#why do I have like. A specific thing for women with thick southern accents who have butch swag.

[seaoreos]

the funniest thing about being bi and having a self-shipper partner + qpp who are both mainly/exclusively attracted to men is that when they see a neat woman they immediately look at me and go ‘bee you should selfship with her’ I love it

[writing-on-standby]

time of dreaming (part three)

Summary: Soulmates meet in their dreams from the age of 16 until they meet for the first time. Once they meet, they share their physical and emotional feelings with one another until they die. Tom Holland was just starting to learn how to take over the family business and ignore the urge to find his soulmate when everything changes and he’s found face to face with you. You’ve always wanted to meet your soulmate and spend the rest of your life with them until you actually meet yours and life changes forever.

Warnings: Drug use, swearing, alcohol, angst, mentions of scars/injury (not self harm) 

                                 part three: coping mechanisms

A few days after your last interaction with Tom and Harrison, you were discharged from the hospital. Jazmin had taken you home and spent the week after at your house, helping you. She didn’t ask for details about what happened, but word was quickly spreading that you were assaulted in a drug deal gone wrong. Wrong place, wrong time. And you didn’t have the heart to say otherwise.

After a week of time off, however, Jazmin had to go back to work, leaving you alone to take care of the hundreds of stitches you had that kept your chest closed. Your arm was still in a sling and wandering around the house was difficult. There was a constant dull ache in your stomach where Luke O’Malley had stabbed you. You didn’t know what happened to him and you had no idea what happened to Tom and Harrison, but you didn’t care. At least that’s what you told yourself.

Nothing was more heartbreaking, however, than to feel the hands of another woman on Tom, exploring his body and getting to know him. You’d wake up in the middle of the night, tasting cigarettes and whiskey while feeling the lips of someone on your skin. You’d try to block out the sensation of Tom sleeping with another girl, but nothing worked, not even you drinking.

Eventually, one night that Tom was getting frisky with another woman, you looked at the medication you were given to help ease the pain you were in. You took a deep, calming breath, determined to get this feeling out of your head. Without another thought, you popped two painkillers and laid down on your bed. A small smile lifted your cheeks as you could only focus on the comfort of the bed.

Maybe it wasn’t the healthiest coping mechanism, but in that moment, you were desperate to feel anything other than Tom fucking another woman. You nestled deeper into your bed while your body felt light and airy. You slowly closed your eyes and smiled. This was working. For once, you had a way to numb Tom’s feelings and the sensations he felt and for the next six hours, you’d finally pretend he wasn’t your soulmate.

*

Two weeks and some bad decisions later, you were out of pain killers and your body was screaming in pain. You groaned and crawled out of bed. The stitches  had come out of your chest, but the mark was still there; angry and harsh against your soft skin. You had been kicked out of the internship program due to your incident and while the director denied it was because if that, you couldn’t hide the nagging reminder of the scar that somehow showed through any article of clothing you tried.

Tom’s feelings and sensations weren’t making things any better, either. If he wasn’t hooking up with random women, he was drinking whiskey at the worst time of day and smoking cigarettes like he would die without them. On days you tried to be productive, Tom would get into fights. His knuckles constantly ached as did his throat. Having him as your soulmate was insufferable and when you got a particularly bad cramp during your period, you couldn’t help the petty joy you felt, knowing he was also suffering.

You dragged yourself out of the house. The shirt you wore showed off the jagged edge of of the scar you had. The worst part of having the injuries you had wasn’t the pain, but the combination of a massive scar on your chest and the need to wear specific shirts to accommodate to the sling you had to wear. You sighed, trying to ignore the sense of dread seeing the injuries filled you with, but nothing worked.

You walked out of your dingy apartment and onto the streets of London. You were trying to find a way to get more pain killers, but the doctors had already refused your request. As much as you hated yourself for even entertaining the idea of illegally obtaining drugs, you couldn’t go another day with the feelings you had. Luckily for you, you lived in a sketchy part of town and happened to know where the drug deals went down.

Not even caring that your soulmate was a glorified drug dealer or that what you were about to do was definitely illegal, you approached the dealer who stood in the alley by your flat.

“Hey pretty thing,” the dealer spoke, gruffly. His face was ragged and covered with stubble. His blue eyes weren’t menacing like you always pictured a drug dealer to be. “Need something to help with that?” The dealer gestured to your injuries with a cigarette dancing between his finger tips. “Since you’re so pretty, I’ll give you a discount.”

How kind of him, you thought to yourself, sarcastically. You sighed and nodded, slowly. You ignored the spade shaped pin on his chest even though you knew it indicated who he belonged to - the Hollands. “How much?”

The dealer chuckled and told you his price. It wasn’t bad and you handed him the cash. With a sickeningly sweet smile, he handed you a bottle full of painkillers. “Don’t take them all at once, sweetheart.”

You ignored the smirk on his face as you turned and started walking away. Your heart was racing and your body was warm. You ignored every part of your instincts telling you to drop the painkillers and run, but you needed it. You tried to slow your breathing, knowing that Tom would be able to sense your anxiety. What did you care, though? He didn’t give two shits about you. He had made that perfectly clear.

*

Tom stood in his office talking with Harrison. It was the end of the day and they were waiting for the report on the sales his drug dealers had. It was a typical routine that happened almost every day. Tom filled two glasses with whiskey and grinned as he handed it to his best friend. Things were starting to look up.

Over the last three weeks since he had met his soulmate, he’d only felt the soreness in your shoulder along with a dull ache in his stomach. He shrugged off the pain, easily having worse injuries in his life. However, when your period came around, Tom struggled. While your cramps weren’t awful, Tom never had to get used to dealing with them and he simply found it way too uncomfortable.

As the days went on, Tom noticed you feeling more lightheaded and less pain came from your shoulder and stomach. Tom ignored it, assuming that you had finally healed up the wounds. He had tried to ignore any thoughts or emotions about you. It was too hard to think about the look on your face when he last saw you. Your eyes were wide with pain and a frown sat firmly on your lips. It was hard to process the fact that his soul was forever connected to another person and now he had a face to match with the sensation.

A swift knock sounded on Tom’s office door. Tom called for the person to enter and turned to see who it was. Jason, the drug dealer who was in charge of the southern part of the city, walked in. His blue eyes beamed and the stubble on his face added an extra disheveled look to the man. Tom greeted him and he nodded.

“How was the day? Did you make any sales?” Harrison asked, arms crossed. Harrison kept track of the finances in the mob. He knew that Tom was shit with numbers.

Jason chuckled and leaned back. “There was this one bird who came today. Poor thing,” he muttered with his thick cockney accent. He shook his head and lit up a cigarette. “Had her arm in a sling and a nasty scar.”

Harrison and Tom looked at each other. Without saying a word, they both were on the same page. “What arm was in a sling?”

“Where was the scar?” Harrison added, looking at Jason, intently.

Jason looked at the two of them for a brief second. Tom knew this sounded insane, but he didn’t care. Why would you be buying drugs? Jason took a deep drag off his cigarette and sighed, letting all the smoke blow out of him. “Her right arm was in the sling and the scar was right on her sternum. Looked like it went further, but the shirt covered it. What’s the big deal with her?”

Tom shook his head. “Jesus fuck,” he groaned. “Jason, if that woman buys from you ever again, call me as soon as she leaves. Got it?”

Jason furrowed his brows. “Can I ask why?”

Tom chuckled, but there was no humor in his laugh. He shook his head and threw his empty whiskey glass at the wall. It shattered right behind Jason, causing the drug dealer to jump to his feet. Most people had grown to fear Tom and despite his distaste for that power, he used it to his advantage more often than not. “No you fucking can’t,” Tom shouted. “Get the fuck out of my office.”

Jason walked out of the office without another word, leaving Tom and Harrison alone. Harrison looked at Tom in disbelief. Despite the two of them being best friends, Tom had grown distant from Harrison. “Tom,” he whispered. “What’s going on in your head?”

