#but you’re not supposed to be on two antipsychotics at the same time | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

chiimeramanticore · 5 months

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Mike isn't sure exactly why he took this job. Maybe a haunted house based on Freddy's isn't exactly worth his time. That is, until he sees a familiar face during his shift.

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Mike and Springtrap meet for the first time and it sucks lol. 3859 words, slight TW for references to child abuse/neglect and gore 👍

Read it on AO3!

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Mike isn't really sure what he expected taking this job. Sure, a haunted house about Freddy's. Real respectful. It's probably not even going to help him get any evidence on his father. But the dude that hired him swore up and down they'd gotten "real authentic shit, y'know?" for the attraction. It's possible, he figures. Mike knows well enough about the teenagers that try to raid the closed Freddy's locations for proof the rumored murders really happened. He also knows well enough that if he hasn't been able to find any solid evidence yet, they definitely haven't. Maybe there isn't any evidence at all. Maybe he's just going crazy.

Sitting in the office now, Mike definitely feels crazy. This is a waste of time... The whole building feels like it's held together by glow-in-the-dark paint, duct tape, and good luck. The ventilation in here is awful. He can't go two seconds without something breaking. Night shifts are supposed to be easy, damn it.

What's worse, Mike finds himself hallucinating a lot more when he's here. When he complained about seeing stuff that wasn't actually there, his doctor handed him a slip of paper with a schizophrenia diagnosis and a prescription for antipsychotics. Mike brought the pills home, but didn't last long actually taking them. He knows whatever he's got, it's not a disorder. It's from that damn gas his dad used to love messing with when he was a kid. He'd inhaled enough of that garbage to probably give him permanent brain damage, he figures. And the stuffiness of this office often makes Mike feel like he's back home, breathing it in again. Whatever it is, his doctor wouldn't be happy about it.

Mike sighs, eyeing the new cassette left on his desk, labeled "Tuesday." His employers are way too committed to the retro thing– they can just call him or talk to him in person. Surely this is more work than it's worth, right? Whatever. He pops it into the player and hits play.

"Hey man– okay, I have some awesome news for you!" His employer's voice begins. "First of all, we found some vintage audio training cassettes. Dude, these are like pre-historic! I think they were, like, training tapes for, like, other employees or something like that. So I thought we could, like, have them playing, like, over the speakers as people walk through the attraction. Dude, that’d make this feel legit man." Mike groans. He isn't sure what's more annoying, this guy's voice, or the prospect of having to listen to Freddy's training tapes every night on loop.

"But," the voice continues, "I have an even better surprise for you, and you’re not gonna believe this! We found one. A real one." Mike furrows his brow hearing this. A real... what? There's no way it's what he thinks it is.

"Uhh, gotta go man. Look, i-it’s in there somewhere, I’m sure you’ll see it. Okay, I’ll leave you with some of this great audio that I found. Talk to you later man!" The casette goes quiet for a moment before a new track starts playing, one of the training tapes in question.

"Welcome to your new career as a performer-slash-entertainer for Freddy Fazbear's Pizza. These tapes will provide you wi–" Mike stops the tape. He's not interested.

"What the fuck do you mean, 'a real one'?" He mutters to himself. He looks to the security monitor to his right. Everything looks exactly the same as it did yesterday and last week. Mike switches between cameras quickly but deliberately, scanning each room for discrepancies. There's no way they found a real animatronic, right? There's no way. They were all dismantled and scrapped. Mike knows they're haunted, or at least were at some point. Maybe if he can just find it on the cameras, he can assess if it's actually going to be a danger to him.

He clicks over to the last camera, eyes flicking around the screen. Nothing's different. Maybe he's freaking out over nothing.

But right as he clicks back to the start, Mike sees something move in the bottom left corner of the screen.

He clicks back over.

Nothing.

If there was anything, it's gone. And he's not sure there ever was anything. Maybe he's going crazy. Maybe he's just crazy. That'd be the most reassuring thing to learn, he figures.

Mike realizes his heart's beating at a mile a minute right now. He leans back in his chair, trying to breathe slower. He's just hallucinating, he tells himself. It's fine. He's fine. The panel to his left beeps, signaling the ventilation needs to be reset. See? He's just freaking out. He turns his attention to the panel, waiting the seconds it takes to reset the ventilation.

It doesn't take him long after this to settle back into the routine he's found in the few days since he started this job. Check the cameras idly, get spooked by something that isn't actually there, fix something that inevitably broke, repeat. He continues like this for about an hour, still somewhat puzzled by what he was told on the tape. Maybe he wasn't even referring to an animatronic– it could be anything, really. And these cameras are so grainy, it's not hard to miss something small.

