL AND FUCKIN LOSE HERSELF BECAUSE OF IT. BUT YEAH, NO, ITS FUN TO BE DEPRESSED. ITS NOT LIKE IT MAKES EVERYONES LIFE A LIVING FUCKING HELL!!!

I dont

I don't fucking care if she's 8. I don't fucking care. I KNEW BETTER AT 8. I FUCKING KNEW BETTER. I KNEW BETTER THAN TO TELL PEOPLE TO KILL THEMSELVES TOO.

And now because my mom is SO keen on forcing us to be those stupid fucking ultra close siblings, my mom gave her MY favourite artist to listen to. THEY'RE MY FAVE ARTIST. I DON'T CARE IF ANYONE ELSE LISTENS TO THEM BUT THIS KID???? IT MAKES ME WANT TO FUCKING KILL MYSELF.

They saved my life, they speak out about mental health, I'VE SPOKEN TO THEM AND THEY'RE SOME OF THE SWEETEST PEOPLE EVER. SHES FUCKING RUINING THE ONE THING I HAD, AND MY MOM KEEPS GIVING HER MORE OF MY MUSIC AND NOW MORE OF IT IS GETTING RUINED!!!!! I WANT TO CLAW MY FUCKING TATTOO OFF NOW BECAUSE OF THIS SHIT

I do not

Fucking lay in bed crying and having panic attacks, HAVING NIGHTMARES DAY AFTER FUCKING DAY BECAUSE EVERYTHING IS TOO MUCH AND IS ALWAYS MADE OUT TO BE MADE INTO A FUCKING JOKE.

I HATE THIS FUCKING KID. I HATE THIS FUCKING FAMILY SO MUCH. SHE KEEPS FUCKING SINGING CITIZEN SOLDIER SONGS AND BRAGGING ABOUT BEING DEPRESSED BUT HAS DONE EVERYTHING SHE FUCKING CAN TO RUIN MY LIFE

"oh, but she's just a kid-" SHE ADMITS IT. SHE ADMITS IT ALL THE TIME TO ME. SHE'S TOLD ME TO KILL MYSELF AND CONFIRMED THAT SHE KNEW WHAT IT MEANT. SHE TELLS ME SHE HATES ME. SHE TELLS ME SHE LIES TO GET ME YELLED AT BECAUSE IT MAKES ME CRY. SHE'LL SIT HERE AND WATCH ME FUCKING BREAK DOWN AND FUCKING INSTIGATE SHIT. WHEN I FINALLY CRACKED AND TOLD MY MOM I WAS SUICIDAL, SHE FUCKING CHIMED IN TO START BULLYING ME TO THE POINT MY MOM HAD TO SHUT HER DOWN!!!!

one day

I'm gonna fucking leave.

I'm gonna fucking leave this house and go lay in the middle of the fucking road in the dead of night so that I can get fucking ran over and die

I cant

Keep living like this

I fucking can't, I keep fucking trying but I fucking can't. Why do I do everything possible to take care of everyone, to the point that on MY birthday, on the ONE DAY A YEAR THATS FOR ME, I HAD TO TALK MY MOM OUT OF SUICIDE. I WAS THE ONE BEING YELLED AT. I HAD TO GET A GROWN ASS WOMAN TO STOP ASKING ME FOR A KNIFE SO SHE COULD KILL HERSELF IN FRONT OF ME. I WAS THE ONE THAT MY SISTER GLARED AT WITH HATRED WHEN I TRIED TO DEAL WITH THE SITUATION. I WAS THE ONE MY DAD YELLED AT BECAUSE HE WAS MAD AT MY MOM FOR LEAVING. BUT NO. I'M THE FUCK UP.

God I think I gave myself a concussion, it hurts. It hurts so bad and I need to throw up. And what's worse? This fucking kid watched me beat my head in and I heard her just...make such a disgusted noise and go back to telling her friends on fortnite that she's so depressed and bragging about it and saying it's SO fun...

My bulimia has already come back, and y'know what. Fuck it. I'm done. I'm fucking done trying to hide everything so that THEY'RE happy. So that THEY don't get their panties in a twist over me fucking struggling. If I get the urge to purge, I'll fucking purge. If I get the urge to fucking cut my thighs open, then so fucking be it. I'm done. I'm fucking done. "You need to put yourself first!" I FUCKING TRIED. YOU GOT MAD AT ME. YOU YELLED AT ME. YOU YELLED AT AND BERATED ME, SO WHY SHOULD I CARE??? HUH?? TELL ME??

I'm tired. I don't. Have people to talk to. No one to fucking help me, and I can't blame them. My best friend has bigger things to worry about other than me being a fucking baby. I abandoned the few other people I still talked to because I couldn't handle it anymore. The one server that I was finally feeling safe enough to talk in might be shut down soon because it's stressing the band out from issues that keep happening. I'm fucking. Alone. And I'm tired.

I have until October. After that, Idk. We'll see. But October is so....so far away. It's gonna be hard. Idk if I can do it but I'll try I guess.

- 🪡🎶

.

[colection-of-chaos]

Whumptober 2024 Day 25: Stitches; Being Monitored

TW: mentioning of injury, unhealthy impulses

The issue with the Sickbed

Noreen hates being stuck in a hospital bed. Noreen hates to be stuck period. 

It exposed them, made them an easier to target for others, but it also let their mind entertain itself, made it hard for them to distract themself. 

Like not to be able to move. Or to get their hands on enough stimuli, that every last piece of their brain was occupied. 

It tended to get rather dark when they weren’t able to distract them self.

It got pretty dark on occasion, even when they were able to flee, either physically or mentally. 

Now, though, they were completely and utterly alone with their thoughts. 

Noreen wanted to leave, not matter the fact, that there were newly applied stitched holing their face together from their temple to the mid of their cheek. Or that their head hurt like hell, they were nauseous every now, the light hurt in their eyes, setting their head ablaze and their pupils continued to refused to dilate in the same way. 

The only benefit was, that their mind had also had problems running wild, like it tended to do, when Noreen stopped avoiding it for a second to long. Their concussion had led to them, not only being dizzy and struggling with decisions more than normally, but  also it not being able to tare her down as much.

That unfortunately didn’t stop them from feeling the need to run, to just move and not stay still like they were supposed to. 

The habit of fearing the fear and pain that came with staging still for too long, hand’t been dampened, like most of their other instincts.

They felt out of their mind and body, in a way that they weren’t used to, it wasn’t the frantic kind of fear or the lack of emotions all together. No dissociative episode, nor urge to follow some rule, that they weren’t really sure was actually something they had to do, but felt urgent, out of fear of consequences.

This felt wrong. Because they had to stay still for a bit. They couldn’t leave the bed, couldn’t adhere to, whatever they felt were their duties. Or disappear in a cloud of input, to stop a mind, that was no so unfamiliarly silent. Nor could they stop feeling like someone was constantly watching them, because someone probably did, without doing something, that Noreen thought would prevent conflict. 

Because being watched, wasn’t about requirement, not here, not this time. This was about their health, that they had no control lover, so they didn’t know how to please the people around them. They felt lackluster, even if rationally they knew this was not a place they had to please.

They were so used to the fear, the discomfort, that this felt wrong. 

That they were actually watched made it not any less of an issue, not their need to make sure, that others didn’t see them as odd, which was burning, in the few moments they were actually aware enough to pinpoint that need. 

This was hell. 

[compassionatereminders]

Tw internalized ableism (?), Suicidal ideation

Just looking for support I guess

I'm considering (pretty much deciding) withdrawing from school because I just can't anymore because it causes so much fucking stees and I cant do work, school, and home life, it's so much to juggle and I don't have the mental wherewithall to do school anymore like I used to, after my more recent concussions I don't know what's wrong with me but it's harder too, all of my disabilities have been flaring up since I started this quarter of classes and I just can't do it anymore but my dad is gonna be fucking pissed at me about it because he has put money into it to help me but I'm just going to end up putting myself into the ground through suicide or stress if I keep doing this so I jaut cant keep doing this, I want to just work and get my mental health and physical health together, I hate myself for having to do it but I literally just can't function right now, my therapist and I talked about some stuff and she had mentioned that ppl with BPD end up getting better mental health very frequently and commonly on their early 30s but I'm 19 and nowhere near there, I just can't let everything go to shit and run myself into the ground anymore, I can't do it but I just feel so much shame about it

Do what you need to do to cope, and if your dad cannot respect your right to make that decision, let him be pissed and avoid him. This is not his decision to make. Don't let him control this decision

[vivxdhearts]

“ i  just  want  you  to  be  okay . ” (FROM CAROL DANVERS)

“Ouch...” America mumbled, rubbing her forehead with a grimace. Albeit, NOT HER BEST LANDING BY ANY MEANS. But, how the hell was she supposed to know she was going to open a portal right in front of a brick wall. God, she was certainly going to have a concussion tomorrow, and was going to end up crashing on Kate’s couch most of the day, that was... if she could make it there. Really, at this point, she was just feeling like remaining on her ass, until she had heard the voice. “Who? Me?” America looked around before her eyes fell back on the women. “I’m... TOTALLY FINE, right now that is. Will probably feel it in the morning. I’m just CHOOSING to sit here to relax.” 

