#(because i will be eighteen in a couple months and testosterone is SOMETHING I CAN DO. i need my dad’s insurance is why i finally came out | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

void-galaxy-shenanigans · 5 years

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A Period/Menstrual Cycle/”Shark Week”/”Moon Cycle”/”Heavy Day” For Those Without Female Bodies (cis men, nonbinary peoples, etc.) & Those New To Dealing With This Stuff

So I’ve noticed a lot of cis men get uncomfortable talking about this, but it’s frickin important so listen up everyone of any gender identity who doesn’t understand this! Let’s take an uncomfy trip down Gross Female Body Lane so that when someone tells you “it’s Shark Week”, “it’s my heavy day”, or “I’m bleeding” you know what to think/say/do (when your nonbinary friend/transgender friend/female friend tells you this)! :D

First of all. THIS IS A NATURAL PROCESS. STOP GETTING GROSSED OUT. IT ANNOYS US. The body does this naturally. It’s like if you only peed somewhere around once a month. Our bodies have to do this. It’s peeling off the inner walls of one of our organs, kicking out all the blood and guts, and fixing the old gross wall. THIS PROCESS CAN BEGIN ANYWHERE BETWEEN EIGHT AND OVER EIGHTEEN YEARS OLD. THERE IS NO SET TIME FOR EVERYBODY. IF SOMEONE TELLS YOU THEY’RE DEALING WITH THIS, THEY MOST LIKELY ARE.

I have a female body. I am a transgender male (f2m, obviously). I can’t afford testosterone/however you spell that male hormone stuff (I think that’s correct but IDK I don’t write it out a lot). I get these. They frickin hurt. They’re not fun. Let me explain why.

SO. We start with the pre-blood. It’s cramping, like a REALLY bad stomach ache, and utter exhaustion. It also comes with rapid mood swings. Anger, crying, fear, giggling, all kinds of craziness. This is normal. It’s the female hormone, estrogen, doing its thing.

After the pre-blood stuff comes usually a little “leakage” or faint blood on your underwear/liner. This is the first stage of bleeding.

There’s a TON of pain. We start to crave sugar, especially ice cream and chocolate. Dark chocolate is the best to alleviate cramping, but any chocolate will do. Provide your friend/family/coworker/whoever needs the stuffs with chocolate. Also potentially provide cuddles, fuzzy warm blankets (we get REALLY COLD flashes where we’re stupid cold for no reason, then it swings to REALLY HOT flashes), & a comfy piece of furniture that is safe to potentially get blood on it.

There will be leaking. No matter how many tampons or pads or menstrual cups you use, there will be leaking. Your body is emptying an entire frickin organ from itself. Don’t beat yourself/your people up for this.

There will be flooding. This is the next stage, what we often call “the Heavy Day”. There can be anywhere from one day to two weeks of this. This can happen in bed, at school, when you go to the bathroom, ANYTIME. Expect that your person may wake up in a pool of their own blood & take an extra shower. Don’t panic. This is normal.

There will be chunks. This is literally flesh lining getting ripped from your organs, almost like an ulcer. The chunks are typically darker red than the blood, even if the blood is in pools & pretty dark. It will likely feel like you’re peeing literally all the time.

Remember to check yourself every now & again. Go to the restroom you typically use & make sure you haven’t overflowed.

There may be stains on clothing. Expect this.

If you are a friend/family member/etc., LET YOUR PERSON KNOW if this happens. If you are the person experiencing this, ALWAYS BRING SPARE UNDERWEAR & SPARE PANTS. It can be incredibly embarrassing to sit in a pool of your own blood & have people notice there’s blood on your clothes.

If you are the person experiencing this, expect to feel weird. You’re literally sitting in a pool of your own blood & flesh. It’s warm, it’s gross, it’s got chunks in it, it’s sticky. It’s like swimming in honey, but only around your (already EXTREMELY sensitive) private area.

If you are the person handling this situation/trying to understand what it means, make sure to have CHEMICAL-FREE tampons, pads (normal & “overnight”, because some cycle days can be really frickin heavy) & liners on hand for a couple weeks. This could be a lifesaver for if your person forgot to bring spares & floods.

DON’T BE EMBARRASSED TO BUY PADS/TAMPONS. Be mature. There’s nothing wrong with being a good friend/family member.

If someone makes fun of you, tell them you’re glad your person entrusted you with something this important.

You wouldn’t want to be sitting in a pool of your own blood feeling like someone’s rubbing burning sandpaper on your privates. Don’t expect us to like it either. Get the pads/tampons without chemical additives.

ALSO. Ask your person what they want to do/have! Some people like tea or coffee, some like chocolate, some like ice cream, some like to snuggle & watch Netflix, some like to watch sappy movies & cry. This is NORMAL. Make sure your person gets what they ask for, because this will make them happier & help with (but not eliminate) the mood swings, so this makes the experience easier for both of you.

Think of it this way: if you had been stabbed in the nether regions & stomach & knew you would live through it but were bleeding a lot, you would want someone to take care of you. Seems reasonable, right? It feels like you’ve been stabbed by a jagged knife that’s still doing flips & twirls in your gut & nether regions. IT FRICKIN HURTS.

After the heavy days pass comes more “light days” or leaking. This usually lasts two days to a couple weeks. Continue to provide comfort, chocolate or your person’s preferred treats, & ask for suggestions!

They will (pretty well guaranteed) like you a lot more if you do this for them, especially once it’s over. They’ll have their energy back & feel much better about telling you things.

Once it’s over, it’s over. However...

IT FRICKIN COMES BACK. The estimated “one month” isn’t true for everyone, and that calculation is from DAY ONE TO DAY ONE. In other words, if your cycle is longer than a couple days (most are), you’re getting them around two to three weeks apart. This is normal.

Be concerned & maybe talk to a doctor if it’s over two months, UNLESS you’re taking male hormone supplements. Something may be wrong, or you may be pregnant. Once you’ve taken about a year of male hormone supplements, these SHOULD stop entirely, but it’s not guaranteed.

Also! If someone doubles over squealing/squeaking/seemingly in pain during this time, that’s cramping. It can be really frickin intense. Cuddle them. Get them their preferred medication (Cat’s Claw is a good herbal remedy if they don’t want prescription-grade meds)! This can help to reduce or temporarily eliminate cramping, once it kicks in (about half an hour later, & most last for about 6 hours).

That’s all. Female bodies do annoying things (even from a female perspective) to us. Be mature, be educated, & help out your people! :)

#educate yourself #female bodies suck #period #menstrual cycle #TED talk #it's gross but it's important #important #fyi #take care of each otehr #take care of each other #take care of your people #take care of yourself #please and thank you

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hsmuffintop · 5 years

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as promised, part one of something I’ve been working on for months: lilo feat. trans!Liam. I’m very, very nervous to post this, so please be kind if you have any sort of feedback or criticism. I know not every trans person’s story or experience is the same, and I know how I’ve written Liam here is nowhere near what some people go through. I wanted to write something different from all the other fics I’ve seen with trans characters who absolutely just hate everything about themselves. I wanted to write something where the trans character has learned to love himself and accept the parts of himself that he can’t change, both physical and mental. all that being said, this is part one of definitely two, possibly three. please let me know what you think about it, but please be kind.

Tonight’s the night. It’s Liam’s fourth date with Louis, and he thinks things are going well. He gets nervous around Louis when they’re out, but that’s because he really likes him, so much it worries him sometimes that he’s fallen too hard too fast. He justifies it with the fact that Louis seems to get nervous around him, too, so he’s hoping that Louis feels the same way about him as he does about Louis.

Liam being nervous before a date with Louis is normal, but tonight he’s exponentially more nervous because he’s going to come out to Louis and while he thinks Louis will be understanding about it, pretty sure he will be, he could be wrong. He has been before. That’s what’s worrying Liam, that he likes Louis so much and Louis might just leave, and Liam can’t handle that, not after…anyway. He’s tried six different outfits, went through three different hairstyles, and still isn’t satisfied with how he looks. That’s normal for him, not liking the way his clothes sit on his body no matter how much time he spends in the gym because he’s pretty sure he’s never going to be 100% happy with himself, so he takes shirt number six off and throws it on top of the pile of discarded date outfits that’s accumulated on his bed. He sits at the foot of his bed, seriously considering telling Louis that he’s got food poisoning and they have to reschedule, but he’s pulled back into reality by a knock at his door. He’s not sure if this is perfect or terrible timing for whoever it is, but he goes to answer the door anyway, clad only in a pair of skinny jeans (with the fly open) and Batman socks.

Who he sees on the other side is not who he’s expecting, and he’s really rethinking taking his shirt off, because it’s Louis, standing there looking half confused and half like a starving man would look at a piece of meat. Liam covers as much of his naked torso as he can with his hands, suddenly overwhelmingly self-conscious, and then his brain catches up to what’s going on.

“Aren’t you early?” Liam asks, and Louis shakes his head, mostly because he can’t believe Liam and partly to get the very inappropriate thoughts out of his head. Later, Louis, he tells himself. Later.

“Uhh…no? I’m actually about twenty minutes late.”

Liam is, in a word, mortified. He can’t believe he let time get so far away from him! And on such an important night, too; important for Liam, at least. This could be the night that makes or breaks their relationship, and instead of being ready on time, he spent the last God only knows how long sulking in his bedroom over shirts!

“I…” Liam starts, then closes his mouth, wanting to start over but the only thing that comes out is, “I’m sorry.”

Liam can tell Louis feels bad for starting their date off on the wrong foot, even though literally none of this is his fault, and he wants to fix it.

“Can we start over?” Liam asks, hopeful. He’s still got his arms covering himself, and he knows he probably looks like a child standing like that, but he doesn’t care. He just needs Louis to agree and this part of the night will all be forgotten later.

Louis smiles, that one that takes up his whole face that Liam loves (probably too early for that, but whatever), and looks at the floor and nods. If Liam didn’t know any better, he’d think Louis was being shy.

“Yeah,” Louis says softly, looking back up at Liam. “Let’s start over.”

Relief washes over Liam and he smiles, taking a couple steps back into his flat. “Give me five minutes,” he says, and Louis nods, smile still firmly in place.