Mike stares idly at the static on Camera 04, feeling like his mind is turning to fuzz, too. It definitely takes him too long to notice, but... there, on the left side of the screen. A pinprick of light that Mike knows for sure doesn't belong. Is that... an eye? It's dark, but he swears he can make out the right half of a head surrounding it. He blinks a few times, unsure if he's making it up, but the half-hidden face remains. And it looks like it's looking at him.

The panel beeps at him. Mike doesn't want to look away, but he does, resetting the ventilation once again. When he gets the chance to look back again, the face is gone.

"Sssshit," he hisses. "Shit. Shit." He clicks through the cameras again, trying to find the thing in here with him. It's too dark to recognize it easily, but the shape of the head seemed like an older mold. Even then, he's not really sure. He just wants to see it again. But there's nothing on the cameras that looks like it. He sighs, sitting back in his chair to refresh his eyes.

When he looks up at the window to his office, the animatronic is there. Staring at him.

Mike's blood runs so cold it damn near freezes over. He's paralyzed– all he can do is stare back. He recognizes this animatronic, or at least he thinks he does. It's so worn down now, but... it's Springbonnie. How could he ever forget Springbonnie...? His father's favorite.

The rabbit moves. It shifts its weight, then slowly starts to shamble to the left of the window. Mike doesn't know what to do– it's not like he's got a door to shut on the thing. He watches it appear in the doorway, using a hand to brace itself on the frame. It struggles to move, not unlike how Mike's seen the haunted animatronics move, but this feels different. It's not bound by its mechanics. But... the only way it'd move organically like this is if someone was inside.

Even if he's just being fucked with, he's not about to gamble on it. He'd much rather get laughed at for falling for it. He grabs a screwdriver from his desk, just in case he needs to defend himself against it. He presses himself up against the back of the chair he's in as the creature gets even closer, far too close. Like it's curious about him, too. It smells awful– like death and mold. From here, Mike can see clearly that it's not in costume mode. Tears and rips in the fabric expose its mech, which he wouldn't be able to see if it was in walk-around mode. He isn't sure what he's dealing with, but his heart is pounding so hard he's sure it can hear the sound too.

The rabbit puts its face mere inches from Mike's, and makes an odd noise, somewhere between a wheeze and a moan. Mike grips the armrests of his chair tightly, certain he's moments from death.

Then, with another wheeze, "...M... Michael," it says in his father's voice.

Mike doesn't wait for anything else to happen. Almost automatically, he springs out of his chair, pushing the thing over, and bolts for the door. He doesn't care what it is. It's not a hallucination. It's not an animatronic. It can't be his father. Please, don't let this be his father. It won't matter if he can just get out of here. Leave and never come back.

Mike hears the thud of footsteps behind him, still somewhat slow but much faster than before. He doesn't dare look back at it.

He refuses to lose speed as he whips around a corner, but he doesn't look where he's going– he crashes into a prop mannequin, bringing both tumbling to the floor. Mike scrambles to stand again, but he's not fast enough. The rabbit has caught up to him. He tries to take off again, but it grabs him by the wrist with an iron, mechanical grip. Mike strains against it, frantic, like a trapped animal, to no avail.

"Calm... down," the rabbit says sternly.

"No! No, you– You're not real!" Mike shouts, still struggling to escape.

"You're being...!" The rabbit stops to cough and wheeze some more, but the grasp he holds on Mike is unwavering. "Y– You're being ridiculous," he says finally.

"N- no, you–" Mike pulls again, and the rabbit presses his mechanical claws into his arm, just enough to hurt. Only now does he remember he's still holding the screwdriver. He swings it at the rabbit, unsure which parts of him are flesh over metal. He gets lucky, the metal tip landing in his upper arm and hurting him enough to let go of Mike. Mike takes this chance to tackle the rabbit, pinning him to the floor and wielding the screwdriver over him.

"You–!" The rabbit says. "Y– you won't kill me."

"Oh yeah? Give me one good reason I shouldn't stab you in the fucking throat right now!" Mike says, though the way he's trembling betrays his attempt at sounding menacing.

"Language," the rabbit says. "You won't kill me, b- because... I have information. I have... the answers you've been looking for." The way he speaks is labored. His voice is raw and tired, like he hasn't used it in ages, and he sounds continually out of breath. He sounds pained... Mike knows he's weaker now. Mike knows it would be easy to kill him in this state. But he also knows he's right. Everything Mike has been working toward has been for this– for information like this. Information enough to convict his father for the murders he knows he committed. Could they even convict him looking like this...?

"What happened to you?" Mike asks. That's never been what he'd envisioned asking his father.

"Take me back to your office," he says. "I'll talk there."

Mike's suspicious, but... an interrogation while he's still got him pinned to the floor isn't exactly comfortable for either of them. "Fine," he says, moving off of him. "You walk ahead of me."