Tom shook his head, trying to ignore the massive amounts of guilt he was feeling. Most nights, before he went to sleep, he’d feel fear and anxiety build up in your bones. He felt you shake awake from nightmares in a cold terror. Tom could feel the ache still present in your body and worst of all, he could feel every time you took drugs. It just took you buying them illegally from one of his drug dealers to finally face the truth. Tom knew that this was a new behavior. In fact, he felt your anxiety earlier today, but assumed it was something normal, not a drug deal. The guilt was crawling into Tom’s lungs and nestling itself firmly on his chest. It was his fault that you were now breaking the law and abusing drugs. “It’s my fault,” he sighed.

“No, it’s not, Tom,” Harrison spoke, confidently. He took a step closer to Tom, but Tom shook his head.

“Don’t fucking lie to me, Harrison.” Tom looked at the open office doors and took a deep breath. He closed his eyes and tried to think of his father. In moments like this, Tom could always count on his father to help him get his thoughts in order.

*

“I know you’re excited that you met your soulmate, Tom, but you cannot meet her. You know that you can’t, right?”

Tom took a bite of his cereal and nodded. Tom was getting better at focusing on the future of his mob rather than the vague-faced woman he saw in his dreams. “I know, dad.”

“Good,” he sighed. Tom’s father was always loving and encouraging to the boys, but when it came to soulmates, he wouldn’t budge. Tom knew that the distaste for soulmates was because of what happened with his mother, but Tom never dared to mention such a thing to his dad.

“Dad, what if I accidentally meet her?”

Tom avoided his dad’s cold stare from the other side of the table. It was a genuine question, on Tom’s part. He knew that meeting his soulmate wasn’t allowed, but what if she happened to be in the same store one day? Or what if she was a cop that he ran into one day? Tom’s dad finally sighed and shook his head. “Tom, you won’t meet her. And if you do, then you’ll start feeling her every thought, feeling, and emotion. That makes you weak, Tom. You can’t let yourself be weak. Not when you belong to this family and you have this job.”

Tom nodded at the bowl of cereal in front of him. His dad had been preparing him for the lifestyle that he was expected to continue, but Tom was still not ready to shut out normal emotions in the way that his father expected him to. Tom tried to ignore the nagging feeling he had in the back of his throat that meeting you in your dreams as frequently as he did was worse than actually meeting you. Tom had already grown attached to the way you laughed at his serious tone or the way you’d be able to tell when he didn’t want to talk about meaningless things. He was attached to the way you were so easily there for him, even when he was being a relentless asshole. Tom couldn’t help but feel like he was already breaking your heart despite only knowing each other for a few weeks. And even then, you didn’t even know what the other one looked like. Tom looked up at his dad who raised his eyebrows. Tom knew that his dad was expecting him to agree and to show submission to his father’s request. Tom sighed, ignoring the soul crushing guilt he felt when he slowly nodded at his father. “Okay, dad.”

*

You walked back to your flat and shut the door with a sigh. Your hands were shaking as you popped open the pill vile and took two pills. At this point, your body was so used to taking the pills that two weren’t enough for you, but you weren’t sure if there was a difference in illegal pain killers and legal pain killers. You took a deep breath, trying to ignore the overwhelming sense of guilt that you could feel coming from Tom. Your first instinct was to find him, hold him, and comfort him. After a few seconds you shook your head in disgust. If Tom gave a single shit about you, he’d come over every time you woke up with tears streaming down your face because of nightmares. If Tom cared about you, he would check up on you every time he felt you get high. If Tom cared, he wouldn’t sleep with random women nearly every day. If Tom didn’t care, why did you?

You ignored the ache in your heart that was now because of your own thoughts. Instead, you focused on the way your body felt lighter with each step you took. You focused on the soft fabric of your shirt and the way the rug under your feet felt. You sighed, drowsily, as the pain killers slowly took effect on your body. You flopped onto the couch and felt your body sink into the plush cushions. You turned on the TV, planning to watch some trashy reality while you enjoyed your high, but your phone ringing caught you off guard. The phone number wasn’t recognized, but you didn’t care enough to worry if it was something serious. You silenced the call without another thought.

The phone started ringing, again, however. You groaned and silenced it again, not wanting to talk to anyone. If it was that important, they could leave a message, you reasoned with yourself. The phone rang for a third time, and you felt anger prick at your cheeks and burn into your chest. You suddenly put the sensation with the incessant calling and realized that it was Tom calling you. Tom was calling you and you ignoring him was pissing him off. You smirked at this realization and chuckled. Before you could think of any reason why Tom would be calling you, you shut your phone off and turned the volume of the TV louder. You popped open the pill container you were given and took a third. With the smile still lazily spreading across your cheeks, you walked over to the kitchen and poured yourself a glass of wine. Without thinking, you guzzled the whole glass and poured another. “Fuck you, Tom Holland,” you muttered to yourself, as if toasting to this statement. You raised the glass to your lips and took another drink, already feeling sick.

Your stomach was flipping and lurching, but you didn’t care. All you could focus on was the fact that you were feeling a cigarette burning your throat and the warmth of Tom’s anger. You were pleased with yourself for dragging these feelings out of Tom. It was high fucking time that he was suffering because of you just as much as you were because of him. You finished the second glass, forcing the alcohol to burn every inch of your throat and stomach. You knew you were going to be sick, but the thought of making Tom feel your suffering and pain was too glorifying for you. You filled a third glass and took a drink as you stumbled into the living room with drunken giggles. Maybe you didn’t care so much about the scar you now held forever, or the fact that your future was put on hold because of Tom. Maybe you could pretend for a small minute that everything was okay.

You flopped on the couch, spilling the wine on your shirt, but all you could do was giggle. You were growing more tired and sick, but you couldn’t let yourself be bothered. All you could do was chuckle, lazily. You forced your eyes to stay as open as they could, but the alcohol mixing with the pain killers was making you so incredibly drowsy. It didn’t matter, though. You could never sleep, lately.

The last few weeks, you would wake up in a cold sweat, thinking of the man who held you against him and slashed your chest open. You hadn’t slept a full night since the assault, but the drugs were helping. You smiled at the thought of being able to sleep for a few hours without seeing or hearing that man. Maybe one day, you’d sleep through the night without the help of drugs, but for now, you were medicating yourself. What else was there to do?

Before you could stand up to fill a fourth glass of wine, your apartment door busted open. Your reflexes were slowed and your logic was out the window. You stood up and wobbled back and forth, trying to balance yourself. Ignoring the smallest rational voice in the back of your brain telling you that it was Tom, you still walked towards the door. You stumbled and peered your head around the corner to see Tom and Harrison both standing there. Anger filled your bones as you looked at their dumb faces. You could see Tom wobbling slightly, but he wasn’t nearly as affected by you. You stumbled into their view and threw the wine glass at Tom as best as you could. It missed his head, narrowly, and shattered at his feet.

Tom whipped his head to glare at you. “What the fuck are you doing?”

You chuckled. “Fuck you, Tom Holland,” you slurred. A laugh erupted out of your diaphragm, even though you knew this situation was far from funny, but this was all you could bring yourself to do in this moment. You shrugged at the boy. His brown eyes were concerned and his eyebrows were knitted, but the drugs in your system blocked his feelings from you. Tom took a step closer to you and you flinched backwards, causing you to trip over the rug behind you. Your ass hit the ground with a pathetic thud and Tom walked over to you. He knelt beside you and helped you up. “Get the fuck off me,” you whimpered as tears slipped out of your eyes. An uncontrollable sadness was washing through your veins and you knew it was yours. It was the sadness over your lost career, your lost soulmate, and the weight of the trauma that you’d experienced in your life.

Tom helped you sit on the couch as he pursed his lips. You could see the fear and the guilt dancing along his eyebrows. He shook his head as he wiped a tear from your cheek. He pushed the hair off of your face and slowly rubbed your back. The last thing you wanted right now was to be comforted by Tom, but you couldn’t ignore the ache in your soul to just be with Tom. “Why are you doing this?”