@bcssbitchs​

[pwarkluv]

❝ idk you yet ❞ - p.js

park jisung x reader | angsty, fluff | 1.6k words 

WARNINGS | TW: mentions blood, abuse, drug and alcohol abuse, smoking, lowercase au, non-idol au, high school au, badboy!jisung, mature language/cursing, reader is like an angel sent from heaven for him, jisungie just in need of love :(

SUMMARY | being an outcast has him wondering if he’ll ever be happy. cue you, the new girl, stumbling into his life (literally).

AUTHOR’S NOTE | inspired by the song “idk you yet” by alexander23! also AHHH this is my 100 followers special fic :) THANK U LOVES FOR 100 IM SO SHOCKED CJSBFKEJD <33 the writing is a little crappy because i’m currently on my period and my patience for sitting down and writing this went down halfway through lol but I LOVE YOU SO MUCH, ENJOY THIS JISUNG FIC BC JISUNG MY BABIE AND SO ARE YOU GUYS!

whenever anybody thinks of park jisung, they think of the chains and dark clothing he wears. they think about the faint smell of smoke and men’s cologne that follows him wherever he goes. 

they think of the boy who grew up on the wrong side of the tracks. 

but what they don’t think about are bruises on his face he fails to hide whenever he walks into school, the dejected look on his face whenever random people give him disapproving looks, the way his smile slowly faded into a permanent frown wherever he went. 

jisung quickly accepted his reputation at school and in their little town, not having enough energy to feel insecure about it like before.

the only group of people that even remotely cared about the boy were his best friends in the whole entire world, nct dream.

they were outcasts just like him, the most “fucked up group of boys” in their town (the people’s words, not theirs).

see, they were your typical bad boy group straight out of your typical fanfic. bad grades, smoking in their free time, getting into fights, always being late to class; not a single person had hope in them.

but behind their scary and intimidating facade, all seven boys were big softies with misunderstood hearts and difficult backgrounds.

people were just too dense to look into it, only judging them based on their looks and personality on the outside. 

❝ how can you miss someone you’ve never met ❞

love was a foreign thing to jisung, the only form of love he’s ever felt being from his friends. his parents were… interesting to say the least. 

jisung’s father was a hard-core alcoholic, his mother being a major druggie. with no siblings in the house, jisung was usually their main target to push around and beat up.

and so because of this at a young age jisung learned to distance himself from other people and found different ways to release stress.

he started smoking when he was 14, the warm and hazy feeling of the smoke entering his lungs comforting him.

if jisung humored himself enough, maybe smoking could count as his first love. it was always there for him, never leaving him alone even if he wanted to quit. 

he relied on it knowing it was the only constant in his life. 

now of course the boy has heard of proper love, love like in the movies or shitty romance songs he hears on the radio.

and he won’t lie, there were moments he thought about what it felt like to be in love. but he knew that would never happen, at least not in their small town anyways. 

he just wanted to be loved. 

jisung would never admit it but sometimes he’d be jealous of the old couples walking down the street in their own world like it was just them two against the universe. he was jealous of the happy kids running around, their mother’s and father’s fondly smiling at their child. he was jealous of all the “normal” kids in his neighborhood. 

jisung wanted that, craved that. 

but most importantly, the boy wanted love.

❝ cause i need you now but i don’t know you yet ❞

everything hurt. 

his head, his body, his mind, his heart; everything was in pain.

jisung walked down the empty streets of their city, a trail of blood following behind him as he accepted his fate. the boy was 99% sure he had a concussion and at the very least had a few broken ribs. 

he felt like this was the end, and he was ready.

-

wandering aimlessly around town, you decided to take a late night walk to familiarize yourself around the area. you had just moved into the city a week ago, spending all seven days trying to help your family unpack and rearrange your cozy new home. 

now that you were finally free of the smell of tape and the dust of the boxes, you decided it was best to get to know the place you were living in. 

the autumn air seemed to settle at night as you shivered, cursing yourself for not bringing a jacket of some sort. the sight of a convenience store up ahead of you brought you relief as you rummaged through your pockets wondering if you had enough money for ramen.

your steps became excited as you found a couple dollars, fondly thinking about what type of ramen you should buy. you became so lost in your thoughts you didn’t even notice the poor boy who was staggering in front of you, or the trail of blood he left behind. 

-

jisung pushed himself to reach the convenience store a couple feet away from him, in desperate need of supplies to at least try and fix himself. 

if it didn’t help in any way then oh well, maybe death was indeed an option. 

grinding his teeth though the pain, he did not expect to feel a small body bump into him. had he been at his regular health, jisung would’ve easily been able to keep still but because of how much blood he was losing the boy was knocked down like a bowling pin.

“holy fuck.” jisung cursed the feeling of the concrete floor colliding with his ribs. he didn’t even notice the girl who had bumped into him sitting on the floor dumbfounded, freaking out over his state.

“oh my fucking god.” the girl said, capturing his attention. jisung glared at the stranger, mentally acknowledging the fact she was pretty. 

but her being pretty won’t get you anywhere, he scolded himself. she’ll leave you just like everyone else.

“a-are you okay?” she said, eyes glancing at his black eye. jisung rolled his eyes, already annoyed. “does it look like i’m okay?” he replied, his deep voice catching the girl off guard. 

“just, fuck off.” jisung said closing his eyes as he laid back down on the floor, knowing he couldn’t force himself to get up anymore. he didn’t even have to open his eyes to know she left, hearing the sound of her footsteps walk away.

the boy sighed as he laid idly on the floor, wondering what sin he committed to lead him to where he is now. not even she wanted to stay, the tears threatening to fall as his thoughts buried him alive.

“why can’t i just die?” jisung said out loud, asking no one but himself.

“because i won’t let you.” a voice replied as jisung forced himself to sit up in confusion. it was the same girl he had bumped into, but this time she had a first aid kit with her. he gave her a lost look despite knowing what she was here to do. 

jisung’s mind just couldn’t wrap around the fact that a total stranger would even bother to help him. 

“now sit up.” she said softly as she bent down to open the box, the boy slowly followed her instructions. “i’m sorry this might sting.” she said though jisung didn’t mind because she was much prettier up close.

-

the next ten minutes were you trying to fix his wounds against the shitty chairs outside the convenience store.

jisung didn’t even bother mentioning his broken ribs, not wanting you to freak out. you cleaned up what you could and the boy was beyond grateful for that.

you subconsciously rubbed his back in a comforting way whenever you’d apply alcohol to his open wounds, trying to ease the sting. you held his hand for him to hold and though he was a big boy and had a high pain tolerance, he still gave it a squeeze just to keep your hand there.  what the actual fuck is this feeling, jisung asked himself as he watched your determined figure work on him.

it was cold and in order to better work on his wounds, the boy offered to give you his hoodie which strangely had no traces of blood on it. you gladly accepted, the faint smell of blood and his cologne engulfing you up. 

the sight of you in something so big and so him made his chest swell in pride.

jisung couldn’t even formulate a sentence as you cursed at the time once you finished patching him up, fleeing the scene before he could say anything with a small smile, his hoodie still on. 

❝ and can you find me soon because i’m in my head ❞

the thought of your soft hands on his, your voice, your whole presence; everything about you couldn’t seem to leave the poor boy’s mind. it was now monday, and waiting for his class to start already made him want to go home.

if only i got her name, jisung daydreamed with his head resting on the palm of his hand. the classroom was loud and bright, people occasionally giving him looks but the boy didn’t mind. 

“jisungie~ did you hear we have a new kid?” jaemin asked, poking the boy’s cheeks. the boy only gave him a pointed look before sighing. 