"Scared?" the rabbit asks, a teasing tone in his voice. Mike doesn't grace it with a response. He watches him stand, then start to move back toward the office. He walks with a limp. Mike studies him from the back, trying to parse what's come of him. It's hard to tell where exactly the man ends and the machine begins. His hands and feet seem metal, but between the crossbeams and wires he can see in the torso, there's what looks like flesh inside. Old, rotted, disgusting flesh, but flesh nonetheless.

They re-enter his office, and Mike sits down in his chair. The rabbit finds a place to sit on the desk. Mike doesn't move his eyes from him for a second.

"What happened to you?" He asks again.

"I had a... lapse of judgement," his father says. "I couldn't get my mind off the old place... the pizzeria. I had left it standing all those years... I wanted to go back. Put... put an end to everything. I meant to dismantle the– the animatronics." Mike isn't sure how much of this is truth, but he lets him continue.

"This... old thing," he says, looking down at himself. "I'd almost forgotten about it. I just wanted to... put it on again. Old time's sake." He chuckles, it sounding just as terrible as the rest of him. "I'd forgotten safety protocol. It was old... wet, moldy."

"You–" Mike hadn't wanted to believe he'd springlocked himself, but that's exactly what he's telling him, isn't it?

"I know," he says. "What a fool I was."

"You didn't," Mike says. "There's no way."

"I did," he insists. "What would I gain from... lying to you about this?"

There's usually something– even if Mike doesn't know what it is. Regardless of how it happened, though, it's undeniable what's happened to begin with. He definitely got springlocked, whether by his own hand or someone else's. And these things usually were mistakes. He just never thought he'd... be so stupid about it. If anyone would remember how to avoid a gruesome death in one of those suits, it should be his father. What could've caused him to forget? There's something he's keeping from him, he's sure of it.

"If you were springlocked, you'd be dead," he says finally.

"But I'm still here," William says.

"How?"

The rabbit shifts in place, as if he's considering whether to tell Mike this. "I found it," he tells him. "The secret to eternal life."

"Bullshit," Mike blurts.

"Language," William says. "Don't act like... you don't want to know."

"Just tell me."

William sighs. "I call it Remnant," he says. "It's... a lot of explanation. It can bind a soul to metal. It can..." He tries to laugh again, doing slightly better this time. "...It can make a man immortal, Michael."

"Is that what you'd call yourself?"

"No," he says. "It's what I almost was. I had... been building up enough, still. But what was in me already was enough... enough to save me when this happened."

Mike studies him a moment longer before finally asking. "How much of you is even human anymore?"

William seems to ponder this for a moment before answering. "Does it matter much?" He responds. "I am more than human now. More than machine. I'm... something new. I am the two combined."

"But your body is still in there, isn't it?"

"I am not just the body. I am not just the suit. I'm not just the metal. I'm it all, Michael. All of it." He seems proud of this, proud of the monster he's become. At least he's finally got a look to match him.

"...All because of this Remnant stuff," Mike mutters. He wonders if, somehow, that's the reason the animatronics were haunted, too. Remnant kept their souls there. But how would he have made that happen? How long has been working on this?

"Last time I saw you, Michael, you were..." William trails off.

"I was seventeen," Mike finishes. His father had just disappeared one day. He was known to do that when Mike was younger– usually because he was out somewhere drinking. Some nights he'd come home late, or just not at all. But when the days began to pass without him, Mike left completely alone in the house... What else was he supposed to do?

"And now, how old are you?"

"...Fifty-two," Mike says. Thirty-five years had passed since they'd seen each other. After this long, Mike had begun to hope he'd just find his father dead. In a way, he has, he figures.

"Mm." William stares at him, and now Mike feels like he's the one being studied. "It's... been quite some time," he says. "You've grown up well."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Mike says.

"It means exactly what it seems it means," William says, a touch annoyed. Then, calming down again, "You're resilient. You're tough. You aren't a coward. Otherwise... you wouldn't be here. Would you?"

Mike says nothing.

"I raised you with the hope of you... becoming strong," he continues. "That, when life knocks you down, you don't stay down. I believe you're... Well, correct me if I'm wrong."

Mike doesn't know what he wants him to say. He glances the rabbit suit up and down, as if that'll somehow give him an answer. He's not going to "admit" to how great his father says he is, because it's clearly leading toward something. Going with it would just be walking directly into whatever trap he's planted. But denying it is an even more obvious fail-state.

"...Cat have your tongue, Michael?"

"No," Mike says finally. "What do you want?"

"What makes you think I... want something from you?" William asks.

"Why else would you be talking to me?" Mike says.

"Do you think I... I– I hold any sort of power like this?" William insists. "Look at me, Michael."

Mike's been looking at him. "You look awful," he says quietly.

"I've been down there for over thirty years," he says. "I lost the ability to track time. All I could... do was wait. Finally someone found me."

