you have to go to work so you can pay for your doctor, who is not taking your insurance right now, and if you say i can't afford the doctor's you are told - get a better job. it is very sad that you are unwell, yes, but maybe you should have thought about that before not having a better job.
(where is the better job? who is giving out these better jobs? you are sick, you are hurting - how the hell are you supposed to be well enough for this better job?)
but you go to the doctor because you had the nerve to be hurt or sick or whatever else. and they tell you that it is because you have anxiety. you try your best. you are a self-advocate. you've done the reading (which sometimes pisses them off worse, honestly). you say it is actually adding to my anxiety, it is effecting my quality of life. so they say that you are fat. they say that all young people have this happen to them, isn't it a medical marvel! they say that you should eat more vegetables. they say that you probably just need to lose a little more weight, and that you are faking it for attention.
(what attention could this doctor possibly give? what validation? that's their fucking job, isn't it?)
there is always a hypochondriac, right. someone always tells you about a hypochondriac. or someone who is unnecessarily aggressive during the worst days of their life. or someone looking "for a quick fix". or some idiot who wasn't educated about how to properly care for themselves who just abandons their treatment. and again, the hypochondriac, the overly-cautious hysteric. these people don't deserve to be treated like humans (right), and since you might be one of these people, you also don't get treated like a human. because those people can really fuck with the system, you now have to pay for it. and besides. you're actually probably faking it.
(more often than not, you find a 2:1 ratio of these stories. for every "hypochondriac", there are 2 people who knew something was wrong, and yet nobody could fucking find it. the story often ends with pointless suffering. the story often ends with and now it's too late, and it's going to kill me.)
you are actually just making excuses. someone else got that procedure or that diagnosis and he's fine, you should be fine too. someone else said they watched a documentary about other inspirational people with your exact same condition, maybe you should be inspirational, too. you're just too morbid. your pain and your experience is probably just not statistically concerning. it is all self-reported anyway, and you're just being a baby.
(once, while sitting down in the middle of making coffee, you had the sudden, horrible thought - i could kill myself to make the pain stop. you had to call your best friend after that. had to pet your dog. had to cry about it in the shower. you won't, but that moment - god, fuck. the pain just goes on and on.)
you know someone who went in for routine surgery and said i still feel everything. they told her to just relax. it took her kicking and screaming before they figured out she wasn't lying - the anesthetic drip hadn't been working. you know someone who went in for severe migraines who was told drink water and lose weight. you know someone who was actively bleeding out and throwing up in the ER and was told you're just having a bad period.
in the ER there are always these little posters saying things like "don't wait! get checked today!" and you think about how often you do wait. how often the days spool out. you once waited a full week before seeing the doctor for what you thought was a sprained wrist. it had actually been broken - they had to rebreak it to set it.
but you go into the doctor. the problem you're having is immediate. the person behind the counter frowns and says we're not taking your insurance. you will be paying for this out-of-pocket.
they send you home with tylenol and a little health packet about weight loss or anxiety or attention deficit. on the front it has your birthday and diagnosis. you think about crying, and the words swim. it might as well say go fuck yourself. it might as well say you're a fucking idiot. it might as well say light your money on fire and lie down in it. and the entire fucking time - the problem persists.
it's okay. it's okay, it's just another thing, you think. it's just another thing i have to learn to live with.
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Steddie first kiss scenario
Accident: mistaken identity due to Steve being absolutely hammered | wc 893 |
Two hours into a Harrington house party, Eddie was getting near the end of his inventory and his social battery. The cup of punch-colored alcohol he'd been nursing had kept him nice and fuzzy for a while, but with the end in sight, he dumped the rest down the kitchen sink, tossed the cup in the trash, then turned, opting to walk out the back yard rather than navigate through the packed house.
But his progress was stopped in an empty hall by the man of the house himself, Steve Harrington.
A very drunk Steve Harrington, at that, considering the extra droop of his pretty eyes, lazy smile, overly loose movements, and the way he crashed into Eddie, pinning him against a small table, slurring loudly, "Nance! There'y'are."
He looked and smelled absolutely sloshed as he swayed further into Eddie's space.
"Steve, wha-"
"Been loogin for y' everywhere."