You sniffled as the world kept shifting around you. The alcohol was fully hitting you and all you could do was accept it. “I can’t sleep; I can’t eat. I have nothing. All I can think of is…is…him,” you sputtered. “All I can think of is the fear and the smell of him. I can’t sleep without seeing him and I can’t eat without feeling the knife against my chest. I can’t function with you sleeping around with other women. I can’t escape this-this anger and sadness.” You wiped your eyes, roughly and shook your head. “You’re not here because you care. You’re here to make sure I don’t fuck with your mob or the cops.” Your lips curled in a sneer as you spit on the ground. The more you talked, the more saliva filled your mouth. Or maybe it was the tears that were now uncontrollably falling from your eyes that were filling your mouth. It didn’t matter to you, not right now. “I won’t fuck with anything. I’m just trying to keep my head above water.”

Tom’s heart was breaking at the sight of you. The scar was clearly visible and tears were freely falling down your cheeks, but you were still speaking your mind. He knew that the universe made you his soulmate because you weren’t afraid to speak your mind to him. “Love, let’s get you into some pj’s and get some rest, okay?”

“What’s the point,” you spat. “I don’t sleep anyway.”

“C’mon,” he ushered, softly. He helped you stand and walked you towards the bedroom. You didn’t fight him as he wrapped his arms around you waist and you certainly didn’t fight him when he held you close to his side. He helped you with every stumble and wobble, but his grip never wavered.

Once in your bedroom, Tom held you up as you grabbed some sweatpants and a loose t-shirt. He covered his eyes as you changed, but his hand was still softly at your side. Maybe it was the drugs or the alcohol that was lowering your ability to think clearly. Two hours ago, you would’ve punched Tom so hard in his face, but in this moment, as he took care of you, you couldn’t feel the anger anymore. You could feel his guilt and his sadness, but you didn’t feel angry anymore. His brown eyes were so concerned as he helped you lay on your bed. Without asking, he took off his heavy knit sweater and climbed into bed, next to you.

“I’m so mad at you,” you whimpered as tears fell out of your eyes. “I can’t fucking stand you.”

Tom could hear the weakness in your tone and knew that you were trying so hard to come off menacing. He couldn’t help but let out a soft chuckle as he heard Harrison sweep up the broken glass and tidy up the flat. “I know, princess,” he whispered. “Let me try to help you sleep, okay? You need to sleep, love.” Your eyelids slipped shut as he pressed a soft kiss to your forehead. “I’ll be right here. I promise.”

You couldn’t fight it anymore. You let the wave of sleep wash over your exhausted body. Tom’s arms were tightly wrapped around you, filling you with a sense of security. You listened to his steady heartbeat and felt your soul rest, finally.

And for the first time in weeks, you finally slept through the night without any nightmares.

                                                  part four

[cuorepietoso]

Things you were afraid to say

requested by @evcravens   /   ft. Alessio Rossi

     I. 

          They have a dry run for the end. 

     In July of 2013, Sottotenente Alessio Giovanni Maria Greco Rossi, aged 25, receives a Croce di guerra al valor militare after an injury received in the line of duty. The location of this incident is heavily classified, as are the mission specifications, but he’s commended by his commanding officers for his valor and his hard work and his dedication. He’s recognized, briefly, as an intelligence officer that specializes in both human and counterintelligence in the Middle East, and then promptly forgotten about by the broader nation. No mention of his work with the Col Moschin is made. 

          He’s very handsome. He looks good on camera. 

     In July of 2013, Maresciallo Ordinario Battista “Tombarolo” Tahan spent three hours digging a bullet out of Sottotenente Alessio Giovanni Maria Greco Rossi’s asscheek in a rundown shack in Somalia, while the legend himself had laid on his stomach, smoked a cigarette, and bitched about the economy. And about polyester socks. And the way limoncello tastes like ass unless you’re already nine drinks deep. And every time he would stop bitching, Tahan would shake him just a little bit, and try to keep his own voice steady when he prompted him to keep going. 

     He’s silent on the CASEVAC ride out of there, hands clenched together as the other medics take over, watching Rossi’s face as he drifts in and out of sleep, finally drugged up on the good stuff. The ends and elbows of his sleeves are stained red. His knees don’t stop jittering until Rossi reaches out and settles a hand on one with an unhappy grunt. It slides off when he fades once more, and Tahan carefully sets it back at his side on the stretcher, and remains stock still for the rest of the ride. 

     It takes the doctors and nurses nearly ten hours to allow Rossi any visitors once they land on base. Tahan has showered, changed, been debriefed, and navigated tracking down some food for himself within that time, any words that had been forced out of him were terse or downright biting, unwilling or unable to rein in his tongue in the wake of such a disastrous assignment. When he finally steps into the cramped room and spots Rossi, alive and well enough, all in one piece, it’s like the wind falls from his sails, and he slumps into a chair next to his bed with a lackadaisical sprawl. 

     They’re silent for a moment, while Tahan eyes critically his IV, and the machines he’s hooked up to, and then his lap, under the blankets, where he knows there’s a hole in him about three centimeters wide. Rossi watches him back, an expression of openly warm, quiet bemusement settling on his face, and his voice sounds nearly normal when he speaks, if a little slurred from the painkillers. “You have something on your mind, grave robber?” 

     Tahan’s gaze is torn from his lap to meet his gaze, giving him an ugly look. He doesn’t say: you could have died. He doesn’t say: you need to be more careful. He doesn’t say: what would I do without you? There are some things, he’s found, that are just asking for trouble-- and opening that can of worms with Alessio Rossi could be qualified as begging for it. He just leans forward, and puts a hand on his wrist, and murmurs, “Did the doctors say you would make it? Or is your case of shittalking terminal?”

     He laughs, then, something bright, something with no place in the sterile halls. Tahan finds himself leaning closer at the sound of it, wanting to reach out and run his fingers over Rossi’s forehead, his cheeks, his chin, wanting to reach out and feel the breath rolling out of him and his chest rising and falling steadily. He wants to hear that laugh again. He’s happy to settle with watching the easy smile take its place. “I can’t die, Tahan.” Rossi’s voice fills the room like it’s a summer breeze, and he slumps even closer still, until Rossi can reach out and card his fingers through Tahan’s hair-- and that’s exactly what he does. The rest of the lingering tension drains out of his shoulders at the touch. “I have you looking out for me.”

     Tahan rolls his eyes so hard that he thinks they may pop out of his head. “I can only save you from so much stupidity, Rossi. I’m not God.” Most of the younger man’s so-called stupidity, he thinks, stems from his damned bleeding heart. His spine of steel, uncompromising morality-- traits that were God-given, hard to keep, and worth cupping his hands around and breathing life into. Worth protecting. 

     He thinks maybe he’s devoted to the man laying on the bed. It’s easy not to think about why, because he makes it easy. He makes it feel natural. 

     “No, not God.” There’s something terribly fond in his expression now, as he traces his fingers from Tahan’s hairline to his jaw, feather-light. “Maybe a guardian angel, then.” His grip tightens marginally when Tahan scoffs. “Right, sorry-- Your angels are a bit scarier than mine. But what’s wrong with that, hm? You’re ass ugly already--” 

     Tahan lets out a bark of laughter, the stormcloud of his foul mood finally releasing as he pulls Rossi’s hand from his face, settling their palms together. Rossi laces their fingers and settles their joined hands on the bed. “Your mother doesn’t think I’m ugly.” 

     Rossi’s nose crinkles. “My mother has awful taste. So do I.” They share another laugh, and have to smother it as a nurse walks by, peering into the room to check on the racket they’re making. When he speaks again, his voice isn’t subdued at all. “Seriously, though. I’m fine. And you know I’m fine. It’s just-- getting shot in the ass? I’d almost rather be dead. How embarrassing.”

     A weary sigh slips out of Tahan, and he settles a chin in his hand, elbow resting on the edge of the bed. The sheets are itchy. He thinks Rossi is probably too doped up to notice. “The bullet missed your femoral artery. But it might not have. Or it could have hit you anywhere-- the spine, the heart.” His lips are drawn into a thoughtful frown. “And you shouldn’t say things like that. Being shot in the ass is going to be funny… in twenty years.” 