Liam closes the door to his flat and takes a deep breath before running back to his bedroom and, after a small bout of indecision, putting on shirt number two, doing up his jeans and grabbing his phone off his nightstand before heading back to his front door. He hears what sounds like an alarm going off maybe 20 seconds after he gets there, and when Louis knocks right after, he realizes Louis must have set a timer. Liam opens the door to Louis standing with his back facing Liam’s flat.

“Uh…Louis?”

Louis turns around looking like he’s going to say something, but Liam sees the words vanish from his mind as he looks Liam up and down.

“I was gonna say something cheeky, but you look…so hot. I can’t think.”

Liam smirks, a look one of his friends used to tell him was almost unbearably sexy. Louis looks like he wants to stomp his foot like a child. “I could take the shirt back off,” he offers, reaching for the bottom hem and lifting it a bit.

“NO!” Louis nearly shouts, reaching out to place his hands over Liam’s, wincing when he realizes how loud he was and at the shocked look on Liam’s face. “Sorry,” he says, thinking about moving his hands from Liam’s but reconsidering quickly after. He’s in this for the long haul if Liam is, and damn it if he’s not gonna at least get some hand-holding tonight. “I know we’re supposed to be forgetting about it but if I have to see you shirtless again we’re not gonna make it to the restaurant.”

Louis is blushing again, because he’s wanted to get his hands on Liam since the first time they met, and he’s not usually this bashful but Liam makes him so nervous that he just doesn’t know what to do sometimes. Liam cocks an eyebrow at Louis’s confession, then lets go of the hem of his shirt, gently guiding Louis’s hands off of his own with a look that he hopes is reassuring. He turns to slide on his shoes and grab his wallet and keys. Liam steps out of his flat and locks the door, then turns to Louis and grabs his hand. Neither of them let go, except for when absolutely necessary, for the rest of the night.

“I can’t believe you didn’t see the ending coming!” Louis calls to Liam as Liam gets the two of them beers from his fridge. He opens them both and walks over to where Louis is sitting on his couch, one leg folded underneath himself. Liam can’t help but think that Louis looks so…natural in his flat. Like he belongs there. He hands Louis one of the beers.

“I can’t believe you did see it coming! How did you figure it out so fast?”

“It wasn’t that fast.”

“You said the brother was the killer not even twenty minutes in!”

Louis shrugs and takes a sip of his beer. “Okay, maybe it was that fast.” He looks at Liam, feeling the happiest he has in a long time, and he might be projecting but he’s pretty sure he sees that happiness reflected back at him on Liam’s face.

They sit in silence for a few minutes, Louis looking around Liam’s flat and Liam looking at Louis. Liam thinks that now is as good a time as any to tell Louis the truth about himself, and opens his mouth to do so, but Louis beats him to it.

“Hey, is that your family?” he asks, standing and walking over to the shelves where Liam has all of his framed pictures. Well, not all of them. There’s one of him and his parents and sisters he keeps on his nightstand, and another of him and some of his uni friends he still keeps in touch with on his dresser, but other than that, they’re all on that shelf.

“Uh…yeah,” Liam says, hoping Louis isn’t going to ask about his baby pictures. Louis said on their second date, when they got on the subject of family, that his mum’s house is full of pictures of him and his siblings as kids and babies. You’d think we never grew past the age of five, he’d said. If I get to take you there one day, you’ll see. Liam does have a couple up of himself as an infant, but any pictures where he looked even remotely female were nowhere to be found in his flat, so his pictures jump from infancy to the end of his first year of uni, after his testosterone shots started taking effect and he started to finally start looking masculine.

“Who’s this little lad?” Louis asks, holding up a picture of Liam when he was maybe eighteen, curly hair a mess and a plaid shirt buttoned all the way to his neck. “It can’t be the same handsome man sitting on the couch over there. And this hair! Wow.”

“Hey! Don’t hate on the hair, okay?” Liam playfully replies, getting up to stand next to Louis by the shelf. “My mum loved my hair like that. She cried when I shaved it all off not long after that picture was taken.”

Louis puts the picture back on the shelf and just looks at Liam, arms crossed with a soft but thoughtful expression on his face. “Can’t imagine you with a shaved head,” he says quietly, reaching up to run his fingers through Liam’s current hairdo. Liam tries not to notice the slight shake in Louis’s hand as it moves, or how close Louis is standing to him right now, or how Louis keeps looking from Liam’s eyes to his mouth like they do in the movies, or how Louis is leaning in closer like he’s about to kiss….oh. Oh!

“Louis!” Liam says, probably too loud for their close proximity, putting his hands on Louis’s shoulders to stop him from coming any closer. Louis looks hurt, and Liam tries to think of something to say to fix it, but Louis speaks first, as always.

“Sorry, mate,” he says, cheeks red with embarrassment and arms crossing over his chest again, but defensively this time, not casual like they were a minute ago. “Just thought that’s where the night was going, but I must’ve been wrong.”

“No! No, you’re not wrong,” Liam gets out before Louis has a chance to run out the door and out of Liam’s life for probably forever because there is nothing in the world Liam wants to happen less than that right now.

“I’m not?” Louis asks, softening a bit, but still cautious. Liam shakes his head. “Then why’d you stop me?”

Liam looks at Louis for a second, really looks at him, trying to see what kinds of emotions he could be feeling at the moment. All he finds is confusion and curiosity, which are better than anger, Liam guesses, so he sighs and gestures for Louis to sit back down on the couch.

“Sit. There’s something I need to tell you.” Louis does, and Liam starts.

Liam tells him everything. How he was always sporty, even as a kid, and ran track for years, even went to uni on a scholarship for it. How he started feeling different from his teammates around year seven, but didn’t have the vocabulary to describe it until he got to uni and met some new people. How he figured out this thing about himself that made him lose his scholarship, because it was made out for a member of the women’s track team, one with a different name, not a member of the men’s.

Louis stops him there, where everyone he’s told this version of the story to has stopped him so far. “Liam, I’m confused…what are you telling me?”

Here goes nothing, he thinks, and takes a deep breath before just saying it. “I’m transgender. I was born female and raised as the youngest of three girls until I was seventeen, when my doctor said it was okay to start taking testosterone and start my transition into being a male…person.”

This is always the hard part. Not knowing what the other person is going to say. Sitting in agony until they say something. Anything.

“Why didn’t you tell me before?”

What? “What?”

Louis sniffles and dear God if Liam’s made him cry he’s going to hate himself. “I just…why didn’t you tell me before? Did you not trust me? Or -”

“No, I did trust you! I do trust you. And I really, really like you, which is part of why I waited to tell you. I’ve only done this once before with someone I was dating, and it ended…badly, so every person I’ve dated since then, I’ve waited until a few dates in to make sure they’re not going to do the same thing he did, because I can’t take that again.”

“How many people have you told since him?”

“Just you.”

“'Cause four dates is the farthest you’ve gotten since then?”

“No. ‘Cause you’re the only one I knew wouldn’t run away.”

Louis smiles, something tiny and soft but there, and Liam leans in to kiss him softly, just once, as a thank-you for listening and staying.

It’s quiet for a few minutes, some sort of uncertain tension hanging in the air between them, before Louis stands and stretches a bit.

“Think I’m gonna go home, if that’s alright with you.”

Liam panics. He wants to say no, it’s not alright, please stay and let me know what you’re thinking and never ever leave me…but he doesn’t.

“Yeah, that’s…that’s fine.”

He’s not even trying to hide the fact that he’s sad and more than a little hurt, and Louis picks up on that. He reaches out for Liam’s hands and pulls him to stand, too, then wraps his arms around Liam in a hug. He feels Liam relax against him and he knows that was the right way to go.

“I’m gonna go home,” Louis repeats after he lets go of Liam, “but I will be back. I really like you, too, Liam, and I don’t want to lose what we have, but I’m not as educated as I’d like to be on things like this, and I want to make sure I don’t mess it all up by saying something wrong.” He gathers his coat and his keys before stepping close to Liam again. “I’ll call you tomorrow?” he asks, hopeful, and Liam can’t help but nod. Louis kisses his cheek before letting himself out of Liam’s flat, leaving Liam to stand there, alone, but looking forward to what lies ahead.

#how much you wanna bet the 'keep reading' doesn't work #my writing #lilo #text post #long post #liam fic #louis fic #lilo fic #trans character #trans Liam #God I'm so nervous to post this #I thought I might never actually post it but it's the closest WIP I have to finished #and I thought maybe some feedback might help give me the boost I need to finish it #or maybe everyone will hate it and be mean about it and I'll just stop writing forever #who knows! that's the fun!

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secret-rendezvous1d · 6 years

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Christmas Promises

DECEMBER 3RD, 2017

Maybe at Christmas Eve after being with H and his family for a couple of days the whole Styles family and the missus would be sitting under the Christmas tree and opening presents. There would be a little box with the name of our lady and inside of it there would be a promise ring and Harry would be the cutey he is and go up to the missus and tell her a little monologue then put the ring on her finger. ADDED: So...I have an idea for a Christmas blurb. Harry and the missus spending the Holidays in his parents house and one night they are on the couch watching some film then they make out and Anne sees them but sais nothing and than talks it out with Gemma and afterwards she tolds Harry how cute they are and Harry getting all embarassed and everything....If you could do that, that would be lovely! Thanks so much!

I found this one to be so god damn adorable... someone get me a boyfriend who would do this for me on Christmas Eve... in fact, someone get me a Harry Styles. Preferably the real thing. :’)))

Feedback is welcomed, as always.

Enjoy. xx

CHRISTMAS EVE, 2014, 3PM.

“I haven’t seen him this happy in so long,” Anne hummed with a low volume to her voice, keeping her observations at bay, eyes still glancing through the kitchen entryway and cast upon the two twenty-two year olds snuggled up on her living room sofa as she kneaded sticky dough on the counter top. Her words falling deaf upon Gemma’s ears as she stood at the doorframe, nursing a cup of tea that steamed around her face. “Gemma,” she hissed, bringing her daughter from the trance she distanced herself into, “did you hear me?”

Gemma furrowed her eyebrows and sheepishly shook her head.

“I was just watching those two in there. They’re so in love, aren’t they? I don’t think I’ve ever seen him as happy as this,” she confessed over the rim of her mug, tilting it back and taking a sip of the warm liquid inside. Peppermint spiking the buds on her tongue. Anne’s eyes widening in humoured disbelief as she shook her head and tilted her gaze back upon the ball of dough between her hands, a smile twisting her lips as her daughter took to realising that, her observations were much too similar to her own. “I guess I was listening then. Or we just think the same.”