Before Eddie could even do anything, Steve's hands were buried in his curls and pulling him in until their lips met and - wow, that was definitely Steve Harrington's rum-soaked tongue in his mouth, making his stomach swoop, the heat from Steve's flushed face igniting a fire that tore across Eddie's skin, burning faster with every movement of Steve's lips. Lips that were soft, unlike the fingers curling, pulling Eddie's roots enough to make Eddie's hips press into Steve's, make him want to moa-
"You taste different. Like smoke and.....and peaches, hv'you been smoking?!" He frowned and shook his head. "S'not good for you."
He paused in thought as Eddie's heart hammered in his chest, mouth and scalp tingling from Steve's onslaught. His brain refused to make sense of anything happening. Were he not half propped up by the table against the wall and Steve's hold, Eddie would probably be on the floor.
"Wanna smoke now, achlly," Steve said as he put enough space between them to pat at his pockets before realizing with a laugh, "Oh wai', you've got 'em!"
He started patting at the pockets of a very shell-shocked Eddie as he continued to ramble, "And peashes. Where'd you ge' peashes? Y'llergic to the fuzz. You 'idn't eat that, d'you?"
Steve patted a little too far over the front of his jeans, making Eddie, honestly on the verge of blacking out, yelp. Steve giggled out, "Ticklish," then added, "You're taller," before pouting, "Ugh, your pockets 'r so full. When d'you put jeans on?" Steve let out a frustrated whine before huffing, "God, I can't find'em, just - "
Steve paused then smiled like he remembered the secret of life, and muttered, "You've got the smoke."
And just like that, Eddie's face was smooshed between Steve's hands, breath barely ghosting over Eddie's lips before he breathed Eddie in, eyes closed, probably imagining nicotine flooding his system.
Eddie would make a run for it if he were able to move, but he couldn't will his body to do anything but buzz from shock yet sing for Steve's touch.
Steve opened his eyes, and he took a long, glazed-over look at Eddie's face, settling on his lips.
"You kind of look different. Your lips....they're bigger." His eyes closed slowly then grew comically large. "D'you eat the fuzz, Nance?!" Steve panicked, then looked Eddie in the eyes again, and took a shuddering breath. "Your eyes, though, they....th' look, look kinda brown like -" Steve's face softened "- like his."
"Steve?"
To Eddie's immense horror, a very confused Barbara Holland had appeared behind Steve.
"Barrrb! Hey, guess what? Nance's been smoking!" he giggled.
"What?" Barb's eyes flicked back and forth between a very panicked, frozen Eddie.
"She tastes like smoke! Nancy Wheeler, smoking!" He cackled gleefully, but made it known that he was proud of her by turning back to Eddie and slurring, "You're so cool, 's like it's Halloween. Dressed up like Munson? Y' look so cool, baby." And he swooped in and kissed Eddie one more time.
"Okay, Steve!" Barb shrieked and pulled him away. "Let's get you some water!" She shot Eddie a wide-eyed questioning look and steered a stumbling Steve toward the kitchen.
"He's so wasted, he thought I was Nancy!" Eddie rushed out quietly, which made Barb snort.
Eddie's face burned, numb to everything except where Steve had touched him. Which was kind of everywhere, actually, so he felt on fire. "And it happened before I could even- I didn't know what to d-"
"Eddie!" She cut off his rambling, then sighed. "Don't worry, you're fine. You're fine. Understand?" She was waiting for a response.
Eddie, head still swimming, nodded cautiously.
"Good," she said, letting some of her tension melt away, which Eddie tried to copy. "Doubt he'll remember any of it, anyway. I know I don't want to."
Eddie winced at that.
"No, it's not you, it's just-" she huffed then shook her head. "Don't worry about it. Drive safe, Eddie."
And just like that, she was gone.
Eddie followed suit with Steve's voice echoing in his head, an overlapping manic cacophony of
"Your lips....they're bigger."
"Your eyes, though, they....th' look, look kinda brown like...like his."
"Dressed up like Munson? Y' look so cool, baby."
Two kisses because Steve thought Eddie was his girl.
And her best friend had seen the second.
Actual fucking kisses because Steve thought he was his.
Thought Eddie was his.
Said he tasted like smoke and peaches.
Eddie drove home in a daze.
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