"To make a mockery of you." Mike can't stop himself from saying it. He rests an elbow on an armrest and uses his hand to cover his mouth, hiding the smile he also can't stop himself from.

William sighs. "It's... unfortunate. Yes."

Mike's never seen him look... dejected before. Not that he's exactly looking at his father right now, anyway. But still, as much as Mike hates to admit it, he looks genuine. Maybe he really is weaker like this.

"...Did it hurt?" Mike asks him.

The rabbit slowly lifts its head to Mike. "It still hurts," he admits. "This... is not the body I had planned to spend eternity in."

"So you are immortal," Mike says.

"I don't know the limits of it. But I went thirty years without food, water, much sleep... must count for something. I don't think I age... but there's not much way to tell."

Mike's weighing the possibility of killing him. He didn't seem that afraid of death when he'd been threatening him– but that doesn't necessarily mean he can't be killed. It just means he doesn't fear it. Mike still has half a mind to set this whole dump on fire with his father inside. It'd be so easy... electrical fires nearly start every night here anyway. He could let everything burn and rest with the knowledge that nothing inside would survive.

If he knew his father would die, at least.

"...Michael," William says, the silence between them too long now. "I... I've had time to sit with my regrets. There's more I wish I could have done... More I still need to do. I can't like this."

"Whatever it is, you can get it out of your system here," Mike says. He's expecting him to give some bullshit non-apology for the kind of father he was. Being touchy-feely one time, decades after he'd just disappeared one night, is never going to fix it. But Mike will let him say it, at the very least. It's not like it'll matter.

"I can't do it here," William says. "She's not here."

"...She?"

"Elizabeth," he tells him. "I still have to... go back for her."

Mike remembers the day Elizabeth died. Even now, he can easily recall the sight of her remains pouring out of Circus Baby's chest... the blood, the gore, the smell. The way he'd felt his whole body freeze over at the sight of it. The way his father had tried to save her, even thought it was clear she had long passed that point. The way he'd cried... the way both of them had cried. He could never forget losing her. Then... how could he talk about her like she's still alive?

"Where... where is she?" He asks, cautiously.

"Circus Baby's," William says.

Mike shakes his head. "She can't be." He'd visited the place again years ago, though still years after the incident. He had wanted to find Circus Baby there, thinking his sister might be possessing the robot– but the place was devoid of animatronics.

"Not the restaurant. She's in storage," William says. "The rental company... Only I ever knew where the storage was." He leans in toward Mike, as if they aren't the only two people here. "It's under the house. Always has been."

"Under...?"

The rabbit nods. "Our home," he says.

Mike had returned there too, years ago. He'd never thought, in a million years, that there'd be anything more than bad memories there. He'd never thought he'd have passed over something so important... so close, and yet so far from seeing his sister again– even if she wasn't quite herself.

"I can show you how to get there," William tells him. "I need you to do it, Michael. You're the only one who could."

"Wh– why me?"

"You're family," he says. "You're the only one I trust."

Mike feels something deep inside him stir upon hearing that. He exhales.

"Is she...?" He starts. "Is she... in Baby?"

"She must be," William says. "You need to find her. You need to set her free."

Set her free... It's something Mike's been trying to do with the other possessed animatronics for years. Put their souls to rest. But they've all been so... uncooperative. Animalistic. Maybe their programming had interfered with their true personalities. He should expect it to be the same with Elizabeth, then, but... She's family. She would have to recognize him eventually. That's why he has to be the one to do it, isn't it? She wouldn't trust anyone else. She needs him.

"I..." Mike feels that same deep ache inside him. He misses her, he realizes. He's missed her terribly. And now, he can see her again– and save her. "...I'll do it," he says finally. "Show me how to find her."

The rabbit finally leans back again, laughing. "Good," he says. "Don't let me down, Michael."

"I... I wont." Mike isn't sure this is the right choice to make. He can't shake the feeling he's being pulled into something bigger than him. But how could his father have planned something for this long if he's been stuck in this state for thirty years? And how could he miss his only chance to see his sister again– especially knowing that she's been just as stuck for just as long? How could he not want to help her?

He still wants to burn this place down with his father inside. He will soon, he tells himself. Once he saves Elizabeth, then he can come back here, and put an end to everything.

He just hopes he'll make it back here at all.

#fnaf #five nights at freddy's #michael afton #mike afton #william afton #springtrap #fnaf 3 #fanfic #fanfiction #ao3 link #ao3 fanfic #juno.txt #my art #i hate these guys. they hate each other (puts them in a room together)

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longitudinalwaveme · 3 years

Text

Arkham Files: Dr. Alchemy/Dr. Albert Desmond/Mr. Element

Hugo Strange: From the patient files of Dr. Hugo Strange, director of Arkham Asylum. Patient: Dr. Albert Desmond, also known as Dr. Alchemy and Mr. Element. Patient suffers from Dissociative Identity Disorder. Session One. So, Dr. Desmond, how are you feeling?