“hyung i don’t really care.” jisung replied, looking back out the window. 

jaemin only gave him an offended look before grumbling a bit. “i don’t know maybe you will.” he muttered under his breath as their teacher walked into the room. 

❝ yeah i need you now but i don’t know you yet ❞

their homeroom teacher stood in front of the class, jisung tuning out his voice. the boy once again sighed as his teacher called for their attention, explaining they had a new girl in their class. “now make her feel welcomed,” he said before turning towards the door.

“y/n, please come in.” the teacher said and jisung almost fell out of his seat when he saw you walking through the door with the same smile you gave him a couple days ago.

“hi i’m y/n and i hope we can get along.” you bowed to the class, a familiar hoodie you were wearing catching his attention. 

isn’t that mine, jisung thought to himself as he bit back a smile knowing you kept it all along. 

[dcmoniism-a]

@garnishedarrogance // jeongguk + elowen, based on their last meeting !! tw : physical assault, serious injury, mentions of death.

that day jeongguk turned his back and ran. he ran as far as his legs carried him, and in no time he'd made it home. what he didn't know was that there were people within waiting for him and to take him. where? he wasn't sure, but they manage to hold him down and from that moment on, they were free to have it their way. he's not sure how long the beating lasted nor why he wasn't murdered right there and then when that was what they'd wanted. elowen had been given such a task, and surely when someone failed a task, someone else picked it over. it worked like that in movies, but it didn't happen to him. it left some permanent scars : physically, mentally, especially emotionally. for several months, he was admitted into a health care facility to rehabilitate him. the beating had left him temporarily paralyzed from the waist down, broken ribs, many fractures and a concussion. little did jeongguk know he wouldn't make it out of there a free man.

jeongguk moved back to his residence, finding out he'd only been moved quite a few cities up north from his own, where he finds the same individuals now accompanied by a suited one. left with no other choice, jeongguk was forced to join the organisation. jeongguk, the kind, helpful, loving and compassionate guy was forcefully buried six feet under. making his way inside the club, jeongguk offers a short nod at the bartender before leaning against the bar taking a look around at the dance floor. jeongguk doubted many recognised him as he too looked visibly different : his hairstyle and colour, the piercings and finally the tattoos that now littered his skin that none had seen before. he's at peace, no one approaches him but he's keen to have someone make their way in. jeongguk knew they came here from time to time, and after two whole nights waiting, it seemed it was finally going to pay off.

he catches her figure on the dance floor, and pushes away from the bar to head in her direction. with no hesitation whatsoever, jeongguk throws an arm around her waist and tugs her back against his figure. "long time no see." he releases her, the point wasn't to have her startled or defensive. "you look like you've seen a ghost." and he might as well be one.

[stonertransdad]

Life Update since I hadn't been on here in forever

The pandemic was/is wild! Lockdowns started literally around the time we were going to the fertility specialist to get her pregnant. I lost my job to COVID in March shortly before we did the procedure, but we decided there's never really a good time to have a kid. Why not during a global pandemic when one of us in unemployed? (BTW, I don't recommend having a kid during a pandemic. Not being able to go to all of the appointments and having to sit in the parking lot was brutal.)

Let's talk about May friends...it was rough. (TW for mention of suicide btw. I'll post a gif where it's safe to start again if you wanna skip over it.)

So May 1st is the anniversary of my father's suicide. It had been 4 years. I found his body and since he wasn't married, I had to handle his affairs and arrange his funeral. May 1st, 2020 my wife and I had a Zoom game night with our friends and I got drunk because everyone was drinking (except my wife because she was pregnant). After our game night at like 2am, I had a psychotic break. I threatened to kill myself numerous times. My wife tried to talk me down, but eventually called the cops to take me. I thank her for that because looking back, that was the moment I knew something needed to change. I was convinced the cops were gonna kill me because I'm a trans dude in rural West Texas. I legit took the phone out of my wife's hand, hung up on 911, and yeeted her phone across the backyard and tried to hop the fence. Eventually the cops came and talked me down. They took me to the hospital an hour away in handcuffs (for their protection I did nothing wrong). They took me to the religious hospital that I was born in. So when they looked up my info by my name and date of birth from my driver's license (I only changed my middle name) literally all my paperwork and my bracelet had my deadname and wrong gender despite all of my legal stuff saying male with my new middle name. I mentioned it to them and they didn't care. They misgendered me the entire time I was there. I had hit my head hella hard on the bath tub when my wife was trying to snap me out of it, did the hospital even check me for concussion? Nope. I had punched so many things and my hand and wrist were swollen and discolored. Did they check out my hand and wrist? Nope. I was there for over 10 hours before I was able to convince them I was okay and that it was just the alcohol. Did I mention during that 10 hours I was literally out in the hall on a gurney with no mask and this was when COVID was running rampant in Texas (the first time)? I heard people die that night. I had nothing to distract me because they took away all of my personal items and clothes. My wife picked me up and we went home and I have been sober ever since. It's not the first psychotic break I've had with alcohol in my system. Alcohol just doesn't agree with me, but I'm finding new things to replace it with.

TW has been lifted...it's safe now.

A couple of weeks after that I began teletherapy because I had been on the same mood stabilizer and anti-depressant for almost a decade. The more I thought about it, the more it made sense that I felt like it hadn't been working for at least a year. This is a reminder to check in with your doctor if you feel like your meds aren't working. You may just need a different dose or a new med. There's no shame in that. I bounced around on various medications trying to find the right combo, some side effects scarier than others, but we got there. Before this, I had been diagnosed with ADHD, Major Depressive Disorder, Borderline Personality Disorder, and Generalized Anxiety Disorder. My therapist threw out my Borderline diagnosis and said it was CPTSD instead, which made sense.

Fast forward to December because my wife was pregnant, I was unemployed still, and we did absolutely fuck-all because the global panini was still raging.

Our son was born on December 3, 2020. He weighed 5lbs 9oz and scared the ever loving shit out of us. He wasn't breathing when he was born so they called NICU in ASAP. I'm freaking out because I can hear and see what's going on while my wife was asking if he was okay as they put her guts back in place to sew her up. 5 or so minutes pass and a nurse asks if I want her to take some pictures. I'm like is he okay, he still hasn't cried. She's like "oh yeah, he's chillin." This goon was being held by a nurse and was just looking around not crying or anything. Chillest baby ever (he still is btw). I held him next to my wife's head until it was time to go back to the room. Little dude did have to spend 4 nights in the NICU because he couldn't keep his sugars or temperature regulated, but he was healthy otherwise. He's now 4 months old and is starting to sit up on his own a little bit and he's OBSESSED with standing. He's still a little guy, but very healthy and growing like a weed. He saves my life daily.

So after being unemployed for over 9 months, I started a new job working in a call center. I absolutely hate talking on the phone. It gives me anxiety and throws me into panic attacks, but I had been putting out hundreds of job applications since I lost my last job and this was the first offer I got. I wasn't really in a position to turn it down since my unemployment had ran out 2 months prior. It was 2 months of training, then we'd be on our own. I got thru the training and thought I could handle it...until they started putting us on live calls with someone helping us if we got stuck. My mental health hit the lowest point it had in a few years and my wife was terrified she was going to lose me. She convinced me to quit on February 28th (not because I didn't want to, but because I'm a stubborn ass who felt guilty). My meds got tweaked a little bit more dosage wise during this mess.

Starting about mid-February, I was experiencing severe shakiness, tremors, and spasms. I've always been a shaky person and never really thought too much about it, but at some points I could barely feed myself, or get a drink, or hold my son. On March 7th, I tried to make an appointment with my doctor about the weird symptoms I was experiencing, but she was out of town and her next opening wasn't until the 31st. My body said that won't work and my wife rushed me to the ER on the 9th...I had begun having seizures that day. I had no previous history of seizures. Got to the ER and had a seizure literally as I was walking thru the door, so they rushed me straight back. They took some blood and that was literally it. No MRI. No CT. They pumped me full of Ativan and said it was just a panic attack and to go home and chill.