     “You’re right, you’re right. And besides--” Rossi pauses, for dramatic effect, as he occasionally does. “If I died, who would watch your back? Hm? Rana and Rospo are good at their jobs, but they’re dumber than brickbats. And who would tell you to cut your hair, since you don’t know what a mirror is for?” 

     Tahan sighs again. “Bene, bene. Glad you’re alright, asshole. Try to watch out for ricochets next time.” Rossi’s smile is all teeth, and his only other response is to point imperiously at the bottle of water next to his bed, and order Tahan to fetch it for him.

     II. 

     In 2014, nearly a year to the day Alessio Rossi’s life is violently cut short, Tahan finds himself staring at the burned out shell of a building. The walls have crumbled in, mostly, and the fire still smolders and smokes in a few places. He has no idea if there was anyone inside when the building went up, or when it came down, and try as hard as he can he doesn’t feel anything about that at all, one way or another. His rifle remains cradled loosely in his arms, the radio chatter at his shoulder strangely muffled by the rush of blood in his ears. He almost hits Rossi when the younger man reaches out and touches his elbow, startled as he is by the contact. 

     Rossi just gives him an exhausted look, and bumps shoulders with him gently, tipping his chin in the direction of the smoking mass of brick just inside their hastily set perimeter. “What’s in that thick skull of yours?” His voice is quiet, but suddenly it’s the only thing Tahan can focus on, the soft southern accent, the forced smile curling in the corners of his mouth and the bags under his eyes. He is the easiest thing to focus on.

     Normally the question would make him laugh, or at least scoff. Today it draws his brows together as he tries to think, tries to put together words in his head and shove them out of his mouth in a coherent sentence. His voice sticks to his throat, it’s been so long since he spoke, and he has to cough a little and try again. “Was just wondering if there was anyone inside.”

     Turning his gaze to the shell of the building behind a crumbling wall, Rossi lets the attempt at a smile slip from his face once more. He swallows hard, thinks for a moment, and releases a long sigh -- “I think there were two women inside that didn’t make it out.” The words fall out, brittle, and shatter between them like glass.

     Tahan knows there was a point in his life where the news would have filled him with grief, and that there was a point in his life where the news would have filled him with bitter rage, at the waste of it, the clumsiness of it, the unfairness of it. Right now he feels a vast nothingness, struggling around and around to feel anything about it at all. The wisps of emotion slip right through his fingers. The cold wind at his back cuts right through him. 

          He thinks maybe he feels a little nauseated. His face is hot. 

     “That’s bad,” he finally responds. It’s meant to be a statement, hardly a whisper, but almost feels like it falls out of him as a question, because he just can’t make himself feel anything at all. He knows it’s bad. Civilian casualties are bad, are to be avoided at all costs, and so it’s bad that there are innocent people who died today. He can’t stop turning it over in his mind, thinking about what could have been done differently, thinking about their last moments, but it’s clinical. Logical. He can’t make himself feel anything. He can’t stop thinking.

     Rossi turns his gaze back and eyes him seriously. Whatever he finds on Tahan’s face must not satisfy him, because he makes a strained nose somewhere in the back of his throat and settles a hand on his elbow and turns him around, and starts to lead him away from the sight. The other man’s fingers are steady, he can feel them, warm and strong through the sleeve of his uniform. Tahan’s own hands are clenched, white knuckled on his rifle. He doesn’t notice until he looks down and sees for himself. Rossi continues to watch him, concern clear on his face. “Yes, Battista. It’s very bad.”

     The use of his first name snaps at him, and he drags his attention from the things crawling about in his own head to look Rossi in the eye. The younger man blinks at him, hand now traveling up his arm to settle warmly against the side of his neck. Tahan stands rigid, focused on the honey-brown gaze that flicks over him head to toe. His voice sticks in his throat. He doesn’t know what else to say-- there isn’t really anything to say, right now. He can’t exactly tell Rossi he doesn’t feel anything at all, can’t ask him how he’s supposed to keep doing this, can’t ask him for help in knowing right from fucking wrong.

     Silence stretches between them. It feels like the air is thick and syrupy, it feels like it gets tangled up in his lungs. He forces his fingers on his rifle to flex and work, lest they become too brittle and shatter like glass. Rossi’s gaze strays to whatever lurks behind him and then snaps back to his face, and his hand doesn’t leave his neck, thumb pressed carefully to the line of his jaw. Tahan starts to turn and look at whatever had drawn his attention, but Rossi’s voice cracks out like a whip, and his gaze settles on him once more. “We’ll be moving on soon. Do you have all your gear?”

     The question takes him a moment to process, if only because it’s a strange thing to ask. He looks Rossi over once more, feeling like he’s clawing his way out of the fog in his head desperately, trying to see something within the man before him that’s hidden far too well. His gaze is warm, but there’s something flinty, something brittle about him. Tahan touches his fingers to the elbow of the arm outstretched to him, and then drops them once more. He doesn’t ask him what’s wrong, or what just happened. He doesn’t think he wants to know. He just nods, adjusts his grip on his rifle, and lets his friend lead him away.

[survivingunderwater]

How Chronic Pain Taught me to Breathe Underwater

I’ve wanted to share my story for a long time. It is a small snapshot of my life with a pelvic nerve disorder that causes severe, debilitating chronic pain and has no known pathology or treatment. I realize this a long post, but you know what? People write 509 page  cookbooks about the types of flour to use baking. 

This story is not sexy, but it is real. 

It would mean the world to me if you could share this, so that together, we can promote awareness for a silent condition, and remind ourselves to never judge a book by its cover.

Read time: 20 minutes

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For the last 13 years of my life, I have been held under the water and told to learn how to breathe.

Ten years ago, I learned that I would never have sex, and that an intimate life would be nearly impossible.

I learned that my condition would gradually worsen. I learned that over time, I would not be able to tolerate the light touch of clothing, that I’d lose control of my bladder, and that something as simple as sitting down would become unbearable. I was told that I likely couldn’t have children, a family, or even leave the house for long periods of time without complications. Physical activity would be cumbersome. I was told to give up the activities that I loved so fondly because it was further damaging a condition that was irreversible. Doctors foreshadowed that in the coming years, my nerves would become so sensitive that my skin would feel like fire. As the pain worsened, I would likely need to take antidepressants and seizure medications to pacify the inflamed nerve endings….I would be relegated to a life of loose clothes, disability permits, abstinence, and incontinence.

I learned that at best, I would live a life muted by medication. I learned that at worst, I would live a life bound to a bed, consumed by chronic pain. I could kiss goodbye to ever knowing intimate love in the way most people like to characterize it.

For a long time, I didn't even know I had a condition. I just knew that something in my body was wrong.

When I was 11 years old, I reported experiencing vaginal pain for the first time.

When I was 13, I went to a gynecologist, who told me that the pain was entirely in my head. Thinking that unregulated hormones were the source of my complaints, I was prescribed the birth control pill. I didn’t think much about it, and I assumed this would solve my problem.

When I was 15, I entered into my first real relationship. I was confused why I felt sharp, stabbing vaginal pains from something as simple as light touch, so I returned to the gynecologist. I thought this was supposed to be a pleasurable part of life. I was also confused as to why - unlike my friends - tampons were impossible to use. I asked them to examine me externally only, and we agreed that we would talk through any “next steps.”

Without warning, the gynecologist entered my vagina. The pain was so excruciating that I suddenly couldn’t see or hear. I started shaking uncontrollably and fainted. When I opened my eyes again, I screamed and pleaded for her to stop. I’ll always remember the look on her face as she rolled her eyes… as if I were overreacting, that I was weak, that I was pathetic. Was the pain actually in my head? When she stopped her exam, I could not walk.

Over the next year, I saw a number of gynecologists -- each with a different opinion on the cause of my pain.

Some said it was an injury from years of horseback riding. Some said it was a hormonal imbalance. Others said it was an unexplained genetic anomaly. Some doctors said it was possible that this was the aftermath of repressed sexual abuse. This terrified me. My mind ran wild as I imagined the possibility of my brain and body repressing a trauma too young for me to remember, and to manifest in the present as crippling nerve pain. I never recalled any abuse.