“It’s incredibly obvious, sweetheart. We don’t need to scratch so hard upon the surface this time around. When has he ever been so-”

“So disgusting with a girlfriend?” Gemma disclosed with a humoured smirk on her lips, dodging the swat of the tea-towel in Anne’s hand as she swung the material in her direction, “I’m kidding. I’m kidding. It’s surprisingly lovely to see him so, I don’t know, can we say relaxed? He just looks so happy.”

“It’s a huge change from what happened in May, don’t you think?” She asked. The memory was something that had been pushed into the deepest and darkest depths of her mind. One that she couldn’t bring herself to think about again. Her heart shattering at the mere chance of the topic being brought up. “I can never, ever get the image of him so broken out of my head, Gemma. I don’t think I ever will. It’s every mother’s worst nightmare to see her child so broken and distraught,” Anne sighed, wiping her fingertips on the chequered material, “but, just by seeing them so close and cuddling together, you never would have thought they’d gone through the roughest of patches just seven months ago.”

“He really fought for her. He really loves her. He’s not been as lucky in love as some,” Gemma murmured, spinning on her socked heels at the sound of Robin’s crunching boots walking up the gravel of the back garden patio, a hefty cough escaping his dry throat as he cleared away the lumps, “all he wanted was to fall in love with someone without people speculating or commenting on how he lived his life. He found her, don’t you think?”

Harry Styles had never been lucky in love.

Yes, he had his fair share of school relationships, and travelled as far, as his mother would allow him to go, to spend time with them, and he had a fair amount of crushes on girls he had grown up around. Some that he hung around with at school and some that he saw walk passed the bakery windows when he had a shift. But nothing had ever turned long-term. Settling for weeks before he was back to his single life. Back to himself. Back to moping and thinking about his life, his future, and what his life would be like when he met the girl that he knew was the end-game for him. That he knew would be there, present in his life, for the rest of time. Who he would wake up beside every morning, who he cooked breakfast for before they left for work every day, who he got to kiss and cuddle and call his own when introductions were made, who he got to end his day with and who he fell asleep beside every night.

A running thought in his mind, when his teenage-year old self had been pushed into the sudden limelight of fame and fortune, was that he had his pick of the women who threw themselves at him, now. He no longer had to hide his misery of not having girls pay him the attention he desired from them. He was of legal age to consent and he had experience; he’d watched porn, more times than he could count on both his fingers and his toes, and, he was no innocent young man when it came to the top shelf magazines in the paper shops, and he was no sinner to being present, around his male friends, when they were full of testosterone and thought about nothing but boobs and getting their dicks wet on a twenty-four seven basis. He was young and immature and unknowing of how he was to handle his life now that he was a heartthrob in an in-demand band. He didn’t know what he was doing, he didn’t know how his life had changed so drastically, he didn’t know how to cope, but, he did know that he just couldn’t let the opportunities go to waste.

And it wasn’t long, give or take a year or two, before he realised that the way he was living his life was bringing him pure misery.

He was everywhere because he start reckless. From gossip magazines to the front page on newspapers to being the butt end of a rumour spreading across the internet to, eventually, having women look upon him as a young boy, who hadn’t quite got a handle upon his new-found way of life, who slept around with anyone who batted an eyelash in his direction. Titles being pushed upon him, swallowing him whole, that hurt him and tore his innocent identity away, shredding any ounce of innocence from his past self to pieces. He was no longer Harry Styles - the youngest member of One Direction... he was now Harry Styles - the womanising teenager that married men needed to worry over.

And he didn’t want that for the rest of his life.

He didn’t want women to look at him and never give him the time of day; how was he supposed to find the one to settle down with? He didn’t want to leave a hotel room every night and come back with a girl on his arm; because, what other labels could have been pushing the real him to side? He didn’t want to be known as the teen heartthrob who slept around; he had urges but he was still respectful, despite a mucky beginning... right? He didn’t want to have his face, mounted onto a front page, with a girl he couldn’t remember the name of; because it made him look sleazy. He didn’t want to look his mother in the eye, he didn’t want to talk to his sister, and know that the both of them were thinking disgraced thoughts of him; because, deep down, he felt that he was treating women in the poorest of fashions and it needed to be changed,

He was seventeen when he found himself in his first public relationship. One that lasted longer than a handful of weeks, and had surpassed the Christmas of 2011, and happened to make it passed her birthday and, evidently, had only just skimmed over his eighteenth. But even then, despite there never being any public displays of loving affection and despite him never being as open as he had been, it never brought good news to him. Caroline was 15 years his senior, had been there from the start of his career, had never been an issue with him, neither for her, and had only ever brought judgemental comments and raised a few eyebrows from the general public who had unnecessary things to say about his life. It just wasn’t his way out.

He was eighteen when he found you.

And he was sure, by the apologetic look in your eyes as his socked feet, and new boots, took the wrath of spilt coffee from squashed takeaway cups, that you were someone special. That you were someone who flashed before his eyes when he blinked. That you were someone he would take home to his mother and show off that he’d met someone so wonderful and... normal. A tiny inkling within his belly that made him reach out to keep you in his life. Swapping numbers in the middle of the coffee shop, going on dates before he took off on a jet to America, Skyping and calling each other when he found a spare five minutes to waste, and making plans to see each other, as soon as he stepped off the plane at Heathrow.

And you... you were the brightly shining exit sign above a door that brought him back to himself.

You were his way out.

“Yeah,” Anne agreed, her heart bursting as she watched her son press a kiss to the top of your head, squeezing you closer to his side as he reached for the remote and switched off the television. The credits Christmas film that had been playing, one that was your favourite to watch the day before Christmas day, rolling up the screen. “Yeah, I think he found her.”

“Your mum always makes the house smell so good whenever we come to visit. She doesn’t just do that for us, does she? Or just for me?” You murmured into his shoulder, nose pushed into the curve above his armpit as his fingers, attached to the hand that belonged to the arm that was swung across your shoulders, drew gentle patterns in the soft material of your jumper. His musk-scented tee making you feel content beneath his arm. Beanie upon his head to keep his wildly, untamed curls hidden and a pair of skinnies on his legs. A pair of his worn-out tracksuit bottoms on your legs because you’d only packed sleep shorts and they weren’t the best attire for a chilly afternoon, spent inside, in Cheshire. Blanket pulled up to your chest. “What’s she making this time? It smells delicious.”

“Cheese and onion bread, I think. To have with the stew cooking. I don’t know why though, because she’s never made bread in her life,” he snickered, looking over his shoulder to see his mother undoing the apron from around her neck, splattered with dried dough and covered in flour, reaching behind her waist and untying the knot that hung at the small of her back, before looking back to you and pressing a kiss to your forehead, “she likes showing off when you come back with me. Cracks out the Gordon Ramsey and Nigella books. The house never usually smells this good. In fact, it hasn’t smelt this good in years. I’m guessing this is one recipe that my aunt told her to try out. It’s all she’ll be making now, bringing her fresh loaves to family gatherings and parties, until someone insists she try and make something they’d found. She went through a phase, when I was younger, of making the donuts you get at the beach, because a friend of hers said that they were a doddle to make,” Harry chuckled lowly and shook his head, “she spent three days making the batter because it never tasted right.”

You giggled into his side and curled your legs up tighter to your chest, your feet, with toes that felt numb, coming to rest upon his lap.

“I’m envious that you grew up in a house like this, you know? Spacious and warm and in the nicest f neighbourhoods. A back-garden big enough for you have any swing set you wanted as a kid. I bet you had so many friends down this road,” you grinned up at him as he wrapped his free hand around the base of one of your feet. His palm being warm and sending tingles through your skin. “You’re like my very own personal heater.” His fingers dragged up the sole of your foot, jerking your leg out, as far as it would go with the grip he had. “Why are you so annoying?”

“You love me, though,” he hummed, “didn’t have that many friends who lived down this road. All my mates lived a bike ride away and I used to go and meet them at the local paper shop. We got loads of sweets and sugar drinks and we used to eat them in the park. Felt like a rebel at the time but, really, I was just a kid who consumed too much sugar and had toothaches for days.”

“Toothache with the perfect gnashers you have behind here?” You frowned as your thumb brushed over his bottom lip, tugging it down to catch a look at the pearly whites hidden in his mouth, “I find that hard to believe. Although, it would explain the juice kicks you’ve been on. I take it you won’t be eating any sugar tomorrow?”

“Why are you so annoying?” He mocked, wrapping his lips around the tip of your thumb, tasting the sweet leftover of the mince pies eaten throughout the film, “I don’t know how I put up with you, sometimes.”

“You love me, though.”

There’s no clear explanation to how the moment changed.

One minute you were giving him a tight-lipped smile with a sticky sheen on your pink flesh, tucked beneath his arm and cosy against his side, beneath a thick blanket that smelt of him and the cologne he’d sprayed that morning, and the next minute, you were no longer beside him, but rather beneath him, Your lips moulding against his in a hungry kiss, your tongue swiping over his bottom lip and he was hovering, tauntingly above you. Legs around his waist, ankles crossed at the bottom of his spine, heels pushing into he small of his back, as your back found the sofa behind you.

Settled in your own little bubble that Anne’s delicate cough went unheard.

Off in your own world that Robin’s presence, in the arm-chair closest to the both of you, hadn’t phased either of you

But not so far away that Gemma’s yells and gagging could go unheard.

The both of you pulling away abruptly, eye contact held for a second longer as a string of saliva broke from between your mouths, before you took in the nosey eyes of his family settled around the room. One behind the sofa, one on the arm of the sofa, and one to the right of the sofa. Evident smirks on their faces. Their gazes making heat rise to your cheeks and making Harry’s bottom lip lodge between his teeth.