Spoiler Alert: It wasn't just anxiety. I was having 20+ seizures a day. On the 10th, my wife rushed me to a different hospital...the good hospital over an hour away. First we had to drop off our gremlin with my mom to make things a little easier. Yet again, I had a seizure as I walked in the door and was taken back immediately. I don't really remember much because they kept pumping me full of Ativan and morphine because I had been in excruciating pain from the number of seizures I'd had. I do remember them doing a CT pretty quickly after I got there. Then they weren't happy with the results of the CT, so they took me to get an MRI, which showed possible signs of Multiple Sclerosis (but I didn't find that out until AFTER the notes showed up in my patient portal after being home a few days, so I raised hell...more on that later.) They did a 24 hour EEG on me and it showed nothing abnormal. Also, EEG glue is a bitch on your hair and scalp. After looking at everything and given my previous mental health history, they diagnosed me with Psychogenic Non-Epileptic Seizures, or PNES. It is a subset of Functional Neurologic Disorder, or FND. I couldn't walk well anymore and had to use a walker when I was discharged. I was in the hospital for 3 days.

When I had my follow-up appointment on the 23rd, I asked why the possibility of MS was never mentioned to me since it was very clearly in the notes. The doctor didn't have an explanation. He called in a referral to neurology so I could get a 2nd MRI to confirm MS and marked it as high priority. He also didn't take my pain seriously. My pain levels had been at a 5 or higher every single minute since they took me off of the morphine in the hospital. He told me to keep taking prescription strength doses of ibuprofen and Tylenol, which I had been. I let him know I had been and it didn't even take the edge off the pain. He ignored me. Leading up to this appointment, I had also added urinary incontinence to my growing list of symptoms and was forced to wear diapers so I didn't have to do laundry all the time. The doctor also took me off my ADHD meds because they were lowering my seizure threshold. He also took me off of my sleeping meds and nightmare meds for the same reason I'm assuming.

I kept my appointment on the 31st with my primary doctor because she's been my doctor for 5 years now and I knew she'd take my pain seriously. She did. She immediately wrote me prescriptions for a muscle relaxer and Tylenol 4. She also told me that my referral had been rejected by neuro. She said my case wasn't a good one for what she called a "wallet biopsy" and the doctors in neurology could be real assholes. She immediately sent the referral to other locations to get an approval. I am still waiting on that despite it being marked as high priority. She wrote me a prescription for a wheelchair because we both agreed my wheelchair was not enough for particular days.

Yesterday my wheelchair was finally ready for pickup, so my wife drove me to go get it. I'm still unable to drive due to my seizures and my tremors and twitches as it's predominantly in my legs and arms. I am an ambulatory wheelchair user now. Some days I can go short distances without my walker, some days I can't go without my walker, some days I can't even get out of bed, and some days I will be using my wheelchair. Don't judge a book by its cover, not all disabilities are visible. I have managed to keep my daily seizure count down in single digits and have even had a few seizure free days. They are still incredibly taxing on my body. I feel like I can't ever replenish my spoons fast enough to keep up with anything in my life.

So all in all, life has been chaotic. We are moving from Texas to New Mexico in the next few weeks, which should be interesting considering I can't overdo it without throwing myself into seizures. We will be closer to my mother-in-law so she can help us with our son and I can start resting a bit more on the more difficult days. Being a stay-at-home dad with an invisible illness has been one of the most challenging things I've done in my life, but I wouldn't change it for the world.

Sorry this is so long. I just wanted to update my followers since it's been over a year since I posted before a few days ago.

[justonepieceofthepie]

A Question

TW: mention of tics and descriptions, mentions of bad thoughts, sh

So I’m reaching out to the tumblr void because I don’t know what to do. Essentially, I think I may have tourette’s but I’m terrified that I am just faking it and that it is just me being attention seeking. If you have any insight, please tell me, but also please be kind, I am going through a lot rn, and my mental health is a little unstable.

My story starts last year, when I took Pristiq for my Generalized Anxiety Disorder and clinical depression. It triggered something in my brain, and I started having these little shivers (that I’ve been having as long as I can remember) rather frequently. I thought it was ok, and waited it out, but eventually I had a night where I was laying on the floor of the basement in my college dorm, just twitching non-stop for 3 hours. I stopped taking that medicine soon after, and switched to lexapro (I’m unsure if this has bearing, but here you go). A couple months later, I got a concussion, and got a constant migraine for over a month. Everything seemed to be ok, I kept going on with my life, but early this year, I had some kind of panic attack or something where I went nonverbal (I could not figure out how to talk, even though I could think, and type) and had intense levels of twitches. This mostly manifested in me snapping my fingers and jerking my neck, but also I could not look at heavy objects, because I was having intrusive thoughts (I did not want to unalive myself) of hitting my head where I had the concussion again. I chalked it up to some weird stuff that was going on in my personal life, and kept going on, but these last few months, I have been having pretty bad what I call twitches, but what could be characterized as tics. They are usually not vocal, often involve stomping, snapping, or me slapping my arm, but sometimes they are vocal and will often be high pitched squeaks or “Brrrrr” these usually happen when I get overstimulated (mostly by sound) if I get really cold, if I get itchy, or if I think about it too much. It feels almost how an itch feels, where you just feel like you have to do it, and sometimes I can stop it, but other times it takes over.

What I’m getting at is, I am scared that I am just faking it, and I feel bad for thinking that I might have tourette’s. I do not really know how to feel, and I do not know if it is ok for me to think that this is a possibility. 

[illogicallyinclined]

Ok sorry, but my dumbass needs fairly explicit information, and though it’s referenced in various posts, there isn’t a post on Thomas’s mental health (I might just be being dumb, whoops)

no worries, i love talking about this nerd. i touched up on mental health of the main eight in this post here, and although i mentioned Coach Thomas as well, i didn’t go into much depth. that said, here’s some elaboration:

tws: discussions of anxiety, PTSD and triggers, and depression

Coach Thomas has generalized anxiety disorder, although like Emile, he’s gotten pretty good at managing. his transition into being a star NHL player was rough -- although Thomas has always been a friendly and approachable guy, the sudden lack of any and all privacy was overwhelming, and he often found himself struggling to maintain his composure around the large masses of fans and media -- but with time (and the help of an incredibly kind and qualified team therapist), he found ways to deal with the stress and thrive despite it

Coach Thomas also has some PTSD surrounding the events of his career-ending concussion as well, though he has found that 10 years have given him ample time to process and move past the worst of it. Logan being diagnosed with PCS was a shock to the system, but it didn’t trigger Coach Thomas like it would have in the first few years following his injury. when Virgil got boarded, however, the situation hit entirely too close to home

although Coach Thomas has had minor depressive periods throughout his lifetime, he wasn’t diagnosed with major depressive disorder until his diagnosis with PCS. the months immediately following his injury were among the most bleak periods of his life; he struggled to get up in the mornings. he missed calls from his friends and families, sometimes on accident, sometimes on purpose, because he couldn’t find the energy to answer his phone or interact with other people. his mood improved with his physical health, but he was never quite the same 

he still has the occasional migraine, but they aren’t frequent enough to classify as PCS anymore; moreover, he came out of his major depressive episode, but even so, there are periods of dysthymia that still catch him by surprise sometimes -- days that feel tougher to pull through than usual, weeks where he’s forced to take things day-by-difficult-day

the last month has been like that -- has been distressing and dismal and hopeless, at times. but he isn’t depressed. he isn’t. he can’t afford to be, not when his team is falling apart. 

(it doesn’t work like that, of course. it doesn’t work like that at all)

(but Thomas has always been pretty good at suppressing his own feelings when the situation calls for it)

[ayatosmlktea]

I saw your post about Crazy Levi can I make a request on when reader and Levi has been dating for more than 3 years but one day they get into a horrible car crash and Levi smashed his head making him bipolar and reader did everything in their power to help him but nothing was working and he had to go to a mental hospital. Angst plz 😂😓

TW: Self-Harm, Mentions of Suicide, Depression, Mania, Bipolar disorder. Please read at your own risk.

𝑵𝒐 𝑯𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒚 𝑬𝒏𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒈

The accident had changed their lives completely, it just had to happen on one of their worst days. They had been so busy yelling at each other, fighting over something that was now so stupid and insignificant that Y/N hadn’t been focused enough to avoid the oncoming collision due to another driver running a red light. The crash hadn’t really been her fault, but her attention had been so focused on proving Levi wrong that she felt like everything that happened after was because of her petty tantrum. It was the universe’s way of saying that her habit of fighting over nothing was going to come back around to wreak havoc and destruction in its wake.