But most doctors, however, kept telling me I was imagining my pain. Their rationale: I was attempting to experience pleasure at too young of an age, and my “paranoia” about sex created muscular pain.

There was one commonality among all of my diagnoses. Whatever I was experiencing, all doctors agreed that there was no known pathology… and no cure.

When I was 16, I had a glimmer of hope. In hopes of solving the problem, doctors put me through a surgery they assumed would help. I spent a month bleeding and recovering, only to realize too late that the surgery to fix my pain had only made it worse. At this point, my nerves were damaged so badly that my pain receptors were always turned "on." Cutting through my damaged tissues and surgically stitching them back together only exacerbated the problem.

I learned that sometimes, healthcare professionals don’t know what they are doing, and adults aren’t always “right.” I became my own health advocate.

At 17, I had a breakthrough. My mom and I found a new team of doctors who validated that in fact, the pain was not in my head. It was not a hormonal imbalance, and it was not repressed sexual abuse. I was diagnosed with vulvar vestibulitis, and I would later learn I had one of the worst forms.

This is a condition where nerve endings in the vulva - and specifically, pain receptors - are permanently “turned on”. I finally felt relief knowing that my pain was validated. As a result, I thought I had a clear pathway for treatment.

I started pelvic floor physical therapy to help relax the muscles around the nerves. I was prescribed antidepressants and seizure medicine, which I refused to take. I occasionally took pain medications.

I quickly realized how women’s issues were severely undermined in healthcare. Insurance only covered a portion of my medical bills. My mother and I had to submit a detailed grievance to the Department of Public Health in order to overturn my insurance denial for continued PT, since our insurance had cancelled my coverage after a small number of sessions. Our letter was luckily a success, and a small victory amidst this journey.

I started to accept my position in life. I began practicing yoga and realized the importance of presence and perspective. I decided that maybe a life with no tampons, no sex, and no kids wasn’t so bad. 

Everyone who knew me, knew me as a happy young woman. 

I was starting to breathe underwater.

When I was 18, I realized that intimacy would continue to be a traumatic and nauseating experience, and that sex would absolutely never be part of my life.

I realized that there were unempathetic people who would try to make me feel worthless about this. 

I also learned there were people who would love me no matter what, and that who I surrounded myself with was entirely my own choice.

When I was 19, I developed anxiety from having so much constant pain, not knowing where or why it was happening, never knowing when my pain would flare, unable to escape it for weeks at a time.

For unknown reasons, I also started losing feelings in my arms and legs, which became fully numb. This lasted for a full year, and I stopped exercising. The loss of feeling scared me so much that my anxiety increased. The anxiety led to intense panic attacks, which led to more panic attacks because I was so afraid of having another panic attack (LOL). I personally thought this was brilliant that my mind went so far. I later talked to a therapist who said that I had developed this thing called panic disorder.

Eventually, I accepted this part of my life, and I realized that those who struggle with mental health truly know what it is like to suffer in silence.

When I was 20, I spent 5 months studying abroad throughout Africa and Asia, staying with local families and learning about the beauty of different cultures. Amidst the highs, I also saw starving adults breast feeding off of each other and dead bodies in the road. I met women who had experienced female genital mutilation, who almost bled to death from having their labia and clitoris mutilated by a dirty blade on the floor of a hut. The experience was so raw and unfiltered that I felt ashamed of myself for ever complaining about my pain.

I realized I had so much left to learn in life.

But with each step forward in self discovery, I felt like I took two steps back in my physical progress.

By 21, my pain took a drastic turn for the worse. I was unable to put on clothing. I threw away all of my jeans. On good days, I wore sweatpants and loose leggings. On bad days, I didn’t leave my bed, and I sat there all day with an ice pack, terrified of peeing. I threw out all of my underwear, as I was no longer able to tolerate the touch of it against my skin, which now felt like fire in an open wound.

Whenever I felt “turned on” by someone, I experienced searing clitoral and vaginal pain. It felt like an unfair punishment, and I was unsuccessful at suppressing my feelings. Women are supposed to feel strong in this sector of life, but I felt beyond traumatized. As I continued to see friends enter into relationships and have healthy, pleasurable sex lives, I could not even wipe myself after the using the bathroom due to excruciating, burning vaginal pain that never gave me a break.

By 22, I obtained a disability permit that enabled me to finish college by completing most of my coursework from my bed. On the few days that I went to class, I stood up in the back of the room, since I was in too much pain to sit.

That year, I was also diagnosed with interstitial cystitis, which causes bladder urgency and enhanced clitoral and urethral pain. The combination with vulvar vestibulitis became unbearable.

I did what anyone else in my position would do.  I found peace through dry, and often dark, humor.  

I remember my senior year as the year that I sat with an icepack on my vagina, taught myself my coursework, and barely graduated college. I also remember moments of roaring laughter. My college roommate and I made endless jokes about my vagina. We spoke in thick Southern accents and mocked college boys’ sexist comments. My roommate even dressed commando in baggy pants to make me feel less alone. We blasted Lily Allen songs, named all the cockroaches in our apartment, and made a hysterical music video about a territorial wild cat that we spontaneously adopted.

I learned that laughing at yourself adds years to your life.    On my way home from college, I was patted down at the airport. I told the TSA agent that I had vaginal pain, and that if she passed over that area, she could not use much pressure. She told me if she could not touch me, then I could not fly. I asked her to be considerate of my condition. She was not. I was too embarrassed to tell her what she had done. The pain was so unbearable that I cried the whole plane ride home and had another flare up that lasted for weeks.

By 23, I was living at home with my parents. I stopped working, and was sedentary for a full year. I sought help from doctors who didn’t have answers. I couldn't sleep through the night for months. I left the house occasionally for restorative yoga, but I could not do much, and walking and wearing clothing was completely unbearable. To this day, I credit those yoga teachers, my hilarious and supportive brother, and Always Sunny in Philadelphia for why I am still alive. For someone as active as me, being sedentary and in pain was the worst form of torture, and I didn't know if it would ever end. I was told it never would.

I spent most of my time sitting in a chair or in my bed with an ice pack. Once per day, I walked like a penguin up and down my parent’s driveway to try to exercise, but it was painful and all I felt was embarrassment.

This is where, for the first time, I began to feel truly hopeless.

Every aspect of my life was controlled by a condition to which I could not control.

Every time I started to breathe underwater, I felt I was pushed further into darkness with even more limitations.

I was pushed to my limit, and I hit the bottom very hard. 

I often thought about ending my life. I thought about how this would happen, and the aftermath. I begged to have all painful parts of my body surgically removed. I felt searing guilt as my parents uprooted their lives to dig thousands of dollars into their savings to afford my medical bills, treatments, surgical consults, gynecology appointments, and physical therapy.

...But even at the bottom, I found slow inhales and exhales.

I once again realized the only way to change my suffering was to change my outlook. I had and still have pain, but I am not identified as my pain. I decided to pour my energy into seeking love and adventure through creative, dynamic ways. My pain gave me a strength and fearlessness that was and is indescribable.

I wanted to feel all emotions and forms of life whether they were good or bad. I was completely unafraid of death.

I wanted to learn who I was inside and out and give love and beauty to everyone I met on a deeper level than sex and what society perceives as “intimacy.” 

I wanted to learn how to connect, truly connect, with people and express my sexuality in open and loving ways.

I wanted to learn secrets from people around the world in the worst conditions. I found that these people were (as stereotypical as it sounds) the happiest people,

 and that limitation is the biggest factor in creativity, invention, and success.

I would later proudly say that I too was more than happy, I was living in ecstasy. My entire life was filtered in technicolor.

My life is painful, but it is rich.