Dr. Alchemy: Go away. I’m reading.

Hugo Strange: Dr. Desmond, I promise that you will be able to return to your books as soon as this session is over. But for right now, I need you to talk to me.

Dr. Alchemy: I am not interested in conversation. Leave me alone.

Hugo Strange: I’m afraid I cannot do that, Dr. Desmond. As your psychologist, I have a responsibility to maintain your well-being.

Dr. Alchemy: I have read countless books on the subject of psychology, Dr. Strange. There is nothing you can teach me that I do not already know.

Hugo Strange: Dr. Desmond, this is not about knowledge. It is about helping you to live a more productive life.

Dr. Alchemy: Dr. Desmond would likely appreciate the sentiment, but he isn’t here right now. So please, leave me to my studies. I have important work to do, and no time for idle chatter.

Hugo Strange: I take it I am speaking to one of Dr. Desmond’s alters, then?

Dr. Alchemy: Yes. I am Doctor Alchemy. Now kindly go away and leave me alone.

Hugo Strange: I’m afraid that I cannot do that, Dr. Alchemy. As your psychologist, it would be irresponsible of me not to hold these therapy sessions with you.

Dr. Alchemy: You are not my psychologist; you are Dr. Desmond’s psychologist. Dr. Desmond is not here right now, so you have no responsibilities in this room. Go away.

Hugo Strange: Dr. Alchemy, you and Dr. Desmond share the same body, and are fragmented parts of the same basic personality. Medically and legally, both of you are my patients...as are any other alters that may exist.

Dr. Alchemy: Be that as it may, I have nothing to say to you. Go away.

Hugo Strange: (Sighs) If I arrange to have some more rare books delivered to your room, will you agree to participate in the session, Dr. Alchemy?

Dr. Alchemy: (Pleased) Yes. Thank you, Dr. Strange. (Pause) What do you want to know?

Hugo Strange: According to your files, you are a very educated man. You have PhDs in chemistry, biochemistry, and molecular biology. You could easily earn money legitimately...and, in fact, Dr. Desmond does just that in his career at S.T.A.R. Labs. Why, then, did you choose to become a costumed criminal?

Dr. Alchemy: Research is expensive, Dr. Strange. How else was I to fund my experiments?

Hugo Strange: Dr. Desmond usually asks for grant money.

Dr. Alchemy: Only because he wastes our talents on safe, predictable work. I, on the other hand, push the boundaries of established science. That frightens the complacent and the simple-minded, and as such, they dismiss my work as lunacy and refuse to help me in my endeavors to expand humanity’s understanding of the cosmos.

Hugo Strange: Even if that is true, Dr. Alchemy, your file indicates that you are a metahuman with the power to transmute the elements at will. Why not use that power to create gold or silver, sell it for a profit, and use that to fund your experiments?

Dr. Alchemy: And debase my powers by using them for something as mundane as earning petty cash from the mindless multitudes? Never.

Hugo Strange: But you’re perfectly willing to use those same powers to steal money from the same mindless multitude?

Dr. Alchemy: Of course. I am the lord of the very elements! It is my right to take whatever I desire.

Hugo Strange: You are stealing! Like a common thief!

Dr. Alchemy: A common thief could not turn your blood into formaldehyde, Dr. Strange.

Hugo Strange: Was that a threat, Dr. Alchemy?

Dr. Alchemy: No, not a threat. Merely a reminder of your position.

Hugo Strange: (Angry) Let me make one thing clear, Dr. Alchemy. When you were sent here, you were, effectively, declared a ward of the state. I am the head of this Asylum. I want to help you, but if you prove to be a threat to me, the other patients, or the staff, I will authorize that you be put on a regime of enough antipsychotic drugs to all but kill your conscious mind.

Dr. Alchemy: (Quiet laugh) And break your Hippocratic Oath by sentencing poor Dr. Desmond to a living death? I don’t believe you have that in you, Dr. Strange.

Hugo Strange: (Icily) To prevent one of the most powerful metahumans in the world from laying waste to this institution? There is very little I would not do, Dr. Alchemy. Metahuman power dampeners have a very limited effect on you, and I am not enough of a fool to rely solely on your goodwill to keep you in check.

Dr. Alchemy: (Quickly) In that case, I rescind my reminder.

Hugo Strange: I’m glad to hear that, Dr. Alchemy. (Pause) So tell me, what is your relationship with your city’s scarlet-clad vigilante?

Dr. Alchemy: The Flash? He’s an impediment to my research, nothing more.

Hugo Strange: And your decision to put on a costume was in no way inspired by him?

Dr. Alchemy: Perhaps on some level. But he means nothing to me. Dr. Desmond is the one who cares about him.