Y/N had managed to walk away with a minor concussion and a few broken bones but Levi had been less lucky. It had been three weeks since their accident and he still hadn’t woken up. She had cried until all that her body could do was feel like it was collapsing in on itself. Her eyes were constantly bloodshot and to anyone she might have seemed high, but she was preparing for the day the doctors would tell her that Levi would never walk up again. She never left his bedside unless absolutely necessary and even then the nurses would have to drag her out of his room.

“I’ve never prayed in my life and I must seem like the biggest hypocrite ever but if there’s anyone up there listening…please just give him back to me. I swear I’ll never start stupid arguments again just let him wake up” She had lost count of how many nights she’d spent pleading to whatever omnipotent being was listening to her desperate cries for help. All she wanted was to see his beautiful stormy eyes open again so she could apologize and beg for his forgiveness.

Her prayers were answered shortly after, it was a miracle! That’s what the doctors had said, and Y/N would take it. Whatever conditions were attached to him waking up didn’t matter, Levi was finally back.

“There’s been significant damage to his frontal lobe. You might start noticing some changes in his personality, if it gets to a point where he becomes a danger to himself or you give this number a call.” Levi’s primary doctor handed her a small black business card. Sina Institute for Mental Health. The words settled in her stomach uncomfortably. She really wanted to believe that Levi wouldn’t change, maybe with time he’d recover from the trauma. Maybe the doctors were over-exaggerating, Levi was resilient he’d pull through!

               ____________________________________________

“Welcome home Y/N! I missed you so much, you’re not going to leave me are you?” The sing-songy voice that greeted her as she walked through the front door didn’t make her feel welcome at all. Levi’s recovery was going worse than she had ever expected. The man living with her was not someone she recognized at all anymore. She never knew which Levi she was going to come home to and it was starting to make her feel anxious as soon as she started her trek home. On top of their already pricy rent and other costs their expenses had quickly skyrocketed due to their medical bills and Levi’s medication. Levi was on sick leave from his job, still not at a satisfactory level of physical or mental well being to return to work fulltime meaning that Y/N was shouldering the majority of their bills.

“I’m not going to leave you, you know I’m doing overtime at work. I called you earlier to let you know I’d be home late.” Putting her bag on the counter she walked over to the fridge to pour herself a giant glass of wine.

“I was thinking that our place could use some new furniture don’t you think? So I ordered a bunch of stuff online! Isn’t that great?” Y/N had to fight the urge to vomit while her fingers gripped the neck of her glass tighter. The stress of having to juggle all of their bills was already stressing her out to the point of not being able to sleep at night and now Levi’s habit of impulsively maxing out their credit cards was becoming too much.

“Levi we talked about this, you’re not supposed to use the credit cards unless it’s an emergency” Y/N couldn’t hold back the long sigh that left her lips, everything was just becoming so pointless.

“I know but I was cleaning before and it just didn’t feel right.”

“What didn’t feel right?” She asks not really wanting to know the answer.

“I don’t know! I just feel like something big is going to happen soon and we need to clean this dump up” His cheerful words clawed at her gut, Levi was never one to spend money recklessly. While she wasn’t as much of a neat freak as he was; she still tried her best to keep their shared space as clean as possible knowing that his mania was easily triggered by the slightest mess.

“Did you take your medication today?”

“I don’t need them! I feel better, honestly!” Her eyes began to burn with tears of helplessness. She had thought she could help him work through the mess his head was in. Researching for hours on the internet for ways to make it easier on adjusting him to being on his own without throwing himself into a depressive fit.

She’d anonymously called the number the doctor had given her asking for possible diagnosis based on the symptoms Levi displayed within the past three months. While they weren’t able to give her an accurate diagnosis without actually talking to Levi they’d been fairly sure his symptoms were similar to that of Bipolar disorder.

Y/N didn’t want to accept it at first, the Levi she had fallen in love with was stubborn and strong-willed. If anything, he was the one who had held her together. He was always rational and now the tables had been turned, Levi was not Levi. His manic episodes made him jittery and impulsive. His depressive episodes had her on edge constantly, normally she could talk him down from doing something irreversible but it seemed like their luck had finally run out.

                 ____________________________________________

Y/N had come home later than she had intended, it was well past midnight and she knew Levi was going to be up waiting for her to come back. She had tried calling his phone but he wasn’t picking up. She bit her lip nervously, it was never a good thing when he didn’t answer his phone. Her hands were shaking with anxiety when she unlocked the door. The apartment was dark and quiet yet something lurking in the darkness was screaming at her to turn away and walk away. Flicking the lights on the sight of drops of blood trailing from the kitchen into the hallway had the hairs on the back of her neck standing.

“Levi!” She called out not bothering to remove her shoes as she followed the trail leading to their bedroom. Holding her breath she pushed open the door that was already ajar. Levi sat on the edge of their bed, his face covered with his hands and his shoulders trembling slightly.

“Levi?” Cautiously she approached him, her fight or flight response ringing like a siren in her ear to get out. His head shot up at the sound of her frightened voice, eyes red and wet with tears.

“You promised!” His tone was accusing and all too loud for her to feel remotely safe.

“I’m really sorry! I didn’t mean to get home so late! Did you hurt yourself?” Trying to stay calm enough to let him allow her to get close to him was proving to be more difficult as each second ticked by.

“I don’t want to live if you’re going to leave me! Tell me you aren’t going to leave me!” The crimson stains on his shirt and their bedsheets had Y/N on the verge of a panic attack. She couldn’t help him on her own anymore.

“I’m not going to leave you. Please let me help you, you’re bleeding everywhere!” Hysteria was creeping into her throat, every minute that she watched the shell of the man she used to know made her heart pound uncomfortably in her chest.

“I don’t need your help! I don’t need anyone’s help! You think I don’t see the way you look at me? Like I’m some kind of monster? Like a fucking freak!” Tears streamed down her cheeks as he began screaming at her.

“I don’t think you’re a monster” she choked out in between sobs trying to catch her breath. Her hands reached out to him hoping that physical affection would help calm him down. Instead Levi violently shoved her out of his way to lock himself in the bathroom.

“Levi let me help you please!” She shouted banging her fists against the door uncaring of how loud she was being. Her head started to feel light headed as she began to hyperventilate. Through blurry eyes and with shaking fingers she called for an ambulance.

                 ____________________________________________

Levi had screamed that he hated her several times that night before the paramedics had given him a sedative. His voice infiltrated her dreams, every night she’d wake up to the image of his blood on her hands. It had been a few weeks since she’d admitted him to the psych ward, as much as she loved him she couldn’t bring herself to face him. Y/N was consumed by guilt, she’d sit in her car for hours outside the institute before going back home. There wasn’t anything she could say that would make up for her failed attempts at helping him. She had promised Levi that she wouldn’t leave him but it seemed like sometimes promises had to be broken.

Masterlist

[cryxmercy]

Does HIPPA Still Apply If I Tell You I’m Immortal? || Mercy & Queenie

When: Current, early afternoon Where: White Crest Memorial Hospital Clinic Who: Mercy and Dr. King @drqueenieking

TW: hospitals, death mention, drowning mention, assault mention, injury mention, medical blood, non-con (r/t supernatural powers), mental health, PTSD

A Fury walks into a doctor’s office…  

This was stupid. 

She shouldn’t be here. She didn’t need this. She didn’t need a doctor. It was… ridiculous. 

The slight tremor of her hands - though it happened intermittently - said otherwise. As did the new onset sleepwalking. It had happened again last night. This time she’d ended up in the street, waking up to the blare of a car horn as it swerved to miss her. She would’ve been fine if it hadn’t. Wouldn’t she? It was just a small four-door sedan, after all, and not a semi. She’d had worse. The thought of waking up inside a morgue freezer turned her stomach, and her ire at Dr. Kavanagh, who still had her blocked online (the coward), made her frown.

But it wasn’t the near-miss VVP that had pushed Mercy to call the clinic - asking specifically for the seemingly competent doctor that had treated her in the ER back during the mime-madness - but the idea of not being in control of her body. She hadn’t lied when she’d told Blanche it had never been in issue before. Not in all her 1200 years. And she hadn’t been lying when she’d said she would tell Arthur if it happened again. She would. Later. Once she ruled out any lingering issues of the all too human variety. Still, Mercy didn’t like it here. With it’s antiseptic smell that didn’t hide the lingering miasma of sickness 

that saturated everything. From the stark white walls hung with cheap artwork, to the out of date magazines that begged to be put out of their misery in the nearest trash bin. 