I invented clothing and found clothing that I could tolerate and still leave the house in. I found the right numbing creams and formulas to tolerate my day. I experimented with a million different diets. I went to PT regularly again and specialists who started a magnetic treatment that worked wonders, even if temporarily. I did acupuncture and regular pain management therapy. I obtained a medical marijuana card, and the CBD helped relax my muscles and loosen tension around the nerves. (Then one day, I accidentally overdosed on gummy bears, and I heard the sounds my brain makes when it has thoughts. I sat on the couch spitting out paleo bread, as one does, and I forgot when to stop chewing and start swallowing my food. Of everything I had survived until that point, this was the night that I was convinced I would die, and unfortunately at the hands of a gummy bear. Though marijuana is a miracle for some, I decided it was not my thing. I never did it again).

I used the money I had saved from working in college and teaching yoga to travel on a pathetic budget. I went skydiving and bungee jumping. I trekked up a volcano in 100 degree heat in Nicaragua, in baggy clothes, one step at a time, even though it killed me and I had a flare up afterwards. I traveled through West Africa, Southeast Asia, and Latin America. I couchsurfed for months in Europe, off of several hundred dollars. I got stuck in horrible situations where I was the only person who could get myself out, and I did. I was stalked by a man who screamed what he wanted to do with me when he finally found me alone. I was harassed. I was lost at night in the woods with nothing but a motorbike and a dead phone in the middle of Myanmar.

I slept on floors and couches and had days where I had to do absolutely nothing and was stalled by my condition. 

I met travelers who flew through monuments at record speed with massive cameras, sleeping with every local or nomad they met. But mostly, I met travelers like me, slowly making their way through untouched corners of the world. I met people who experienced unfortunate or crazy events and illnesses very young in life, and who also found a richness through cultivating perspective by traveling with a tiny backpack and a questionable budget.

I had days that were beautiful.

I learned that everything in life is temporary. Everything. 

When I was in the Czech Republic, I had the most romantic evening with a sexy Colombian man in the old square in Prague. We went drink for drink with fresh, minty mojitos and bounced life stories off of each other in a rowdy bar, where the power went out three times. We stayed out until 5 in the morning, stumbling across the Charles Bridge together, making out at every brick wall. The connection and pulse was palpable. He introduced me to something that would later change my life: salsa dancing. He wrote and recorded a song for me and sent it to me later. I fondly replay our brief and special night together in my head.

Despite my condition, I dated frequently, though I’ve never felt compelled to be in a relationship, because I don’t really feel like anyone truly understands me, and I have always been very content and happy “on my own.” A life free of modern day relationships has been anything but lonely, anything but void, and NOT AT ALL what the doctors told me my life would be living with this condition.

Maybe I cannot have sex, or experience stereotypical pleasure, but I truly believe that my sex life is one of confidence, depth, and beauty. I learned how to confidently communicate about sex and express my likes and dislikes, what I could and could not do, when I was as young as 16. I learned how to be creative in bed. I learned that there are infinite ways to be intimate with someone. I learned that intimacy must always encompass mindful intention and passion, whether it is for two hours, a one night stand, or a lifetime. I learned that “sex” without intention is scary, dull, and abusive. I learned that many men don’t know what to do if you eliminate stereotypical sex from the equation, and they think good sex embodies very minimal foreplay. I learned that this is so boring that I would rather answer my work emails.

I dated and hooked up with men. I dated and hooked up with women. I found myself attracted to people younger than me and twice my age. I quickly learned that I loved the vibe and core of who someone is more than anything else. Superficial things didn’t influence my attraction and desire for someone. I craved (and still crave) people who can feel life deeply, who can understand me and I can understand him or her. I learned that humor, empathy, understanding, and most importantly, sarcasm, were absolutely irresistible. I learned that I have a weakness for accents on men, asses on women, and all French people in general.

When I was 24, I found ways to further manage my pain: clothes that were even more tolerable and made me feel beautiful (not these massive sweatpants anymore!), creams that managed my pain, soaps that didn’t irritate me, a diet that was helpful, regular alternative treatments, maya abdominal therapy for my interstitial cystitis, and a solid physical therapy regimen. My pain was not improving, but it wasn’t getting worse. I moved to San Francisco with my brother, and started a steady job.

I also decided to let go of my fear of physical activity. I would take it easy and try something aside from light yoga and penguin hobbling on my parent’s driveway. The thing that I tried was salsa dancing.

I am not going to get into details about the number of items that need to “go right” for me to make it through a night of dancing without pain. 

Everything from my clothing choice, creams, stretches, and drink choice must all fall in the perfect equation. There are many nights where I reluctantly skip.

That being said, I wholeheartedly believe that when I found dancing, I found the love of my life.

Salsa gave me a space where I could act out my sexuality in safety. Where I could connect and love my partner in that moment, feel the music deep in my bones, and completely let go. As a follow, I could stop thinking entirely and put my brain on pause. I re-learned to trust men after many bad experiences and violations. I learned to surrender my body and soul on the dance floor, and I never cared what I looked like.

Salsa is a space reserved for old souls. There are no phones to use as a crutch, no photos to take so you can post on social media about the “great time” you’re all having. It is a space where I could truly be a woman, and have an incredibly intimate dance with someone 6 songs in a row and know that our love and connection stays on the dance floor only (most of the time. LOL.). Salsa is in every sense my therapy. It’s my drive to want to heal my body, so that I can dance every day of the week and not have all these ridiculous limitations.

I often cry of happiness when I come home from a night of dancing. 

After all of these years of pain, I am so grateful to move my legs that are sometimes numb! I am so grateful to connect with my partner. I am so grateful to feel sensual, beautiful, and loved. It changed my life, and the gratitude never ends.

Some realities that are important:

1. Pain in an area of the body that is intended to evoke immense pleasure is a constant mental test. It makes other mountains feel like small hills. Nothing compares. Not my worst fever from contracting chikungunya in Haiti. Not my worst breakup. Not the time I was evicted from my apartment, or punched in the face by a homeless man. Or the 3 times I have totaled vehicles in car accidents. Not the times I have disclosed my condition to men and, without apology, acknowledgement of my pain, or empathy, they have expressed that they are no longer interested and that they are “sorely disappointed” that they didn’t receive what they were expecting. The frequency of these interactions has made me briefly lose faith in humanity, though it has never torn at my confidence. Not surprisingly, I never experienced this reaction from women. I was only met with compassion.

2. This condition has made me realize that feminism is more important now than ever before, and I have never been so proud to be a woman.

When I was in middle school, boys teased me and told me that my acne made it look like I had bruises all over my face.

 Now I am older and that is gone, and instead I am treated as a walking sex object. When do women win? I have been grabbed, harassed, threatened, abused, and stalked.

I seldom trust being alone with a man.

Many male doctors told me the pain was entirely in my head from the start. I was told to “toughen” up. I do wonder what would have happened if a man had reported the same levels of penile pain, and if his complaints would have been taken seriously the first time.

I am a woman and am therefore expected to be a sweetheart by day and a freak in the sheets by night. I am not going to feel any less feminine or sensual because I cannot have stereotypical sex.  I am so proud to be a woman and to fight for other women in a world that still roots so strongly against us, especially in healthcare. So here I am, telling my story, in hopes that it will encourage the other “Allys” out there to tell their stories, too. “When sleeping women wake, mountains move.”  

3. I often fight stereotypes of who people “think I am” versus who I actually am. Everyone struggles with this, pain or no pain. It is one of the hurdles of being human.

I am often passed off as a blonde woman who is easily impressed, bubbly, and spacy. This feedback is quite upsetting. I can’t escape my pain. Any conversation I have with someone takes up half my brain, while the other half is trying to shift my weight or body in a way that could potentially result in less pain. This does not translate to gullible, insecure blonde person.

This translates to a strong woman who wakes up every day to the biggest fight of her life.

4. Listening to modern day complaints is exhausting. 

Complaining to me about your sex life is like me complaining about my shoes to a man who has no feet.

It is true that everyone experiences various levels of life, but it is also true that people should be mindful about what they choose to complain about or dwell on. Life is short.

5. This story is not meant to glorify pain. I have had more “low quality” days than “high quality” days in my life, and this reality sometimes kills me.  I don’t want to be in pain anymore. I don’t want to experience throbbing clitoral pain if my leggings accidentally touch my skin. Three months ago, my entire body went numb and I could not feel my legs for three weeks. I stopped dancing and worked from home a lot. I took painkillers and eventually my feeling came back.