“Once you’re done shagging on the sofa, I’d like to sit down and watch some telly now that you’re both finished with that film,” she grunted, swiping the back of Harry’s thighs with her slipper-clad foot, jerking him closer to you as he pushed himself up and fell to the middle seat of the sofa, “that was disgusting. If that’s what your snogging looks like, I dread to think what it’s like walking in you when you’re fucki-”

“Gemma!” Anne’s scolding voice came from behind, cutting her short as she turned her head to give her brother a teasing glare, jerking her eyebrows up whilst a hand came to rest upon Harry’s shoulder, “you know I don’t mind the both of you sharing a kiss every now and then, sweet boy, but, please bear in mind where you are. We have rules in this house which apply to both my children and their respected partners. I know the both of you are rather quite active back home, and, you’re both young but-”

“Mum,” Harry hissed, tilting his head back to give her ‘shushing’ look, “it won’t happen again. I promise.”

“The walls are paper thin, too,” Anne continues. Harry’s eyes widening as a silent plea for her to stop where she was going with her public thoughts, “alright, alright. I’ll shush for now. But, it goes for tonight, as well. I know how you get after a few glasses of fizz, sweet boy. A little touchy and a little cheeky. I just ask, for tonight, for you to keep it to just a kiss before bed, okay?”

“Mum!”

CHRISTMAS EVE, 4:30PM.

“Is there anything you want me to help you with, Mum? YN’s fallen asleep,” Harry stretched his back, lifting his arms up, as he stepped upon the cool tiles beneath his feet. Hit with the delicious aroma of freshly made bread that was cooling down in the corner and the mouth-watering smell of a beef stew stewing away in a pot. Steaming wafting up. “It smells lovely.”

“Thank you. I’ll give you the recipe and you can give it a crack yourself. When you get back home, of course. It makes me feel very content to know you’re being well fed,” his mother’s eyes twinkled, reaching up to squeeze his cheeks as he hunched over to press a kiss to her cheek, “you could get the mulled wine brewing, if you want to. I was just about to start it myself. Just peel up some clementies and some lemon and limes. The sugar’s already in the pan.”

“‘course,” he smiled, twisting on his heels and perching himself at the island in the middle of the kitchen, hands reaching for the fruits set at the top of the fruit bowl. He set the the lemon and the lime down, making sure they stayed where they were and didn’t roll from the counter and took to the floor with a thud. “Mum, you know we didn’t intend for that to happen earlier, right? Just, kind of happened, out of the blue. Spontaneous n’all that. I know you have a no sex rule in the house and stuff. Wouldn’t go far beyond a snog.”

“Oh, Harry, shush. It’s fine. I’m not as blind and oblivious as you may think I am. I know that you’ve been a little naughty with that rule when we’re out or when we’ve gone to bed. Need I remind you of that morning in May, hm? I know what happened the night before,” Anne said, a hint of teasing with her words as his cheeks flushed pink, his eyes focused on the curves of his nails as he dug his fingers into the peel of the clementine in his hand. Refusing eye contact because, well, what son could ever make eye contact with his mother when the topic of sex was on the cards? “I know you’re both very active an-”

“Mum,” Harry warned, his voice wobbling, “stop with this. It’s happened once and it won’t happen again. I promise you. What happened that night, it happened for a reason, whether you had a rule in the house or not. It was overdue, needed, and,” he paused to take a breath, puffing the air out from between his puckered lips as he grin and beared the awkwardness and looked up from orange fruit in his hands, “I bloody love her, Mum. I wasn’t going to let her walk out of my life.”

“I know you do,” Anne smiled warmly, leaving the cooker on low as she scuffed across the space and leant, upon her arms, on the breakfast island, “me and Gem were talking earlier. When we came in here to let you have some time together. It was nothing bad because we can never find anything bad to talk about. We just,” she watches as he popped a clementine segment between his lips and chewed on the fruit, a dribble of juice slipping down his chin that he wiped away with the sleeve of his jumper, “we spoke about how in love you look, Harry. About how happy the both of you are, and in articular, you. I will never not see the image of you so broken because I’d never seen you so sad before. But it’s a big difference to the smile that sits on your face when she’s around.”

“She makes me so happy,” he took a glance over his shoulder to see you, still asleep and curled up on the sofa, out like a light, despite Gemma’s cackles and Robin’s deep chuckle that rumbled round the lower level of the house. The topic smile forming on his lips. “She’s just, she’s just amazing. Never felt so lucky in my life, before. Being with her makes everything worth it. The distance, the time differences, the rumours, the hate that she gets. Everything we go through, it never stops us from being who we are. Who we’re meant to be” he admitted, twisting back around and setting down the split clementine, from his hand, to reach for the lime, “I think she’s it for me, Mum. And I have a ring that m’gon’a give ‘er later on tonight to show her that I don’t want anyone else in my life but her.”

“When you say a ring, you don’t mean...” Anne’s voice trailed off, her words becoming distant. “Are we talking engagement?”

He shook his head, hesitantly.

“Not yet, no. We’re only twenty and I think we could fit in so much more before engagement is on the cards. Give it a few more years,” he grinned, his bottom lip falling open as his tongue slipped from behind his teeth. Concentration taking over as he worked his thumbnail into the top of the green fruit, ripe and heavy in his hand. “S’a promise ring. I have a whole big speech planned, but, I’ll probably balls it up from nerves. I just, I hope she thinks of me in the same way. I’ve never felt like this before. Never been with someone for as long as I’ve been with her and, I guess I can’t imagine my life without her. If I could make her mine tomorrow, I would do it in a heartbeat, Mum.”

CHRISTMAS EVE, 11:45PM.

“I was wondering how long it would take for you to find that.”

You looked over your shoulder and found Harry, hands braced on the back of the sofa in Anne’s living room, leaning on his palms as he watched you with the small gift in your hands, with a grin sitting on his pink lips, stained with red wine and, probably, tasting sweet and delicious and a little sticky, too, because he’d been enjoying one too many of the homemade mince pies that Gemma had brought home, in a beautiful decorated tin that he recognised as one from his kitchen cupboards. His cheeks pink and bitten at, and his eyes were a little bloodshot and watery and red around the rims from the chilled air of the conservatory connected to Anne’s kitchen, where everyone had gathered with warm mugs of eggnog and mulled wine and bundled up, nice and warm, with scarves around their necks and slippers on their feet. Bringing in the end of Christmas Eve in front of a wood fire, that smelt delicious and felt toasty warm, watching the soft and gentle snowflakes flurry down from the dark sky, outside the window, giving the grass a frosty glow.

“I thought we’d already given our Christmas Eve gifts. I gave you hair-ties and you gave me socks,” you snickered, wiggling your toes in the fuzzy reindeer socks that you’d opened hours before. A chuckle escaping Harry’s lips as he made his way around the sofa and kicked off the slippers that were comfy on his feet. “Warm socks, need I add. My toes haven’t felt this warm in ages, Harry. And that’s saying something. What is this? It’s so small.”

“Open it and find out.”

“Harry, if this is something that’s beyond our price range, I’m going to spill my mug of chocolate over you,” you warned, his eyes rolling in his head as a smirk formed on his pink lips. You pinched the lid of the striped, pink and white with glitter lining each and every stripe, box that sat in your palm, the square lid popping free and falling to the floor beside her crossed legs. Revealing a beautifully designed ring with a diamond settled in the middle. “Harry...” You gawked, eyes darting from the glistening ring, that shone beneath the light of the living room, to his green eyes, that shone with a glint of adoration and hope and a slither of nerves, “it’s beautiful.”

Harry settled himself on his bum, after adjusting the baggy tracksuit bottoms slung low on his hips, upon the cream carpet of his mum’s living room, almost toppling back into the Christmas tree. A bauble knocked by his shoulder. A comparable contrast from the comfortable cushioned chair he’d occupied in the conservatory, just moments ago, with a lap that was empty and waiting for you to settle upon, when you decided that you could brace the cold for a few minutes. Back to his chest, admiring the crackle of the fire and the glow that came from the flames, as they sat on the edge of dozing off. His bare toes coiling up and bending, fingers becoming the aid to his joints as they cracked, before he pulled his knees to his chest and kept them trapped between his arms, fingertips hooking together.

“Is it really? Not jus’ sayin’ that because I’m sat ahead of you, right? You actually mean it?”

His lips twitch as you scoffed and sent a kick in his direction. The wool material from one foot, of your new pair of socks, brushing over the top of his foot.

“It’s beautiful. Harry, it is. I love it,” you whispered, your eyes completely focused upon the band that fit perfectly between the cushioned base of the box, “I really, really do love it. Thank you.”

“And, before you say anything else, it’s not an engagement ring. I’d spend so much more on one o’ those,” he pointed out, ”it’s just my sickeningly romantic way of telling you that I love you, with every fibre of my being, and I plan to do so until I have no more love to give. I was going to give it to you when we were back in London, but, I thought that Christmas would be a more memorable way to go about it,” he added, your eyes working their way over him. From the messy hair that sat upon his head, growing long and curling around his ears and almost passing his shoulders, to the tip of his reddened nose, that just needed some loving care before you both fell asleep, to the pink of his lips, that seemed inviting. Staring long enough to make him squirm beneath your gaze. His knees dropping from his chest and straightening, fanning his toes out as he worked the kinks from his joints. “what?”

“Nothing,” you grinned.

He pushed a hand in your direction, fingers wiggling as his eyes landed upon the box on your palm, “will you let me do it properly? Had a whole speech planned and everythin’. It might score me some Christmas Eve sex but that’s something we’ll only find out,” he snickered as you transferred the pink and white box into his much large palm. His fingers shaking as he took the front from between the cushion and held it tightly between the tips of his thumb and his forefinger, ”unless Christmas Eve sex was already on the cards. That way, it’s a win-win scenario, right?”

You hummed in mock thought before you scooted a little closer to him. His legs crossing over each other, twisted up into the pretzel position, as his elbows came to rest upon his knees. The ring still held tightly between his fingertips.