So by the time she was called back, Mercy was damn near ready to scrap the whole thing. But if she ran now, she was no better than a coward. And Mercy was many things, but a coward wasn’t one of them. So she gave the young nurse a forced smile and followed her down the hallway where she was weighed, her vital signs taken, and asked a series of standard questions. Allergies? None. Meds? Nope. Drink? Daily. Smoke? Sometimes. Drugs? Medicinal. 

The nurse gave her a small side-eye, but made a few notes in the chart and left Mercy alone - with instructions to change into the little paper gown on the table - to wait on the doctor. Mercy waited anxiously, finding only mild satisfaction in tossing the ‘gown’ where it belonged: in the trash. She had once again decided this was a bad fucking idea after a solid twenty minutes passed and no doctor. She’d just made up her mind to leave - Fuck this… - when the door finally opened.

The day had been surprisingly slow. Without any near fatal car accidents or wild animal attacks which continued to be one of the most prominent emergency room visits that they received, Queenie had been keeping herself busy by making her rounds around the rooms, popping in with other doctors and requesting that they let her take on some of their work. After all, chances were high that the end result would be better off in Queenie’s hands anyways. Most of the doctor’s in the hospital knew this even if they weren’t willing to admit it. 

However, it turned out that someone had specifically asked for her. Since Queenie did not typically take appointments, this surprised her. The closest thing that she had to a monthly appointment was checking Blanche for a concussion or setting a bone that had come out of socket. And those instances were never scheduled officially, Queenie had just become used to them being a monthly occurrence. If not sooner. So when the nurse had told her, Queenie agreed to it and added it to her calendar, wondering who was coming in and why they specifically wanted to see her.

Queenie often lost track of time at the hospital, and today was no exception. She had been distracted when the nurse told her about the woman’s arrival and had instead been entirely too focused on reminding a fellow doctor that his diagnosis of a patient had been entirely off base and borderline negligent. It wasn’t until the doctor had angrily stormed off that Queenie remembered that she had a patient waiting for her. She jogged across the hospital floor until she found the room on the clipboard that the nurse had given to her and knocked on the door, pushing it open seconds later. “Good afternoon” Queenie began, only glancing at the woman while reading the clipboard. Finally, she looked back up, “You’re a familiar face.” She had been in a few months ago maybe, Queenie couldn’t be sure. “What brings you in today?”

Mercy froze when the door opened and the doctor she remembered from the ER walked in. Well, at least she was seeing the person she’d asked for. Not that this was any easier for Mercy. She hadn’t been to a doctor in… so long that she couldn’t remember. Probably during the Cold War. But this was hardly post-WWII Russia. It was a tiny room at White Crest Memorial. And Mercy wasn’t a spy. She was… tired. She was just… tired. 

It seemed the doctor recognized her too. A double gunshot wound - one of those to the neck - that hadn’t been DOA would probably have been memorable. Or maybe the woman was just being nice. Who knew. Either way, she got right down to business. Mercy appreciated that. 

She sat back on the table, and got right to the point. “I had an accident recently. I drowned. I almost died. I lost my vision for a month afterwards. Vitreous hemorrhage. Since my vision came back… a few weeks now… I’ve started having tremors. In my hands mostly. And I’ve been sleepwalking. I’ve never experienced either of those things before. Insomnia, yes. Nightmares, yes. But never anything quite so severe. So I guess I just wanted to make sure there was nothing… wrong.” She didn’t know what to ask for as far as tests or anything else. So she left it there for now. 

Emergency rooms never exactly gave the best first impression of a person. It was never easy to tell if someone was a friendly person or not when their life was at stake. This woman, Mercy, for instance had been in the emergency room before. She looked lethargic, annoyed even. But she couldn’t tell if these were simply faucets of her personality considering the last time she had seen the woman it had involved a gunshot wound. Most people weren’t exactly sociable after getting shot. 

“You almost drowned? How long ago was this?” Queenie moved toward the table, grabbing at the woman’s wrist and beginning to check her pulse. All seemed normal. “You lost your vision because of it?” That was interesting, and not at all a common side effect of drowning, even the ones with extended periods of exposure to water. “Tremors and sleepwalking… interesting. Have you experienced any shortness of breath? Extreme tiredness?” She glanced down at the patient’s hand she had been using to check the pulse and noticed her finger nails. No discoloration there, that was a good sign. “Where did you almost drown? A lake? The ocean? Your bathtub?” 

Mercy had never been accused of having the warmest personality. And when she was hurt or worried - she’d been both at the time - it only got worse. Usually, she was full of energy. Other than not being a morning person. But who was? And her annoyance came from having enough weird shit going on with her body and in her head that she felt like coming here was one of her last options. So she was thankful when the doctor didn’t dally. 

“A month? Six weeks maybe? Time sorta starts to run together after awhile.” Mercy let herself be examined, watching as the woman checked her pulse. “Yes.” It was either the drowning, or having spent too much time in the place she could only call limbo. A place of darkness and cold, between dying and coming back. “Tell me about it,” Mercy huffed. “Shortness of breath, no. Fatigue…” She frowned. How to explain the eternal weariness that came with being as old as she was? Without revealing how old she was. “Maybe a bit more tired than usual. But I don’t sleep well anyway. Never have.”

Then came the next question: where did she drown. “Dark Score Lake. I was…” Mercy hesitated, but eventually said fuck it. In for a penny and all that shit. “I was assaulted. And that person wrapped their hands around my throat, and held me under until-” The doctor could hopefully draw her own conclusion: until the bubbles stopped. “I was pronounced dead on scene by EMS. So… they took me to the morgue. Where even the medical examiner concluded that I was dead.” Mercy gave the doctor a wan smile. “I woke up in the observation room about four hours later when my friend came to ID my body.”  

So. There it was. 

A month and a half was a long time to continue exhibiting symptoms related to almost drowning. “Fatigue and shortness of breath are both common symptoms of Acute Respiratory Distress Syndrome. Drowning victims that survive often experience this.” She nodded at Mercy’s words, making a note when she mentioned that has never slept well. “Have you ever considered that you may have sleep apnea or some form of insomnia?” Queenie was not entirely concerned about lack of sleep. Not as long as the person was still functioning. However, she knew how long periods of time without sleep could prove to be dangerous. She had too many examples of people falling asleep at the wheel in New York and ending up killing people or getting pretty damned close. “There are doctors that offer sleep studies here. I’m not one of those doctors. However you may consider looking into it.” 

Queenie’s arms dropped to her side as Mercy began explaining the full situation. Her clipboard hit against the railing of the hospital bed as it waved at her side. “You what?” Queenie pressed a finger to her forehead, considering this near impossibility that Mercy had just offered her. “Someone’s heart stopping for that long would risk severe brain damage.” She grabbed at Mercy’s hand again, checking her fingers. No sign that blood circulation had been cut off for an extended period of time. “There is no way you could have actually been dead that long. If I was even going to entertain the idea, I’d recommend a CT scan to make sure you haven’t experienced any brain damage. Honestly, even the thought just seems-” Queenie paused for a moment, noting another point Mercy had made. “You said someone assaulted you? Did they ever catch the person?”

“Insomnia and I are old friends.” Mercy tried to sound blaise, but it fell short. She just sounded... tired. “But no shortness of breath. Not after the first couple of days. And that was mostly because I was coughing so much.” She left out the part about the black oil, if only because she hadn’t seen it for herself. Mercy glanced up to the doctor’s face as she suggested a sleep study. That would probably be a terrible idea. No, it would be a terrible idea. “I’ll think about it,” Mercy nodded, even if she had no intentions whatsoever of letting a complete stranger - likely a human stranger - watch her sleep. 

When she explained the rest, the doctor’s reaction was… well, it wasn’t as bad as Mercy had anticipated. Honestly, she’d expected to be told - again - that it wasn’t possible. That there had been some mistake. Or some other excuse to make Mercy sound insane. “I’m aware,” she said with a note of long-suffering patience. She let the doctor examine her hands again. They looked like normal hands. Small and fine-boned, with neatly manicured nails. There was a tattoo on the underside of her right forearm, and what looked like an old burn scar shaped vaguely like a ‘P’ on the underside of her left wrist. Though she kept it covered with a watch or wrist-band of some sort. 

Mercy huffed when the doctor hit the proverbial nail right on the head. “Yeah.” But that was all she said about the medical examiner. She had her opinions, but she wasn’t here to talk about that. Instead, Mercy nodded in agreement that if she had actually been dead - truly dead - then she would likely not be sitting here now. But then again, Mercy wasn’t human.     