Hugo Strange: In that case, will you permit me to speak with Dr. Desmond?

Dr. Alchemy: Certainly not. That weak-willed fool would only interfere with my studies.

Dr. Hugo Strange: If you cooperate, I’ll see what I can do about getting you a first-edition copy of The Grapes of Wrath.

Dr. Alchemy: Very well. If I can find Dr. Desmond, I’ll let him know that he wishes to speak with you.

(Long pause)

Hugo Strange: Are you all right, Dr. Alchemy?

Albert: (in a voice that is similar to, but distinguishable from, Dr. Alchemy’s) W-where am I? What’s going on?

Hugo Strange: (Realizing) Is this Dr. Albert Desmond?

Albert: Y-yes. (Pause) Who are you? What is this place? What am I doing here?

Hugo Strange: I am Dr. Hugo Strange, director of Arkham Asylum. What is the last thing you remember, Dr. Desmond?

Albert: I...I was at home with my wife, Rita. She was making dinner, and I felt a headache coming on, so I went outside to get some fresh air and-(Pause) Oh, no. It happened again, didn’t it?

Hugo Strange: I’m afraid so, Dr. Desmond. A week ago, Dr. Alchemy was captured by the Flash whilst attempting to turn an entire stadium’s worth of people into tungsten. Since Iron Heights Penitentiary is currently incapable of holding metahuman criminals, it was decided that he should be transferred to Arkham Asylum, pending his trial.

Albert: Not again...not again! It’s been three years since the last time. I thought that the nightmare was finally over.

Hugo Strange: Dr. Desmond, the courts are aware of your… highly unusual...form of Dissociative Identity Disorder. You will almost certainly be declared not guilty by reason of insanity.

Albert: And then they’ll lock me away in a hospital instead of a prison. Rita and I...we have a baby son! Is he going to grow up with his father shut away in a mental institution? (Pause) I should have had her divorce me. At least that way she wouldn’t be raising our son all by herself. And she wouldn’t have to worry about both her and the baby being murdered by a costumed maniac!

Hugo Strange: Neither of your alters have ever actually murdered someone, Dr. Desmond.

Albert: No. But from what I’ve been told, it hasn’t been from lack of trying. (Pause) I let her marry me. I knew what I was, and I let her marry a monster.

Hugo Strange: You are not a monster, Dr. Desmond. Your family members, the police and judicial departments of Central City, and even your city’s costumed vigilante all swear as to your good moral character.

Albert: Good moral character? Dr. Strange, both of my alters are criminals; which means that there’s a part of me...there’s a part of me that wants to do the things they do. If there wasn’t, surely I would have been able to get rid of them by now. The fact that I haven’t proves that I don’t have good morals.

Hugo Strange: Dr. Desmond, do you ever remember the actions of your alters?

Albert: Almost never. (Pause) I usually end up finding out about it after the fact. You have no idea how horrible it is to have someone tell you that your body went on a crime spree that you don’t remember anything about.

Hugo Strange: In other words, you have dissociative amnesia during the periods in which your alters are dominant. (Pause) Do you make an effort to prevent your alters from emerging, Dr. Desmond?

Albert: Of course I do! I take medication, I exercise, I ensure that I always get a full night’s rest, I go to therapy….I don’t want to be a monster.

Hugo Strange: A monster wouldn’t battle his illness in the way that you do, Dr. Desmond. You are not a monster. You are ill, and through no fault of your own.

Albert: I...I wish I could believe that, Dr. Strange. (Pause) But honestly? I’m starting to think that maybe I should just be locked up forever. It would...it would be better for everyone.

(Long pause)

Hugo Strange: Dr. Desmond? Dr. Desmond, are you all right?

Mr. Element: (in a voice that is similar to, but distinguishable from, Dr. Alchemy and Albert’s voices) I’m afraid you’ve got the wrong man, Doc.

Hugo Strange: Who are you? And what happened to Dr. Desmond?

Mr. Element: Nothing. I just decided to take control. It seems that Doc Alchemy’s actions have caused him to almost give up hope completely this time, and that meant he couldn’t put up much of a fight against me. (Pause) Thanks for getting Doc Alchemy to give up control voluntarily, by the way. You have no idea how tough it is to win fights for control with that guy.

Hugo Strange: I take it you’re Mr. Desmond’s other alter?

Mr. Element: That’s right, Doc. You can call me Mr. Element.

Hugo Strange: Not Dr. Element?

Mr. Element: Nah. The other two got most of the brains, I’m afraid. It’s why I’m not as powerful as either one of ‘em. (Pause) Not that you’d know it from looking at Albert, of course. He’s got no idea how powerful he really is. He’s even more powerful than Doc Alchemy!