“Been together for a coupl’a years now, haven’t we? Best two years of my life, I’m telling you. I couldn’t imagine loving someone else as much as I love you. In fact, I can’t imagine being here in Chapel, and in my mum’s house on Christmas Eve, with anyone else but you. Had that slip up this year because I was an absolute wanker but we made it through and it got me thinking that,” his eyes never left yours as he swallowed back the lump in his throat, “if we made it through our break-up and still came out fighting stronger than ever, then, we can conquer anything that gets thrown in our direction. We’ve beaten time differences. We’ve smacked long distance out the park. We made it through rumours and the fiction people make up about our relationship. We can do anything,” he took a pause before continuing, “I said s’not an engagement ring, just yet. This is just a promise. From me to you. I promise to never go back to being the guy I was when I went on tour. I promise to love you until I just can’t fit any more love inside me. I promise to always call you when I’m away and I promise to send you those stupid memes because I know they make you smile. Even more so, when I’m the butt end of the meme,” he frowned, ignoring the snicker that escaped your mouth, hidden behind your palm to muffle the sound, “I promise to be the best boyfriend I can be until that title no longer needs to remain. Until we’re ready to take that next step in our relationship. Until I pluck up that courage and find some balls to ask you to marry me. Because, then, this ring can be replaced with one that means more than a simple statement. This is my promise, to you, that you’re it for me. That I don’t want anyone else but you. Because I can’t imagine what my life would have ended up like without you in it and I don’t think I could ever imagine what life would end up like without you.”

You felt your eyes begin to sting as he slipped the silver band down your finger. Slotting perfectly against your digit as he twisted the ring to make sure the diamond was perfectly situated in the middle. Your vision blurring over as your knees dropped from your chest and propped your figure up from the carpet, toes bending to keep you stable as you wrapped your arms around his neck. His arms snaking around your waist. And you soon found yourself sliding into his lap and wrapping your legs around his waist. Your head pushed into the hollow of his neck, where it curved into his shoulder, and smelt like the festive cologne, with a hint of orange zest, that he only ever decided to crack out at Christmas time. Delicate kisses being sponged to the material, clinging to his upper body, and back up his jaw, slowly and aching, as your nose nudged into the outer shell.

“I love you, I love you, I love you,” you whispered into his ear, his squeeze tightening around you. Hushed whispers, echoing around the kitchen, coming from the conservatory as the clock, in the kitchen, struck midnight. “Merry Christmas, baby. I can’t wait to celebrate tomorrow with you.”

#harry styles imagines #one direction imagines #one direction preferences #harry blurbs #harry styles blurbs #harry imagines #1d harry #1d harry styles #blogmas 2017

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masksandtruths · 7 years

Text

Never Normal: Part One

A/N: This was done for @revwinchester's Y1K Challenge, and in typical "me" fashion, I got a bit long winded. The prompt I chose is towards the end in bold font. This one isn't going to be a series, but there will be a part 2, which will explain a few things, including the story behind the reader's post-it note. Anyway, congrats Rev, and I hope y'all love it!

Summary: When the Winchesters found Y/N the moment after her world fell apart, she never expected they’d be the ones to help her put it back together--but that’s exactly what they did. From friends, to brothers, to the possibility of something more--their lives together were far from normal, which was exactly how she liked it.

Characters: Dean Winchester x Reader (mentioned here, but the majority will be in Part 2 & 3); Sam Winchester; Reader's sibling

Warnings: Swearing, Semi-fluffy, Drinking, Violence, Sibling death, so of course, also a little Angst.

Word Count: 3400-ish

“Okay, I give up. Where the hell do you two turds keep the ketchup in this dimly lit den of testosterone?” you asked, slamming the pantry door closed and throwing your hands up in defeat.

Sam looked up from the pot of green beans he was preparing on the stove and smiled when he saw you standing there in a state of distress over their poorly stocked fridge and cabinets. “Unless Dean has some leftover ketchup packets from the last fast food joint he raided, I’d say you’re out of luck.”

“That’s about par. No coffee creamer either…or fluffy pillows…or chick flicks…definitely no feminine products…and if your hair wasn’t damn near as long as mine, I’d bet my big toe there’d be no conditioner in this joint either,” you joked, playfully tugging a piece of Sam’s long hair as you passed by him on your way to finish setting the table.

When you were done placing the last steaming bowl of food in the center of the table a few minutes later, you took a step back and admired your handiwork. Three real plates accompanied by actual silverware, cloth napkins, and crystal glasses sat on its wooden surface. The rest of the space was filled with heaping bowls of salad, green beans, mac and cheese, mashed potatoes and dinner rolls. It was enough to feed an army, and there was no way all of it was going to get eaten—even though you had a strong feeling Dean would give it his best shot—but it looked exactly like you hoped it would. Like the birthday dinners you used to share with your little sister.

Your breath caught in your throat, and you mentally braced yourself against the wave of crippling pain and overwhelming sense of loss that usually slammed into you seconds after recalling memories of your younger sibling—but it never came. Normally at this point, a sadness like none you’d ever known before would flood your soul, the weight of it knocking the air from your lungs and crushing the already broken heart beating in your chest—but not this time. This time, the simple, happy memory of your little sister didn’t rip open the gaping wound inside of you—the one you’d been struggling to heal since the day you’d found her lifeless body in your kitchen—and leave you in a crying, crumpled mess on the floor. Instead, you felt what you assumed most people felt when they started to come back from that level of emotional trauma—something like a mixture of closure and relief and acceptance.

You allowed yourself to remember the first time you decided to have a fancy dinner in honor of her birthday. Five months prior to that day, you had held her hand in the cemetery as you both cried and said goodbye to your parents for the last time. Afterwards, you had told the few distant family members in attendance that you would become her legal guardian, and she’d be living with you from now on. Maybe it was because you were a full decade older than her, finished with college, and working a full-time job…or maybe it was the way you spoke so matter-of-factly—your words filled with love and determination, but everyone had accepted your declaration without argument or objection.

In the blink of an eye, you went from being a sibling to also being a parent, and you never—not even for one second—doubted or regretted that decision. You found strength in each other as you both grieved and adjusted to your new version of normal—and before you knew it, nearly half a year had passed, and her thirteenth birthday was quickly approaching. You recalled thinking that no kid should have to become a teenager without her parents at her side, so you did what you do best and overcompensated, hoping it would bring her a little bit of happiness on a day that could easily take a turn into a more depressing territory. You talked to a couple of her friends and arranged for them all to go to the movies after volleyball practice that day, giving you a few hours to set everything up.

After you got off work, you rushed to the grocery store, gathering the ingredients to whip up all the foods she loved most in the world, and then spent the evening rushing around the kitchen like a madwoman. Just as you were setting the last piece of your mom and dad’s wedding china on the table, three very excited teenage girls burst through the front door squealing about the Harry Potter movie they had just watched.

“Oh my gosh, sis. You wouldn’t believe how good the last movie is. Seriously, people clapped. We totally have to go back so you can--.”

She stopped midsentence as she took in the scene before her, eyes lighting up when she noticed the bowls of food on the table and the presents purchased by you and her friends stacked all around her chair. “Surprise! Happy 13th birthday, kiddo!” you shouted happily, popping the cork on a bottle of sparkling white grape juice as you did so. She stood there in shock for a brief moment before jumping up and down and shooting straight towards you, nearly knocking you off your feet when she threw her arms around your neck and excitedly told you over and over how much she loved you. A few months later, she did the same thing for your birthday, and just like that, your special birthday dinner tradition was born.

Five years later, the tradition still held, and you watched as she blew out eighteen candles on her cake and chattered happily about her upcoming move to Houston and her acceptance to Rice University’s premedical program. Never in a million years would you have imagined a vampire would rob you of the opportunity to watch her add another candle to her cake, but on one horrible night, in the middle of June, just five weeks shy of her 19th birthday, that’s exactly what happened.

When you found her that evening, the sane part of you knew immediately that she was gone—that the light of your life—your best friend—your baby sister would never open her eyes again. You’d never see her graduate…or become a doctor…or have a family of her own, but you just couldn’t wrap your mind around that right then. So instead, you dropped to your knees and pulled her into your lap, rocking her and stroking her hair like you did when she was a little girl and was sick or had a bad dream. Out of habit, you rested your chin on top her head and quietly started singing the words of her favorite childhood song.

“Dancing bears, painted wings, things I almost remember; And a song someone sings, once upon a December; Someone holds me safe and warm...”

At that point, your voice broke and you held onto her a little tighter, squeezing your eyes shut as you silently willed her chest to rise and your tears not to fall. But when her chest never rose, your tears decided they didn’t have to listen either.

When the monster found you sitting there a short while later and promised you the same fate, you looked him dead in the eyes and calmly told him to get on with it—that it was better than living in a world without her, anyway. You kissed her forehead one last time and took a steadying breath, ready for him to put you out of your misery, but before he could follow through, the Winchesters came barreling into the room, machetes swinging. A normal person probably would have felt relief at narrowly avoiding a date with death, but when the monster’s severed head landed next to you that night, the only thing you felt was regret.

They disposed of his body and later helped you bury hers next to your parents. Some small part of your brain was vaguely aware of the concerned glances aimed in your direction, the hushed whispers shared between them, but you were just too drained and heartbroken to care. They must have sensed the depth of your despair—must have somehow known you couldn’t carry the weight of this agony alone—because when you climbed into the back seat of the Impala with blisters on your hands, your clothes covered in dirt from your sister’s freshly dug grave, they didn’t take you home. Dean just slid into the driver’s seat, stuck the key in the ignition, and drove you straight to their bunker. Later you realized that Sam had stayed behind to gather a few of your personal belongings and pack up some of your clothes so you never had to go back to your house if you didn’t want to—a small kindness for which you were eternally grateful. And so, the most horrible and excruciating healing process of your life began.

Over the next seven months, they taught you all about things most people only imagined in their worst nightmares. They taught you how to fight, how to shoot a gun, how to face those monsters when most folks would run screaming in the opposite direction. They checked on you when you cried out in your sleep. Held you as you kicked and screamed—angry at the universe for stealing away the most precious thing in your life. Carried you out of bars when nothing but drinking yourself into a blind stupor seemed to numb the pain of that loss. Laughed with you when the darkness that had smothered your sense of humor for so long started to fade away and you discovered you finally found things funny again. They helped you heal, and in the process, they became your family. A new one. A different one. But family nonetheless. That’s why, when you’d discovered Dean’s birthday was coming up, you’d suggested having a dinner to celebrate—something that seven months ago, you never would have dreamed you’d feel like doing again.

A smiled played across your lips, happy you were now at a point where you could look back on the memories you made with your sister with fondness instead of excruciating pain. Happy you could start to move forward with your life and begin creating new memories with the two men that helped bring light back into your world. You absentmindedly reached your hand into your pocket and touched the post it note you carried with you everywhere, rubbing your thumb across it affectionately.