“Insane?” she said, finishing the doctor’s sentence for her. “Yeah. It does. But… there are conditions that mimic death to the point where even a doctor might be fooled. Catalepsy. The Lazarus Phenomenon. Fugu toxin. Even severe hypothermia.” Or being immortal. But it wasn’t as if Mercy could just come out and say that, could she? No matter how much the incident had affected her. 

Mercy hummed quietly, acknowledging the question about the assault. “Yeah. I was out by the lake. I walk at night when I can’t sleep,” she gave as an explanation, since ‘I was helping an exorcist and a supernatural bounty hunter kill and banish a squid-demon back to it’s own dimension’ would most certainly get her a psych workup. “This guy - I think he was drunk or on something - figured he could mug me. Didn’t expect me to fight back. He got the upper hand.” Mercy shrugged, as if it was no big deal. “Yeah, he’s... taken care of.” Not a lie, technically. But she wasn’t about to out Nic when it wasn’t his fault. 

“Why?”

“That sounds awful for you and your friend. I can’t imagine what that must have been like to wake up to.” Though Queenie was not entirely interested in the woman’s individual experience, she had to admit that it was fascinating to consider. How could someone have come back after that long without any permanent damage being done? 

The woman named off explanations for her sudden brush with dead and Queenie crossed her arms, “So you know a bit about medicine then? That’s quite impressive” Queenie didn’t use the term lightly, but liked to give credit where credit was due. Most of those were uncommon phenomena that rarely occurred and were even less frequently diagnosed as such. It was easy to pass things off as miracles or unexplainable. Lesser doctors were easily willing to except those explanations at times, whether it was because they were too incompetent to seek out the truth for themselves or because they enjoyed the idea of a miracle being associated with their name.

“I can’t imagine. Well, I am glad that he is taken care of. I do not drive, so I typically walk home from the hospital at all different hours of the day. I don’t like the idea of someone dangerous like that being on the loose.” Queenie explained. For what it was worth, all that time spent in New York and she had never so much as seen a mugger. From the stories she had heard in the ER, she supposed she could consider herself lucky. On the flipside, she had been in White Crest for only a couple of weeks before she had been attacked and her leg injured. Not that Queenie was willing to admit that Regan may have some backing to her baseless claim that animals were more violent here in White Crest. That must have just been an unlucky coincidence. 

“Well considering all the information that I’ve heard, I’m thinking your issue may not be physical at all.” Queenie crossed her arms, studying the clipboard again. “I am no psychologist, but you seem to be in good physical health. From what I’ve heard about your experience both with the mugger and then in the morgue it seems like you may be more aligned with some sort of PTSD. Though keep in mind that I am in no way qualified to diagnose that officially.” It was more of a hypothesis if anything, one that Queenie did not like to give formally unless necessary. However, from what Queenie had seen so far there didn’t seem to be any evidence that Mercy was suffering any visible defects following the attempted drowning. “I would be interested in running a CT scan, just to be sure. I’d be willing to do it myself, and can set up a time with you if interested.” Queenie tore a sticky note free and scribbled her information down on the pad and handed it off to her. 

Mercy had only tried to talk to Regan to explain that what the medical examiner had witnessed hadn’t been a medical oversight, but more an oversight of Mercy not being human. And only because Mercy knew Regan was fae. As the medical examiner, Regan needed to know - for her own safety as well as the safety of others - what she was dealing with when it came to the non-human residents of White Crest. But she hadn’t wanted to hear it. And Mercy wasn’t the type to beg someone to listen which is why she hadn’t gone over to the morgue and confronted Regan herself. It was only a matter of time before her denial would catch up with her. And that probably made Mercy more angry than anything. Because she’d seen the results of people turning a blind eye to one another. It never ended well.  

“It was… not the best,” Mercy said truthfully. “I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. But… we’re alright.” At least, she thought they were. Arthur tended to keep things close to the vest sometimes, not wanting to upset her. She couldn’t manage to be upset with him for that. 

Mercy smiled again at the compliment. “I try to stay informed.” Plus she’d had a long, long time to research certain things. One didn’t live for 1200 years without several periods of wondering how it all worked. Mercy had come to the conclusion that some things were simply unexplainable. At least in human terms. Miracles existed, but they were rare. Even more rare than Mercy herself.

Mercy nodded as the subject of her assailant passed, glad she wasn’t getting too many questions. It was dealt with. They moved on, and after Dr. King was done examining Mercy, she seemed to come to a tentative conclusion. One that didn’t surprise Mercy. Who didn’t like shrinks. At all. “Post-Traumatic Stress,” Mercy nodded as she took the information in. “I suppose that makes sense. I… I used to be a cop. Before I came here. Seattle. New York before that. We got…” She waved a hand towards her head. “- psych screens all the time. I always passed,” she assured the doctor. “But yeah. Okay. I’ll… look into it.” Mercy wouldn’t look into it. She knew what PTSD was. Had probably suffered from it for centuries. Only they didn’t have a name for it then. She was just glad to have checked out alright physically.

Dr. King mentioned a CT scan and handed Mercy a sticky note. “Thanks,” Mercy told Dr. King, tucking the note away in a pocket after she’d read over it. “I’ll think about it and let you know She’d talk to Arthur first, before she made any decisions. Who knew what the brain of a 1200 year old immortal would look like on a scan like that? It might invite more trouble than it was worth. 

“I would be interested in hearing about any further symptoms or experiences that you may have regarding this. Being legally dead that long is practically unheard of, even with the medical examples that Mercy had given. It could be valuable information to study. Not nearly as much of a medical marvel as someone with wings, but still fascinating stuff. If Queenie were a skeptic, she may even consider that Maine or White Crest truly did have something that caused it to be more susceptible to anomalies. If Queenie were willing to make an hypothesis based purely on a string of unrelated coincidences.

Based on the new information, PTSD seemed even more lucky. So Queenie nodded, “Between that and then your recent attack, I would say it’s not unlikely. It may be worth looking into at the very least.” Though Queenie herself had always considered psychology to be more medically adjacent than a study of medicine in itself, she at least acknowledged that sometimes symptoms were outside of her own physical control. Even if she thought that psychiatrists were glorified counselors that liked to play pharmacist. 

Though Queenie did not hold out much hope that Mercy would be returning for a CT scan anytime soon, she also had other things that she could be focusing on instead. She did not have much concern what Mercy did either way. “Well, you have my contact information. If any symptoms get worse please feel free to contact me. Apparently, I make house calls now.” Queenie stated sarcastically, adding in “At least the town seems to think so.” beneath her breath. “If there’s nothing else bothering you at the moment, then I’d guess that you’re good to go.”

The request to hear more about Mercy’s experience of being ‘legally dead’ for almost four hours wasn’t all that surprising. She could understand the curiosity from a medical standpoint - cheating death was what doctors did, wasn’t it? - and part of her even relished the idea that Dr. King was willing to discuss it. To learn. But Mercy wasn’t going to be a science experiment. She’d taken a risk revealing what she had. But Dr. King had been kind, and she’d listened seemingly without bias. So Mercy granted her one thing. “It’s very dark... and very cold,” she said of her experience with ‘death.’ “Wherever I was, I don’t ever wish to return.” She gave Dr. King a small, tight smile. 

As for the rest. “I’ll give it some thought.” And she would. Not a lot, because she wasn’t about to let some human head doctor try and psychoanalyze her. It wouldn’t end well. For either party. Would Mercy be coming back for a head scan too? Also not likely. She’d checked out physically, so that was good enough for her. It might even satisfy Arthur’s insistence that she get herself checked over. Well, now she had. And she was fine. So when Dr. King started to wrap up, Mercy was quite ready to be on her way. She gave Dr. King a small smirk. “Be careful with that around here,” she said of the house calls. “You never know who you’ll run into.” Or what. “People’ll start to take advantage.”

After thanking the doctor for her time, Mercy agreed that if anything new or concerning came up, she’d be sure to call. Though Mercy’s definition of ‘concerning’ was likely far, far different than Dr. King’s. 