Last week, I had so much pain that I vomited, then fainted and hit my head on the mirror. My roommate found me on the floor when she heard the thud.

This is not a normal life, but it is a life that has taught me more about living than most.

6. This isn’t a romantic story. This is not a sexy story. But it’s a real one. When I look at my life, sometimes I wonder why I am so happy all the time. It is almost annoying, and people have said that I annoy them because of how much I smile. I technically have so much to be upset about, if that’s how you want to look at it. People pity me and say that I deserve to wake up and put on a pair of underwear, and walk around without feeling stabbing pain. That I deserve to have sex and make little mini Allys one day.

They say that I deserve to experience the full spectrum of life, that I deserve love and happiness.

What is so ironic is that I more than experience the full spectrum of life, and in a way, I often pity the people who tell me this, because I feel they are missing out on so much in this world. My entire life is filtered in technicolor.

When I am happy, I am euphorically happy, perhaps because of my journey with pain.

Maybe a bizarre part of me realizes: the only way to feel ecstasy from putting two feet on the ground and standing up in the morning, is to to be sedentary with numb legs for a full year.

What if the only way to uncontrollably cry of gratitude from something as simple as 3 minutes on the dance floor is if you know what it is like to not walk at all?

What if the only way to feel complete peace is to have 7 panic attacks in a row until you end up in the ER?

What if the only reason I feel so alive is because of the year I fantasized about gluing the pedal to the floor of my car and driving straight into a wall until there were silence?

What if the steamiest sex of your life isn't through touch.

What if the piercingly deep intimacy, romance, and connections I've had with others isn't possible for people without pain?

What if breathing air feels lifeless?

I was never told that 13 years under water is where you learn, feel, and evolve into what it means to be a loving, passionate, and soulful human being.

I was never told that the darkest part of the ocean is where you learn to take your deepest breath.

---- **More text below

We live in an ironic world. People often know more about the Kardashians than they do about Malala Yousafzai. They celebrate and photograph weddings and their newborn children, but you never see professional photos taken of those who survive terminal illnesses. Who determines what is “celebration” worthy?

I want to celebrate people in the middle of the fight, not the people at the end.

I have always wanted to honor my journey with pain: my sexuality, trauma, freedom. My tenacity and power in being a woman. I’ve never had professional photos taken until one month ago, when Andrea Padilla fulfilled a dream of celebrating this journey through a boudoir and nude photoshoot. I did this photoshoot to show the rawest form of who I am in this moment of my life (we had our tricks so that I could tolerate the pain from lingerie ;)). I did not smile. This is about honoring courage, and carrying this strength with me into 2018. If I were hobbling like a penguin two years ago and spent most of my time in bed, and today I am dancing... who knows? I don’t know what can happen in the future. My life can turn in any direction at any point, and I am here to soak up each moment and learn with every step. 

My dream now is to dance salsa on the world cup stage. Life is unpredictable, but it is also boundless.

THANK YOU:

To my amazing brother, Robby: Thank you for keeping me afloat, making me laugh, saving my life and then adding years to it, spending months sleeping on the couch to take care of me, and being there for me through thick and thin, even when I gave you so many reasons not to be there. I love you more than anything in the entire world and would be nowhere near who I am today without you. You make me a better person every day and laughing together makes life beyond worth living.

Sue: Thank you so much for your prairie dog driving skills to take me to the doctors, even though you took out a tree one time and we’ve had to leave many notes on people’s doors from destroying their bumpers in the hospital parking lot with your Denali. Thanks for never giving up on me. Thanks for your endless excel sheets documenting my symptoms and calling doctors all over the world. Thanks for putting your life on hold for me. Thanks for being one of the few people who believed me from the beginning. I would never have been properly diagnosed without you.    

Dad: Thank you for sharing many poisonous moscow mules with me when in a crisis. Thank you for believing me, and for believing IN me. Thanks for listening to my TMI stories. There is no way I can ever repay you for the way you have put my health first, but I hope to make you proud.

[introvertsguild]

Today and Tomorrow.

A small spill has you on your knees underneath your desk, wiping away the bright yellow liquid with a rag. It almost looks like it’s glowing even though the light from your overhead lamp is blocked by your desk.

“Why don’t you do this more often, huh? Just knock everything down while you’re at it!”, you mutter to yourself. It was an accident but it just intensified the anger you had inside you. Your payment from that gang never came this week, you felt a knot in your stomach - as if something was wrong.

BANGBANGBANG!

The loud noise at the door sends you jumping and hitting the back of your head underneath the table. You curse aloud, taking your hand and setting it on the back of your head. Before you can fully get out from underneath the table, you hear the sound of your front door being bashed down. Your door is ajar, from there you can see soldiers with guns piling in. Your eyes go wide and you grab your bat- It’s not going to take them down, but it’s something.

You plant your back against the wall, trying to quiet your scared panting. You try and listen in on them, not knowing what they are here for.

“All clear, no weapons, no nothing..”, a soldier pauses, “Wait..”. You hear footsteps coming closer to your door and you lift your bat. “Check that door!”

“Roger that!”, another one says, his footsteps get close and closer. When he opens the door, he swings left with his gun, not checking behind him. That’s when you strike the bat down his shoulder. He grunts, turning around, he yells, “Target in sight!”. More footsteps follow as he alerted the others. You grit your teeth and raises your bat again to strike at his head. He dodges and kicks you right in your abdomen.

The air leaves your body entirely as your back hits the floor with a ‘thwump’. The room is filled with more soldiers, faces covered by their helmets. You grunt, it’s hard to breathe. Your vision is black around the edges but you see two, three, four guns being pointed at you, specifically your face.

Your eyes go wide as the fifth gun to your face fires quietly and hits your shoulder. The room is spinning, your vision going blurry. You’re gone, the black void taking you.

~

The helicopter ride should be going alot better. You’ve been vomiting since the damn thing took off and now you were on vomiting right outside the door, the contents falling in the air and out of sight. Thank God you were over uninhabited terrain otherwise that would have been very awkward.

Commander Gabriel Reyes sat buckled in front of you, shaking his head with his palm in his face. The first two times he thought it was hilarious, snickering at your pale face but by the fifth time he was telling you to keep drinking as much as water as possible to keep something inside you. You were too sick to deny his hospitality so you drank and drank, throwing it up minutes later.

Living in Greece all your life, you never once took to the skies, not even in the Omnic attack. Your brother wanted to stay in Valos, volunteering his time to keep the bots at bay from the Refugee Camp. You couldn’t bare to leave your only family behind so you stayed instead of taking the plane to the next, more secured camp that awaited you in London. You missed your brother and you wondered if he missed you too.

“We’re almost there, niña, think you can keep your stomach intact till then?”, Gabriel speaks to you, looking for your eye contact. You groan, clutching your stomach. “How long?”, you ask, rubbing your stomach and tried focusing on your breathing.

“Got twenty minutes until we reach Gibraltar”, he replies.

You groan louder, turning your head away from the opened side of the helicopter. The light made your headache worse but you needed it open it in case you threw up again.

“You are possibly the worst passenger I’ve ever been with”, rolling his eyes.

You inhale, “Never left Greece in my life”, you exhale. You think you can keep it together until you don’t and are sticking your head back out the door, discolored water leaving you for the seventh time.

~

The helicopter lands and you thank every God and Goddess you’ve ever heard of. The sun hits your face as you just sit there, hands trembling. You try and pull yourself together, not wanting to seem like a pathetic puking machine but from Gabe’s impression you might already be.

You unbuckle yourself, trying to sit up  before a hand pushes you back. You look up to see Gabe shaking his head, “Don’t move, niña, we’ll get a doctor to look at you”.

“I-uh-I feel fine!”, you blurt out. You hated doctors and you’ve hardly been seen one because of your hatred. The doctors at the refugee camp were awful, not that friendly and would hardly give you a pill for a back pain or sore you’ve had for months from training. They said, ‘They are only for the dying!’, ‘No! If you can handle a few metal punches, you can handle a back pain!’. Not to mention the doctors who wouldn’t clean their needles before putting in antibiotics in you. You hated Doctors and didn’t want to see one, even if Gabriel was glaring at you. You turn away, tired of seeing his face.