“Soup’s on,” Dean announced as he stepped into the kitchen carrying a platter of steaks fresh off the grill in one hand and a beer in the other, effectively jolting you out of your walk down memory lane. “Where do you want me to set these babies, Y/N?”

You pointed towards the one empty place on the table, catching a whiff of their scent as Dean placed them in front of you in the spot you’d chosen. “Holy crap, those smell amazing.”

“You’re telling me. Try being the one cooking them. Took everything I had not to grab mine right off the pit and start going town on it.” He looked over at you as he straightened, a warm smile lighting up his face, causing the little crinkles you loved so much to form around his green eyes. He walked over to you and dropped a quick kiss on the top of your head, which made your stomach to do an embarrassing number somersaults. “Thanks for this, sweetheart. It’s already the best birthday I’ve had in a long time.”

“Sure. No problem. It’s a family tradition,” you answered with a shrug, trying to play it somewhat cool. Shit, why couldn’t you just talk to him the same way you talked to Sam? “Oh, because you don’t want to get naked with Sam, that’s why,” you thought sarcastically, rolling your eyes at your own silliness before walking towards the liquor cabinet. You needed a damn drink. You unscrewed the top on the bottle of bourbon and poured yourself a glass, mixing it with a little coke to help soften the bite of the alcohol.

“Uh huh. You were complaining about living with us earlier, but it has its perks, doesn’t it? We may not have the condiments of your choice, but we’ve got an endless supply of liquor,” Sam teased, throwing a wink in your direction—and like the mature, almost thirty-year old you were, you responded by sticking your tongue out at him.

Dean nearly spit out his beer. “What the hell did you just say? What about condoms and liquor?” he sputtered, his green eyes widened in shock and quickly darting back and forth between you and his younger brother.

Well that was odd. You had initially assumed the choking was due to him thinking Sammy was funny, but the rest of his reaction was just…off. Was that seriously a hint of jealousy you heard in Dean Winchester’s voice? No—couldn’t be—could it?

“Not condoms, you nimrod. Con-di-MENTS,” Sam replied, over exaggerating each syllable of the last word.

“Well excuse me for not speaking moose, asshole,” he bit back, the angry tone of his voice making Sam pull his head back in surprise. Your body, on the other hand, had an entirely different reaction. You knew you were probably reading too much into it, but just imagining there was the slightest chance Dean was acting all grumpy and possessive because he thought you and Sam had been sharing some quality alone time together had you a little…excited. Shit, was it warm in here?

“Dude, chill out. I know your hearing is failing in your old age, but it was just a joke…and no one said anything about condoms.”

For one tense moment, Dean didn’t respond. He just stared at Sam and slowly raised the bottle of beer back up to his lips. Then, just when you started to get really nervous, he let out a small chuckle.

“Geez, you two should see the looks on your faces. Classic.”

You released the breath you didn’t even realize you’d been holding and shook your head. While you were legitimately relieved that WWE Smackdown: Winchester Edition wasn’t about to take place in the kitchen, you couldn’t help but feel a bit of disappointment that all of Dean’s huffiness had simply been another of his jokes. That’s what you got for letting your imagination run wild.

“In all fairness, you have been known to get hangry a time or two, Dean. Thought maybe your growling stomach got the best of you again.”

“Me? Hangry? Never.”

“You want to run that by me again?”

“I didn’t stutter, and your ears don’t flap, darlin’.”

“Whatever you say,” you snorted. “Since it’s your birthday, I’m not going to argue with you. Now can we please eat?”

“Thought you’d never ask.”

“You first, birthday boy. Dig in,” you order, swinging your hand forward to smack him on the ass.

“Alright, now,” he warned, quickly reaching behind him to capture your hand before you could pull away. You giggled. Yes, giggled—there was no other way to describe the sound that fell from your lips. Jesus H Christ, you had to pull yourself together.

“I thought the birthday spanking was supposed to be served during dessert,” Dean joked, releasing your hand, affectionately bumping the underside of your chin with one finger, and flashing you a crooked smile. Lord have mercy—now he just wasn’t fighting fair. It felt as though every drop of blood in your body suddenly made a beeline for your face, overheating your cheeks and turning them as red as the ketchup you’d been searching for earlier.

“For an old man, your brain is still pretty imaginative,” you finally managed to quip back. “Now, get your mind out of the gutter and enjoy the food Sammy and I slaved over all afternoon.”

“Umm, if I remember correctly, I cooked the steaks—which is kind of the most important part of the meal.”

You cocked your hip out and crossed your arms, directing a pointed glance at the long row of bowls filled with sides lining the kitchen table. “Okay,” you sighed dramatically. “You are right. I guess I’ll go ahead and dump all these out…and get rid of the pecan pie that is baking to perfection in the oven as we speak.” You managed to take exactly one step towards the oven before Dean blocked your path. So predictable, you think, a smile lighting up your face as you look up at the older Winchester.

“You take one more step towards that pie, and I’ll throw you down and hog tie you, Y/N. I’m not even playing.”

“You sure know how to make a girl’s heart go pitter patter, Dean. But how about we save that little fantasy for dessert, too?” Before you even realized what your body was doing, you took a step towards him then slowly reached up and gently tugged the middle of his shirt, batting your long eyelashes and rolling your bottom lip between your teeth as you did so.

You noticed how the playful look vanished from his green eyes, quickly replaced by something a little darker and a lot hotter. How his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard and then stiffened his spine like he might be anticipating something. How his tongue flicked out and slowly ran across his full lips. For a split second, you were proud, and also more than a little shocked, that your flirtations seemed to have some sort of effect on him. But then you caught yourself and realized that was exactly how a normal girl would react, and you refused to fall into that normal girl category. Normal just wasn’t your thing, never really had been, but after…after everything, you developed this freakishly strong aversion to anything to falling within that realm. Your thoughts once again drifted to the note tucked safely away in your pocket.

So instead of following through or allowing yourself to imagine where things might go if you kept up your little performance, you simply grinned at him and spouted off the line he’d used on you a few moments ago, “You should see the look on your face. Classic.”

Your heart was still racing as you walked straight for your mixed drink, picked it up and downed it in a few big gulps.

Dean’s eyes were still fixed on your back, watching as you poured yourself another one. The sound of Sam’s chair dragging across the floor as he settled into his spot at the dinner table finally broke him out of his little trance. He gave his head a quick shake and cleared his throat before stepping forward to take his seat as well. When you finished mixing your cocktail, you sat down too, and Dean immediately rubbed his hands together excitedly and dug in.

Appreciative groans echoed around the table as everyone took their first bites of the meal. “I swear I could die happy right now,” Dean mumbled through a mouth full of ribeye. “Thanks for springing for the good steaks, Y/N. Totally worth it.”

“Yep," you agreed, "the only thing that would make them better is ketchup.”

“That’s what you wanted to the ketchup for?” Sam asked incredulously, raising his eyebrows.

“Yeah,” you shrugged. “We always ate them with ketchup.” You glanced to your left and saw Dean had quit chewing and was now sitting dead still and staring at you like you had just sprouted a second head.

“Ketchup? On a steak? But why?”

“Because it’s good, you big cry baby. What’s so wrong with that?”

“Well for starters, it’s just downright un-American, that’s what. But second of all, I cook a damn good steak, and I know for a fact they don’t need any friggin’ ketchup to make them edible.”

“It’s not an insult to your cooking skills, Emeril. I just like what I like—and in this case, it’s ketchup…on my steak.”

“You’re not normal, you know that, right?”

A smile tugged at your lips as you leaned towards him, looking him straight in the eyes, and asked, “And when have I ever striven to be normal, Dean?”

He made a show of considering your question, pursing his lips, squinting one eye and looking up towards the ceiling, brow furrowed in concentration. “I’ve got nothing. Guess that means you are a freak.”

“Yep, just like the rest of my family,” you chuckled, leaning back and pointing at Sam and Dean. “But I've got to admit, if I have to eat ketchup-less steak, there’s no one alive I’d rather eat it with than you two idjits.”

Read Part 2 ->

Tags: @dancingalone21 @wheresthekillswitch @trexrambling @escabell @hannahindie @pinknerdpanda @revwinchester @atc74 @goldenolaf25 @-lovepeacenhope- @messy-buns-and-shotguns @avc212 @shutupiminlooove @kathaswings @nostalgic-uncertainty @arryn-nyxx @deanssweetheart23 @sofreddie @michellethetvaddict @roxyspearing @akshi8278 @horsegirly99

#rewritingrev #deanxreader #dean x reader #dean winchester #dean x y/n #Sam Winchester #spn fanfic #supernatural fanfiction #reader insert #dean x you #angst #never normal

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only-embers-remain · 6 years

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For those of you who don’t know, June is Pride Month. A supposed celebration of everything Queer. And maybe it was that once. Yet I sit here as the month dawns wondering where I fit in a world where such huge things as the Pride Parades exist in every major city in the US. Once it was an act of Defiance against a world that did everything in its power to erase us. To kill us. To ruin us. And for that day that walk in the sun we were invincible for not matter what the world did we still were. No one could take the memories of us away even as they took our lives away.

Now don’t mistake me I know things are better than they once were. I am not going to get arrested today for wearing women’s clothes. I an reasonably expect to not be beat by those more privilege than I well at least in broad daylight. I can tell someone that I am trans and not have them look at me like I just spoke Russian. So in many ways we have much to be proud of. It makes sense in a twisted way that Pride month has become instead of a riot a celebration. That hey look world we are here still. Nice try though. Yet that isn’t the picture. For one month a year I am allowed to be me with out question. I get to be proud of my existence for one month a year. I can expect in more progressive stores and cities things sold catering to my particular demographic or well at least those of us who like rainbows. There isn’t any sign of the pink blue and white flags that represent my specific queerness. Yes let us not go to far after all. For one month of the year I can see books about my people or well those of us who are queer but have little else that hinders them from receiving all the privilege the world is willing to give. Sure you see lesbians, though only ever white ones, and gay couples. You might get to see the lone trans woman and glory in how courageous she is that she wears a dress. Oh my so courageous. It strikes me that Cis People don’t know the meaning of Courageous. They probably don’t after all when have they been so very beaten like we are.