~

[scnlit]

【 michiel huisman, cismale, 40 】this just in - markus visser has been in wickway for forty years. apparently he is an accountant and an ex-con, or so his passport says. so far it’s known that he favors off the hook, and resides at easy z’s. he is said to be humorous & patient, but also gross & flippant. at the end of the day, he can be described as shitty sitcoms, never-ending curiosity, the essence of an existential crisis

( tw: suicide ) 

HISTORY

Growing up with a single father is hard; even harder, still, when said father was half drowned in debt. Markus was forced to grow up faster than his peers. He had to be scrappy and figured out ways to help his father wherever he could. Admittedly, his father wasn’t a perfect person or parent; most of the time he numbed their shitty situation with the promise of liquor. And, yes, there were times where he was a little heavy handed with him if he did something foolish, but they both loved each other all the same.

Nothing could have prepared Markus when his father fell ill. They couldn’t afford the treatment required, and he had to stand witness to the slow decline of his father’s health. The man went from being a sizable man to bone thin in the matter of months. And one day Markus didn’t see him at all. At the time, he’d thought that his father was working overtime – that he’d be back home later or sometime during the night. Then one day became two, and then two became three… Worried, he called everyone that knew his father and filed a missing persons, but his answer wasn’t brought to light until the police arrived at his doorstep by the fourth night.

Suicide, they had said. The evidence was clear with the note left in the passenger seat, and the pistol gripped in his father’s hand. Markus was only sixteen at the time, and never acclimated to foster care. Two families tried to adopt him for the next two years, but neither lasted.

When he was of age, Markus set out to make a life of his own – still at a loss in life and in immeasurable pain. Even then, he managed to make ends meet; mainly through anger and spite. Markus did everything he could to better himself in order to get more and more money; honorable or not. Night classes, acts of thievery, double shifts – whatever it took to get a CPA and a stable job. So much so that his sticky hands got him tangled with something, or rather someone, that he couldn’t shake. A member of the Santoros caught him red handed and offered a transparent ultimatum -- either he joins the mafioso or he dies in a watery grave. Though brash and standoffish, Markus was no fool. He followed along and trekked his way through the initiation and ranks of the family. Up until he found his place as a financial advisor for the mob.

By the time he was thirty, a close friend, Gabrielle, was known to be a steadfast part of his life. So much so that they toed the line between platonic and ‘romantic’. As romantic as the cardinal sin of pure lust could be considered anyways. All it took was that one time for the both of them to grow closer than ever. Nine months later they were gifted with the absolute apple of their eyes, Morgan Walker-Visser.

Life was good then -- just for a short year, at least. Markus had been convinced that he was safe from the rumors of waning loyalty within the Santoros. Sure, Gabrielle had offhandedly mentioned a safer lifestyle to help raise their child, but the conversation always ended with Markus dismissing it as useless and impossible. And it was the exact same blind faith that brought him misfortune in the worst of ways.

His best friend and son disappeared in thin air one evening. A ransom was then posted the next day; the same kind that the mafioso was notorious for. Markus knew that it was a test of fidelity to the corrupt family, but that didn’t staunch the outrage. Naturally, he scrounged up the expected sum as soon as possible. After that, he waited.. and waited.. and waited. 

Gabrielle and Morgan were never seen or heard from again. 

Unlike many of the civilians of Wickway, he knew what happened and it struck more than one nerve. Deep seated hatred for the mafioso planted its roots and consumed him, but again -- he was no fool. A one man riot would’ve been a suicide mission. So he waited once more. This time with his ears strained to catch wind of other members that experienced similar heartache and detested all that the Santoros stood for. 

Markus put forth his all when the upheaval of power ensued. If the unkindly grace of fate wanted to have him drop dead then so be it. There was hardly any worth to his life, after all. Yet he somehow survived the bloodbath; not without significant bodily damage but still very much alive. 

While peace eventually settled over the island, he continued his days with unrest. The sizable abode he once lived in was no more as he started to pinch pennies. The pristine visage he once carried so proudly diminished into a mere husk of vanity. Somehow, by some miracle, he retained enough of a drive to continue his work, but that’s practically all Markus has going for him. 

MISC. INFO

Wickway local & was with the Santoros for 13 years.

Markus was involved in a car accident when he was fourteen. It resulted in a fractured clavicle and concussion. The latter of which costed him his sense of smell. As off putting and terrifying as that was, his doctor reassured him that the chances of it being permanent was only in the ten to twentieth percentile. Yet a year passed and he never regained the sense. So he was forced to acknowledge that he had anosmia.

Anosmia is the loss of smell & it impacts the sense of taste as well. So while Hayes is unable to taste the nuances, he is able to taste the basic taste sensations of salty, sour, sweet, bitter and umami.

It can still be a struggle for Markus to retain the determination to uplift himself and live in healthier / safer manner. Though tedious, he keeps track of nutritional values and calories to make sure his body got enough nutrients. Harder still, he makes sure he exercises somewhat regularly in order to balance out his physical and mental health.

Markus does not bear the Santoro’s tattoos on the back of his hands. It happened a few months after the Santoros were overthrown, and he could not stand the idea of having a physical reminder of being in the mob. He depersonalized extremely bad and severed the skin off the back of his hands ( Tony was.. also present and bumrushed his ass to the hospital right after ), got some skin grafts smacked on, and now has some really gross scars.

Sexuality: Homosexual

Personality: First and foremost, he is a workaholic that just so happened to lose most of his manners along he way. An absolute stickler for details ( learned that it’s better to cover all aspects / asses before anyone can place the blame on him and be right ). Cheeky, sly, has some capacity for mischief, lazy when it comes to anything aside work, humorous ( crude ). Always willing to respect someone until they give him a reason not to.

CONNECTIONS

[taylart-x]

Whumptober- Day 28

Day 28: Beaten

Fandom: Thunderbirds Are Go!

Characters: Virgil Tracy, Scott Tracy, Gordon Tracy, Alan Tracy (mentioned), Grandma Tracy (mentioned)

Disclaimer: I do not own Thunderbirds or any of the characters from the show (or from TAG). I just want to make cool stories :)

Final part to the ‘Laced Drink’ series hint I’ve done over Whumptober. Precious part can be found here (Day 25- Humiliation)

TW: implication of suicide

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It had been a year and a half.

IR was going strong, the brothers as close as they had always been. Alan had finished with his studies and gotten a college degree while he was at it. Gordon had only scars to show for the confrontation with the Chaos Crew, who were now behind bars, as was the Hood. Some new group had surfaced, but for now, it was pretty peaceful.

And Virgil.

Virgil had been plagued with nightmares for months. After about 3 months he managed to get himself a concussion while on a mission, but it had somehow unveiled all the memories and unleashed them to torment the engineer night and day. He had been a shell of the man the Tracy’s had known. He had been deathly silent whenever he was in the comms room and flinched away from all contact. Scott had pulled him off duty, which seemed to send him spiralling even more.

He had been lost.

They hadn’t been sure that they weren’t going to come back from a mission to find they hadn’t been able to save their brother.

However, Virgil pulled through. Grandma took him to a psychiatrist in New Zealand and he was counselled into an acceptance of what had happened, and medically helped with prescriptions to help fight the shadowed fingers of Dan that had seemed to keep ahold of the second eldest.

But now, a year and a half since that fateful night, Virgil was healthy. He still suffered from nightmares, and at times, panic attacks if someone triggered him, but he was on the mend. His duty had been reinstated by the Field Commander, and his eldest brother had given him as many hugs as he had needed.

Gordon had been there at every moment. There was a guilt that crawled through his blood knowing that his brother had been hurt to save him and Scott; two military men that would have the training necessary to have a better chance at getting out of the situation. So Gordon had picked Virgil up every time he fell, and the aquanaut almost succumbed to his own decline in mental health as his brother fell deeper into depression and grief. Scott had had to get him off the island and away to Virgil, let him recover before letting him help.

Virgil hadn’t seen it that way at the time.

He had seen it as his younger brother seeing him as digisting. Unlovable. Dirty.

Same with Alan. The young man hadn’t known how to help, what to do, and after triggering Virgil into a panic attack early on, had made himself as scarce as possible. Virgil had seen it as another strike against him ever being able to be healthy and ‘pure’ again.

But they had gotten him out of it. He was still here, and he was getting better with every passing day. He was on call again, he was working on TB2 again, he was painting and playing piano as much as he used to, and the family was happy to see it.

They had missed him over the months.

But he was getting better.

They had thought that Dan had killed Virge. They thought that they had lost their creative engineer forever.

But he had shown Dan. He had beaten his attempts to destroy Virgil.

He had beaten that son of a bitch.