He leaves then and you hear a softer pair of heels walk up the ramp. You turn away, trying to move your whole body away from anyone coming near you. A hand gently places itself on your shoulder.

“Hello, my name is Dr. Zeigler. Gabe told me you were vomiting..”

A woman’s voice? You turn to see her face and suddenly you’ve met something so much brighter than the sun itself. A woman, her blonde hair tied up, eyes blue as the sea you were surrounded by. She has a look of concern across her face, looking for an answer to cure your vomiting. You glance at her clothes, a lab covering a white suit of some kind. She donned a bronze halo on her head, as if she were an actual angel from Heaven. The sun casted across her face and she squinted a little bit.

“I’d like to know what is bothering you so that I might give you something for the pain”

An angle from Switzerland, you guessed by her thick accent.

“I..I uh.. I’ve been vomiting since I got on this damn thing..”, you try and sound tough but the stuttering gives way. She gives you a water bottle, telling you to drink. You glance to the water and back at her before taking a few sips.

“Drink slowly and relax your breathing, don’t get up until you are no longer sick, okay? Also, make sure to come see me some time today for some pills to settle your stomach”

“O-Okay..”, you continue sipping on the bottle. She smiles at you and you discover that she’s beautiful, the most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen. You think you’re blushing and look away. “Thanks for the water”, you mutter and she leaves you to recollect yourself.

The buzzing headache and pain in your stomach is gone. You have the strength to unbuckle and rise from your seat. The feeling in your legs is weird, like Jell-O. You grab hold of the pole above you for support and sigh.

When you feel like you can walk, you grab onto anything you can as you make your way to the ramp. The chilly wind from the platform makes your hair dance and stand on end. You look around and realize how huge this base is. It’d probably take you a few weeks-maybe months- to figure out the foundation of this place. You take another deep breath and make your way down the ramp, still holding on to your stomach softly.

“Hey! you feeling better?”, Gabe’s voice is behind you. You turn to see him standing there with arms crossed over his chest. You nod, “Atleast I can walk, right?”.

“Good, cause we got a little meet ‘n greet over dinner.. Come on”

~

You follow Gabe in silence, taking in the scenery of the base. It was large and labyrinth like, every building made of steel and towering with magnificence. The chill of the air clung to you even after you got inside and closed the door behind you. Your skin shivered, you note you’ll have to get warmer clothes if the Gibraltar wind was this cold. At least inside, the heat was on.

Gabriel started pointing things out on your way to the meal hall. He pointed to one orange door that had the sign, “SLEEPING QUARTERS” where you would be sleeping with the rest of the new recruits. A question popped into your head.

“New.. recruits? You mean I’m not the only new person here?”, you ask quizzically, watching his head for any sign of answer. He simply nodded.

“Like you’re the only one I had to drag off into the night and interrogate, princess!”

He didn’t have to look at your wide eyed expression to start laughing. He slapped his hand to his chest and coughed. “Nah, just kidding, you were the only one I had to cuff to a chair though..”, you roll your eyes, as if you needed to be reminded of the rough treatment.

New questions came popping up. How many are there? What were they like? Were there other women like you?

Gabriel kept showing you other rooms, like the bathrooms, showers, kitchen, storage closet and where the training range was- he was very particular that you would be using that area alot.

He finally came up to a door that had the sign, ‘MESS HALL’ on the front and opened it. The noise spilled out and you could hear men laughing and probably roughhousing by the grunts and chairs moving about.

“Quit bein’ a dick, Thomas!”

“You started it, McCree! Get an armpit to the face!”

“No, no, NO!”

All empty, playful threats with jovial laughter and not one of the five men noticed you enter the room.

That is until Gabriel himself entered and roared.

“ATTENTION!”

Whatever words, laughter or snickering were about to come out immediately ceased. Five young men stood at attention, some without their hands to their head. Then, suddenly, one of them chuckled.

He was wearing a cowboy hat with a red bandana wrapped around his neck. He dropped his hand and waved his hand at the Commander.

“What’s with the formalities, Gabe? That ain’t like you!”, he exclaimed. He had a thick Southern drawl and he was VERY cute. Auburn hair at half length and probably even more hidden underneath that hat.

“Shut up, McCree.. We finally have our last recruit joining us for dinner”

You hadn’t realized you were hiding behind Gabriel absentmindedly. He moved away, allowing the gentlemen at the table to get a full view of their new teammate. Five men stared at you- some excited, some shocked and only one with a full smile on his face. “McCree”, as Gabe called him.

“She looks tiny, Commander! What’s she gonna do?”

“Your new new teammate is going to be the team’s sniper. She’s done it in the past and now she’s going to do it now, for Blackwatch”

The boys nodded their heads as you came a bit closer as McCree beckoned you over with one metal arm. He pulled a seat out for you to sit.. And you thought it would be worse than this.

“T-Thank you..” you mumbled to McCree, loud enough for him to hear. He tipped his hat.

“So what’s your name, darlin’? Other than ‘beautiful’?”

You let out a loud laugh, you hadn’t been together for five minutes and the man was already trying to flirt with you. You saw McCree blush out of embarrassment, his flirting backfiring. It didn’t seem to discourage him from keeping a conversation though. He chuckled himself, scratching the back of his head.

“It’s Abelha”

“Abel-wha?”

You coughed into your hand. “Abelha, my grandfather used to call me that all the time when I was young.. It means ‘bee’ in Portuguese.”

A loud thump! hit the table that made you jump. A giant pot with billows of steam coming out of the opened top sat there. Your nose is filled with spice. The aroma hitting your nose so fast you began to drool. You must have been starving. Your stomach took an onslaught of vomiting earlier today and it was time to fill it up with real food.

It smelled amazing. The other men were thinking the same thing as well since you saw the drool escaping their lips. Your Commander sits down at the head of the table and everyone is quiet, like you’ve been given a present and are awaiting permission to open it.

Except for one, of course. McCree’s hand sticks out in the empty silence and grabs the ladle in the giant pot. Stirring it up a little, he takes a whiff and smiles, “This smells way better than the shit we had in Sweden, Chief! What’s in it?”. Gabriel cocks his head and shrugs. “It’s the Reyes Special. What’s everyone looking at? Dig in!”

McCree takes two ladles full of the steaming chili and passes it to you. You mutter a thank you and pour the chili all the way at the top of your bowl until it makes a small hill. You’re ready to dig in but then you hear a scoff.

“Hey, mind saving some for the REST of us?”

The younger man, probably around your age sneers at you. You take the ladel and immediately begin putting some of the chili back. The hunger inside must have gotten the better of you. You were taking more than you should have. Your face beet red from embarrassment.

“Hey! Cut that shit out, what are you the food police, chico?”

“She’s taking it all, Commander!”, said the other man sitting next to his friend. His light blue eyes turning from Gabriel to immediately shoot his head in your direction with an icy glare. Why were these boys so protective of the chili? This is an Overwatch base, surely there’s more than one pot of chili sitting around.

“Boy, you keep your mouth shut and just eat your damn food! Niñas been vomiting the whole ride over here, she needs the extra energy. So stop your pissing and whining and EAT! It’s only for tonight though, next night she’s only getting the same portions and the day after, and the day after..”, Gabe makes gentle eye contact with you, “Understood?”.

You nod. You didn’t think you’d be spoiled the entire time here anyways and you were so hungry. You hand the pot over to the guy across from you, “Sorry, sorry.. Here you go”.

He snatches the ladle from you but doesn’t sneer this time and begins making his bowl. You cut yourself from making anymore eye contact than you need to and just focus at the bowl of food in front of you. It was like someone took a sack of spices and hit you in the face with it. Taking your spoon, you scoop up a good handful and let it sink into your mouth. You give a quiet moan of delight. Your eyes close and a image of your grandmother’s smile floats into your mind.