So in this month of pride it is the month to remind me that it is only really this month in which I get to be seen. Though only as a courage piece. As a story for others to consume. Never for my own being. I still will struggle to get my medication that keeps me from ending it all. I will still never be able to find clothes designed to fit a woman who has had the horrific experience of having a testosterone based puberty. I will still get misgendered by even the people who have known me for a year. As if they can’t for some reason see me as the woman I am and not the man that society still tells them I should be. I still have to put in the performance of womanhood to be taken seriously though to be fair so do cis women but at least they only have their credibility on the line not their womanhood. Oh and let us not forget that for this month I get to see how the only way I am allowed to be is if I am white, well to do, preferably male, neurotypical, and quiet about my non-Christian ways. Sure all of those qualifications are specific to the United States but that is really only an addition to shut up the nay sayers. There is one book at the book store that is about non-white experience of queerness, none by those of us on the autistic spectrum, surely no look into how so many of us have PTSD especially in the trans community, no look to how wealth greatly effects this all. I when I say Trans woman there are probably only two names that come to your mind, Caitlyn Jenner, and Laverne Cox. I am proud that a black woman gets to be up there but can you name a single trans man who is famous. I didn’t think so. So yeah let us rename pride for what it really is. Gay White Pride, where the only queer that matters is homosexuals of the cis variety with a sprinkling of trans and crossdressers to add that little spadazzle that makes it feel like a real pride parade. Because crossdressers are totally the same thing as a trans woman, if not better because they make a show of it, make it fun and nothing like reality of the pain of our lives. No of course not. Why aren’t you smiling? You should be smiling.

And you may ask well isn’t any representation good but I want to tell you something, only just. Yes look at all the pretty queers how they sparkle so filled with hot air as to almost be nonexistent. No let us look at what my life is like and why I don’t feel like smiling anymore. Why I want to go back to the riot that was Pride before. See I live in the conflux of a number of underprivileged identifies. Thank god I am white or this would be all the harder. I am homeless and have to deal with the fact that because of my inability to be productive by societal standards I am unwelcome at the calm coffee shops of Seattle. I have to always be tethered to the places that give out low quality food to the teeming masses of us homeless. I haven’t eaten a properly cooked vegetable in over a year. No just carbs and protein for those starving homeless. Moving on from there let us remember that I am a few swayed votes away from loosing my insurance. With it would go my medications, of which I take five different ones on a daily basis. I have over a thousand dollars in pills needed a month to keep me sane. And by sane I mean keep me from cutting up my skin with the knife I have or popping all the pills I can get my hands on in the vain hope that I can go to sleep and never wake up. Depression is not pretty. Oh let us not forget that I also take pills that help me feel human, that let me feel right in my own mind. I run on estrogen and yet my body doesn’t produce it in quantities high enough to be at all functional. Imagine watching a video of some stranger that you have never known and yet they are doing things that you do and things you remember yet they aren’t you. But everything says they should be you. The peep next to you says hey look at this memory of you and I. But it isn’t you and it really never was. Never could be. I really can’t explain dissociation to those who have never felt it and as it effects everyone differently I don’t think there is a close approximation to be had. But remember to smile and be proud. Yeah I feel so accomplished this month in which society tells me oh don’t you worry everything is great now isn’t it. Oh and give us your nonexistent money. Thank you very little.

Yes let us be proud this month. Not outraged that in forty nine states the Trans Panic defense will get you off with murdering a trans woman. All you have to do is say she, or well lets be honest you will say he, didn’t tell you. That you were just so revolted that you had no control over your actions and had to kill her. To beat her. Into a bloody pulp. Oh yeah and that is legal in my state of Washington. It happened this year already in Texas. So yeah. Be proud and happy. Or that I live in one of the ‘gayest’ cities in the US that has a wonderfully gay neighborhood that comes with rainbow crosswalks. So gay. Yeah a neighborhood where trans women can’t be out after dark for fear of being beaten to death. I personally know of six incidents in the first five months of twenty eighteen. All on people I know and I wouldn’t hear of them otherwise. Let’s not look into the violence against trans people of all stripes on the quote gayest neighborhood in the gayest of cities. That is when the violence isn’t being done by the police of course. Not that that happens. Never. Remember smile and be proud. It is our month to exist. But only when we smile of course. Can you see the cracks yet?

Let us not forget history. Every moment of queer liberation has come at the sweat and blood of trans women, often women of color. Stonewall that great moment of rioting. Oh oops I forgot we leave off the riot part. Or that the police were rounding up everyone no mater what they had done. We can make movies of it. Just not with the trans woman who threw the first brick. Who kept the fight going long after the streets had been cleaned and the windows fixed. Yes Marsha P. Johnson is not needed in our gay history. Or of the countless queer people of color who showed up to those first pride parades which were little more than an excuse to pick a fight with the system that hated us. Let us not forget what time we celebrate and why. To honor that first riot, well first recored riot. Same month and to many same day or close to it. Or how trans people have been pushing for every legal reform. Who pushed the 2003 case that got to the supreme court and denounces sodomy laws in all states. Oh little one here several states still have those laws on the books. Oops. Or of Marriage equality. Fuck that we don’t have that. We have federal recognition of a piece of paper. Are our children protected from being torn from us? No. Are we allowed the same medical rights to our loved ones as a straight couple? No. Sure some states are better than others. But not till all are on the same page should we celebrate. I remember being told we had won the fight after that. Ha. By a Drag Queen at a pride parade. A crossdresser who does so for show. I bet you won’t misgender her when she is in costume. Of course not? But what are my pronouns? Yeah I know. So hard to remember. But that fight isn’t over and there are others more important. Conversation therapy. As if you can abuse away the queer. And Abuse it is. Legal in over three quarters of the states. Despite the fact that it tends to kill those it seeks to ‘cure’. But remember we are smiling. Oh and buying. Let us not forget that.

See Pride in Seattle has a long line. Where are the trans people? The fighters of justice? The youth who are our future? At the back behind the likes of Amazon’s wonderful float filled with cis Drag Queens, half of whom are straight while we are at it. Then comes Target, and Microsoft. What the fuck has Microsoft ever done for queer rights? Nothing. Not a damn thing. But they get to be up front so they can advertise, I mean smile and be proud. Sure at least target protects their queer employees. Has desegregated its toy section. Oh my gosh a toy is a toy not specific to gender. What ever will we do? Right. Smile and be proud. For we come after profits. After payments. After the straights. After the pretty shiny ones. Funny isn’t this a queer parade or is it?

So in this month of pride is it any wonder I am left wondering if I should be proud at all. That I wonder why instead of making me want to smile it just brings up more pain and tears. But obviously Pride month has never been for me. Maybe it is for the cis white gay men. Maybe. But I am still here and I will still fight. I won’t be squished by that ever present society. Or well at least I try not to be. There are cracks in the mask and maybe that is where you might find pride. Where the germs gather. Because we aren’t pretty. We aren’t white. We aren’t smiling. But we our proud.

#queer #lgbtq #pride #seattle #In which I rant #Oh no so serious #Anger

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hahnscratch-blog · 7 years

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Classifying A Prisoner

This represents the first in a series of periodic posts in which I explain some facet of the prison system which may be helpful in understanding my stories and, as a result, the penal system as a whole. Feel free to post questions in the comments section.

Perhaps you’ve read a couple of my posts and found yourself wondering how it is that I came to be living with men who were convicted of seriously violent, and at times, heinous crimes. I’m not talking about what I did personally to land in the clinker. We can save that for another post. What I’m talking about is how it is that the California Department of Corrections (and Rehabilitation) decides which prisoners will go where and who they should or shouldn’t live with.

The first thing we need to think about are the four basic security levels that characterize the prisons in California. They are conveniently labeled Levels 1, 2, 3, and 4 in ascending order from low security to high security.

Level 3 and 4 are both what can be termed maximum security. In both cases, the prison has a secure perimeter fence or wall, inmates are housed in cell blocks, and there are armed guards in nearly every location of the prison, including the cell blocks, chow halls, and on the yard. The principal classificatory difference between Levels 3 and 4 lies in the locations of the cell blocks. In a Level 3 prison, the cell blocks can be adjacent to a perimeter wall and in a Level 4 they cannot. Obviously, this relates to the security of the prison and the types of prisoners the CDCR wishes to house there. But we’ll get to that in a bit. Old Folsom, where I lived for a couple of years and the subject of many of the stories on this blog, was a Level 3 prison when I was there.

Level 2 prisons are typically called medium security. Prisoners usually live in open space dormitories instead of cell blocks. There is usually an armed, secure perimeter fence and there may or may not be armed guards in the common spaces (but never in the actual housing areas). Sometimes, the back side of the housing units are actually part of the prison walls, as they were at the Level 2 in Jamestown, where I spent a handful months in 2009.

Level 1 prisons are minimum security. Inmates live in dormitories and there may or may not be a perimeter fence. There are no armed guards at a Level 1 facility. Sometimes, Level 1 prisons are called ‘camps’, as they often look more like the summer camp facilities we may have been to as a child rather than prisons. I spent 3 years in a Level 1 fire camp in Southern California, a facility reserved for inmates who are part of the state-wide wild land firefighting program. (Yes, California inmates fight fires.) The camp I lived in had had no walls, no fence, nothing physically preventing the residents from walking away from their prison sentence. Fire camps are a world unto themselves and I will be writing some personal stories about my time in one.

There are other types of prison sub-classifications which aren’t entirely necessary for understanding the inmate classification process, but I’ll briefly mention them. There are protective custody prisons for inmates who would be in danger if they were part of the general population. Also called “SNY’s” (Sensitive Needs Yards), these prisons house everyone from sex offenders to gang drop-outs to snitches to people who got themselves into too much trouble with other inmates in the general population. They have all four prison levels just like the general population, but I don’t know much else about them because I never lived in one.

Many people have also heard of the “SHU” (Secure Housing Unit), most commonly referred to as solitary confinement in the media and elsewhere. The SHU, pronounced “shoe”, could be thought of as a Level 5 if there were one, and inmates have to earn the ability to live in one. There is a lot of controversy about when, if, and how inmates should be housed in these facilities, but the philosophy of the CDCR is that the SHU is supposed to hold inmates who would present a persistent danger to other inmates if they remained in the general population. Think of it as a prison within the prison. Again, there are a lot of problems with the SHU program but I won’t be getting into that here.