Hugo Strange: I suppose that that makes a certain amount of sense. Dr. Desmond is, after all, the personality from which the two of you split off. Perhaps that allows him to mainline the power, so to speak. (Pause) So, Mr. Element, why do you commit crimes in a silly costume?

Mr. Element: To get money and attention. Doc Alchemy could care less about that sort of thing, and Albert’s too much of a goody-good to admit that he wants either, so it’s up to me to make sure people remember us.

Hugo Strange: And the costume, was it inspired by the Flash?

Mr. Element: No. It was based on our fascination with elements. The mask was so that I could inhale pure oxygen; I used a carbon atom as my symbol because life has its basis in carbon-you get the idea. Albert’s the one who has an emotional connection to the Speedster.

Hugo Strange: Yes, yes. Dr. Alchemy said the same thing. (Pause) So, are either you or Dr. Alchemy Rogues, Mr. Element?

Mr. Element: No. Doc Alchemy and I both prefer to work solo. Besides, I think the Doc kind of freaks them out.

Hugo Strange: Are there any particular concerns you want to talk to me about, Mr. Element?

Mr. Element: Not really. Albert’s the one with the hang-ups.

Hugo Strange: In that case, I am going to bring this session to a close. I need some time to reflect on your case and how to best treat it. It is noticeably abnormal, and I will need to adjust my strategies accordingly.

#flash rogues #dr. hugo strange #mr. element #dr. alchemy #albert desmond #flash comics #batman comics #fanfic

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wu-sisyphus-gang · 3 years

Text

Motion Sickness Chapter 73

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(Ruby PoV)

"You spent the night in his room," Blake accused Weiss as she rejoined us.

"He had nightmares that kept him up. Dreams from Salem," Weiss responded. "Nothing happened."

"I gave it away to Adam too soon. I regret it."

"Nothing happened," Weiss repeated.

"And our Cloud isn't like your Adam," I said. "I don't regret having sex with him the times that I did. It was wonderful. If something happened between Weiss and him, it's not like what happened between you and Adam."

"And I'm telling you nothing happened anyways. I set boundaries and he respected them," Weiss said.

"He never did that at Beacon," Yang tossed in. "He was always all over you."

"He was a newborn at Beacon. And it was never as bad as I made it seem," Weiss defended. "He was always polite and… he was afraid. It was a first crush and it was never like what Blake must have gone through. Jaune, when he was Jaune, pressured me into going to the movies, not even close to sex. It's just not the same. I think he would have been scared of something like that."

"So what did you get up to, then?" Yang asked. She sounded bored.

"He told me a bit about what his new meds were like. How they all had side effects and he was on some just to treat the side effects of others. He said he felt doped up all the time," Weiss answered. "He said he felt half asleep."

"That's no good if he gets in a fight," Yang muttered.

"Cloud is skilled. He should be fine," I defended.

"I don't know. I'm worried about him, Ruby," Weiss said. "His nightmares are bad. And Salem is always trying to press on his mind."

"So what should we do? It's not like we can kill Salem. She's invincible, or close to it," I murmured.

"Does Cloud know that?" Blake asked. "I wouldn't tell him. He might decide to kill himself if he thought it was hopeless. He told me he tried it after he killed Ren and Nora."

"He tried to kill himself?" Weiss asked, astonished.

"You didn't know?" Blake returned. "He mentioned it to me when we talked about Adam."

"No, I didn't know." Weiss shot a look back through the door she came through, she looked like she might go back to him.

"Maybe we should talk to him," I managed.

"You haven't been able to help him yet," Blake muttered.

"Blake! Who's side are you on?" Weiss asked.

"His, evidently. I think he agrees with me about him," Blake returned. "I think he knows his situation is hopeless."

"He's not hopeless. He's resisting her," I said.

"How long can he keep that up?" Blake wondered. Her palms outstretched. "Even he doesn't think he can last forever against her, does he?" She shot the last bit to Weiss.

"He thinks it's permanent brain damage. He thinks he's having seizures or strokes," Weiss said. "He thinks she'll get to him. Especially while he's sleeping."

I chewed on my lip. "So what do we do? Send him back to the hospital?" I wondered.

Weiss winced. "Cloud won't like that. They took his weapon away last time. He doesn't want to go back and 'get locked up.'"

"Should he even have his weapon?" Yang asked. We all looked at her. "Well should he? He's a little fucked up."

"When he killed for the first time, I was so worried about him. It doesn't seem like he's slowed down since then. It's all been a blur," I said. "I was so worried. I thought I messed everything up. But what if this has just been in him. Festering beneath the surface. He's been sick."

"He is. I hoped that we would be able to take care of him. Are we going to give that up?" Weiss asked.

"I don't know. What do we do, Weiss?"

"Me? I have no idea."

"You've always been the smart one."