That’s the gist of it. Four levels, minimum to maximum, with the idealized segregation of the really dangerous and really endangered. But what determines which of these types of prisons a person will eventually come to live in? That is where inmate classification comes in to play.

When a person first gets to prison, he (or she) is sent from the county jail to a state prison designated as a reception center. While a prisoner is in reception, he will be locked in his cell 24 hours a day, with the exception of a few hours at the yard per week, while prison staff gathers all of his criminal history into a file in order to determine where to send him. This process can take a little as thirty days, if you’re lucky, and as much nine months, if you’re really unlucky. It usually takes about 3 months. Why it takes this long at all is beyond me, though I suspect it has something to do with the fact that the California prison system still uses paper for everything. Everything. Hence, they have to wait for documents to be retrieved, copied, mailed, delivered, compiled, and refiled before staff can try to make sense of it.

Basically, an inmate’s designation to a prison level comes as the result of a classification score. This classification score is the sum of a number of weighted factors that the CDCR deems to be a threat or security potential. These factors include, but are not limited to, the length of the prison term, the age of the inmate, the number of previous prison terms, gang affiliation, or recent violence against staff or inmates. I’ll use my own initial classification when I was in reception at DVI-Tracy, as an example.

Age at first arrest. 10 points. This is a measure of delinquency. Because I was 18 years old the first time I was arrested, I received the second highest score for this particular measure. Zero points are assessed for a person whose first arrest was after 36, and 12 points are assessed for a person who was arrested for a felony prior to 18. My point total = 10 points.

Age at reception. 6 points. This is the measure of testosterone; the younger the man the greater the threat potential. I was 26 at the time of reception. Eighteen year-olds get 8 points, 36 year-olds get none. My point total = 16 points.

Length of prison term, doubled. 28 points. This is clearly the measure of apathy; the longer the term the more somebody just doesn’t give a fuck. My sentence was 14 years and 4 months, so I had a pretty good bump in points because of this one. My point total = 44 points.

Gang / disruptive group. 0 points. This is fairly self-explanatory.

Mental illness. 0 points. This is an interesting one. A diagnosis with any serious mental illness raises the CDCR’s assessment of threat potential.

Prior jail sentence. 0 points. I actually should’ve gotten a point for this one, but I guess they didn’t read my file well enough.

Prior prison sentence. 1 point. They didn’t miss this one though. I think they are trying to measure whether an inmate has learned the system well-enough to manipulate it. More sentences would equal more manipulative skills. My point total = 45 points.

And that’s where I stood after classification. 45 points. There are other factors that are assessed on a case-by-case basis, such as recent disciplinary behavior, but none of that applied to me. Determining what level prison I would go to was fairly simple after this process had been completed. 0-19 points is Level 1, 20-29 points is Level 2, 30-49 points is Level 3, and 50+ points is Level 4. I was a Level 3 prisoner and was sent to Folsom State Prison in Represa, CA.

Let’s unpack this a little bit. So, I was a nonviolent offender who, because of my prior record and strict recidivism laws in California, received a fairly long sentence. There are plenty of people who might’ve received 5 or 10 years for a violent crime but, because they had no prior prison sentences or were older when they were first arrested, ended up at a Level 2 yard. Similarly, there are plenty of instances in which youngsters getting arrested for relatively minor, nonviolent felonies end up on the Level 3 yard due to the testosterone and delinquency measures. This, alone, means that violent and nonviolent offenders are going to be housed together, but it doesn’t explain why nonviolent offenders would share space with people who received really long sentences, such as murderers.

This happens because of good and bad behavior. Every disciplinary-free year a person spends in prison drops his classification score 4 points (if he is not working) or 8 points (if he is working). Thus, a man convicted of murder may start out with something like 90 points but could find his way onto a Level 3 yard within 10 or 15 years. And, moving in the other direction, bad behavior gets rewarded with additional classification points. Get in a fight, 6 points. Multiple contraband write-ups, 4 points. It only takes a couple of measly tattoo or tobacco write-ups to push a nonviolent offender in a Level 2 prison onto the same yard as that lifer who made his way down to Level 3.

And this is why any given prison is a melting pot of offender types. Of course, Level 4’s will always tend to have the most lifers and the most violent criminals, just like Level 1’s will always tend to have the greatest proportion of nonviolent offenders. It is at the Level 2 and 3’s where you will see the largest variety of offenders and, unfortunately, these are the two levels that most prisoners begin their sentences at. As such, almost every inmate, no matter what they ended up in prison for, must first learn to navigate the social minefield of the higher security level prisons. This is, of course, where people often get ruined.

Note: this classification scheme refers specifically to the way I was classified in 2006 and the way inmates continued to be classified until at least 2012 (when I paroled). It is my understanding that new state laws have impacted the way that inmates are classified, specifically, the number of points that determine which level prison an inmate will be housed at.

#prison #criminal justice

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fitcareketo-blog · 4 years

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maouie · 7 years

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A little bit about me

I’m eighteen, about to turn nineteen in May. I was born with Pulmonary Atresia. It’s a type of heart disease where the valve does not form properly. My right ventricle was developed very small, it was difficult perhaps would say nearly impossible for blood to flow into my lungs. I had three open heart surgeries.

• The first operation that I had involved the placement of a shunt/tube (B-T shunt) directly from the right ventricle to the pulmonary artery. The procedure ensures that enough blood is flowing to the lungs during the first few months of life. This was done when I was about eight days old.

• The second operation, called the bi-directional Glenn or hemi-Fontan procedure, was performed. The shunt inserted during the first operation is removed, and a connection is formed between the superior vena cava (a major vein that carries deoxygenated blood from the upper body to the heart) to the right pulmonary artery. This allows blood to flow from the superior vena cava directly to the pulmonary artery and the lungs and when this was done on me I believe I was nearly eight months old or older

• The third and final operation that I had, was Fontan procedure, I was three years old when I had it. During this surgery, both the superior vena cava and inferior vena cava (the vein that carries deoxygenated blood from the lower body to the heart) are connected to the pulmonary artery.

This was all done about twelve to thirteen years ago. As a kid I would struggle a lot with it, I have one small faint memory of when I was in the hospital, I was connected to all kinds of wires, I remember standing in front of the playroom and wanting to go play with the other kids. But that was when so was either told or realized I was never going to be a “normal” kid. When I was finally out and able to meet kids that were my own age and not related to me, I was excited and hyper. I didn’t want to listen to the teachers, I just wanted to play. My ma has told me that teachers would tell her that I need to be put on medication. Around that time, bullying also started to happen, no one likes the kid that’s different. I was called names like “Disease girl” (way before I came out as trans). I never understood why I was a “freak”, all I wanted was to make friends and feel normal.

When I was seven years old, my mother heard from my doctor about a camp for kids with heart disease. It was called Camp Taylor, I didn’t want to go there at first. I was very scared and shy, I felt as if no one would really get how I was feeling, but of course when I had gotten there I proven wrong. There were times during the years I went I wanted to go home, because so missed my mama. But years after I started going, my dad decided to volunteer at the camp. He too has heart disease, he has holes in his. (Forget what his disease is called) but since going there I’ve made many friends and grown very confident in the scar that I have on my chest. It reminds me of how I’m a survivor, and that I’m not alone in this fight. There were times where doctors didn’t think I’d make it past a certain age, but I did. I proved them wrong.

Reasons I’m talking about this is because not many people are aware of Congenital Heart Disease, not many are aware that heart disease is the number one killer in children and adults. Just because you can’t see our scars or our symptoms, doesn’t mean they’re not there and we’re not hurting too. I’m eighteen and I feel like I’m sixty-five with all the medical issues that I have. Because of my medical condition, my right side tends to be slightly numb, paler, colder and my nails are naturally a dark purple. My lips also tend to turn purple a lot as well, I’m on medication for my heart. Not as many as most people but quite a few. I have to put on blood thinners, so I bleed and bruise easily. When I’m getting my blood draws people tend to find it odd that someone at a young age is on Coumadin. I wasn’t before, at first I was just on aspirin. But things changed, I’m mainly on it because of the testosterone. It thickens the blood and can cause blood clots, I’m already at risk for those. There’s a couple others that I’m on as well, I’m on them now because last year I had an episode.

A very strange one, it was like a heart attack almost. I thought it was a panic attack at first, but it wasn’t. What happen was, I had this bad chest pain that spread down my left arm and side. It didn’t go away for nearly hours, I was crying with how bad it was. I was home when this happened, my friend Hannah was over and she has heart disease too. The second episode I had of this, I was in Hawaii. It was very scary because I was woken up by it, this was when they decided to put me on new medication. Nothing like this has ever happened to me, I was fairly healthy. The most I have it chest pains and headaches daily, along with always being out of breath. I have spinal pain too, a physical therapist thinks it might be a pinched nerve, she thinks maybe from being in a hospital bed a lot as a kid something didn’t develop right in my spine. I haven’t really looked into that issue very much, honestly. I probably should but I haven’t.

I look healthy on the outside, but I’m not. I’m very ill, my immune system is weak. I get sick daily. My body is very fragile, I’ve never been able to play rough or play sports. I didn’t have much of a childhood, I was always in and out of the hospital or always home because I was sick. Shit I even lied about being sick at times because the bullying at school was so bad. I have a speech impediment, so that and plus the heart disease. I was the biggest target in school, I was nearly held back a lot. I became so depressed at just the age of six and been depressed since then. I’ve cut and tried so many times to take my own life, I ended up in the mental hospital and a juvenile holding center. I use to be so ashamed of my heart disease that I wouldn’t even wear my medical alert bracelet. Who knows if I would still have been alive if something terrible happened to me and I wasn’t wearing it. But I was ashamed of it, not because I saw myself as a freak but because I saw how people would pity me and treat me differently when they found out that so had it. Shit sometimes friends got annoyed with it, because I couldn’t keep up, we always had to take breaks when walking places or I was always sick and couldn’t hangout. It was hard to find people outside of Camp Taylor that could relate to how I was feeling and what I was going through. Even as I type this up right now at 4:34 am, I’m being kept up late because of my headache and chest pain.

I feel like I’m a burden to everyone I meet, because of this huge baggage that I have to carry around with me. I feel like I have to apologize for being born this way. When it’s not my fault. But people make it feel like it is.

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