"So I should know what to do about this?" She shook her head. "I have no clue. He's in a lot of pain. All the time."

"Well, where is he now?" I asked.

She pointed back at the door she came through. "He's getting ready for another day. I don't know if he has an assignment or if he's just slated for training."

"We should be too," Blake said. she got up and began pulling her nightwear off. "I'm sure he has his head in the game."

"Blake is probably right." Weiss slunk inside and began to strip out of her clothes too. "Maybe we'll get lucky and only have training today. She stripped down to her brassiere before I looked away.

Bad bi thoughts. Now is not the time.

I dressed supernaturally fast and was waiting for Cloud outside of his room for when he was ready in just a few minutes.

He strode from his room looking tall, dark, and handsome. His massive blade was in its harness behind his back.

"Ja-Cloud, Weiss told me a bit about what you're going through with your meds. I just wanted you to know I'm here for you. If you needed anything."

He looked surprised. His eyes flickered over my head towards my room for a moment. Then they came back to me. "I know Ruby. It's just Salem. She's always on me."

"Cloud… I talked to Ozpin… I wanted to let you know that Salem is invincible."

"Immortal," he corrected. "Not invincible."

"You knew?" I asked.

"It's what I asked the relic of knowledge. How to defeat her, I mean. I have a plan. I'm going to cut her into pieces and never ever give her the chance to heal."

"You think that will work?" I wondered. My gaze brushed over his bronze and white sword.

"It's worth a shot. If not I'm doomed."

"You're not doomed. And you're not… you're not thinking about killing yourself, are you?"

He sighed. He met my eye. "Don't freak out on me Ruby."

"I won't." I vowed.

"I'm always thinking about killing myself. It seems like the fastest way to get away from her."

My mouth dropped open. "Cloud…"

"Other times it seems like exactly what she wants. I have no idea what to do."

"You're not going to hurt yourself, are you?" I pleaded and begged.

"Probably not today."

"Cloud…" I murmured.

"It has nothing to do with you, or how great you are to me." He pulled his hand down and cupped my cheek. "It all has to do with her. With my mother. Her control over my mind isn't simple. She is constantly attacking my subconscious. That's what makes it hard to resist. If I'm paying attention it's easy enough for the most part, but I have to constantly be afraid of what's slipping through the cracks. Like calling her my mother, for one. That's constantly coming through, no matter how hard I try. I have to be afraid of what else is happening like that."

"She is your mother," I whispered.

"That's not why I call her that, though." He sighed and shifted. He grabbed the hilt of his weapon for a long moment. Like he might draw it. But against what? It was just him, I, and his loud thoughts in a long corridor.

He released the long red handle and sighed. He rubbed his face hard.

"Weiss mentioned you were having strokes and seizures."

"I asked her not to share that with you…"

"What? Why?" I had to wonder. My heart broke a little.

"I didn't want to worry you. This is normal for me now. I was worried it would break your little Ruby heart."

"Too late…" I grumbled. "You should know you can share anything with me."

"You're right. Of course you're right. And you'd be right to be worried about me. Something is happening to me that I can't understand."

Weiss, Blake, and Yang walked out of our room but only Weiss walked over to us.

"You told her about the seizures," Cloud commented.

"Of course," Weiss said. She crossed her arms. "It was never up for a discussion."

"Fair enough," Cloud whistled. "Fair cop."

"Blake mentioned you tried to kill yourself," Weiss went on. "But you didn't feel like sharing that with us."

Cloud scratched the back of his head. "It slipped my mind amongst everything else."

"Uh huh," Weiss muttered tursley. Her expression made it clear that wasn't going to fly. "Are you forgetting anything else?"

I crossed my arms beside her but I don't think I managed to direct the same amount of disappointment at him as she did.

"I promise to tell at least one of you if I remember," Cloud vowed.

"At least one of us?" Weiss asked. She leveled her glare at him and flared her nostrils in his direction.

"Both of you, then." Cloud agreed. "And the moment I remember."

"That's how things need to be for this to work," Weiss said.

"You got it." I thought Cloud might salute at her but that would be just a bit much.

"Look I don't want to be the bad guy here," Weiss murmured. "But this needs to be ironed out."

"You're not. It's on me. Pinkie swear," Cloud seemed all onboard.

Weiss sighed. "We're worried about you. We don't know how to help you."

"I think that no one can. And I resent putting you in that position."

"We want to be in that position," I said softly. "We want to try our hardest to help you."

Cloud looked stunned. His jaw worked for a moment while he tried to figure out something to say. "You're right. I'm sorry. You of all people I shouldn't be cutting out like that. I just don't know what to do. And I'm scared. I'm scared that there's nothing you can do."

"Let us try," I whispered.

He reeled back like I struck him across the face. He flinched back and had trouble meeting my eye.

He gave a slow firm nod of assent. It couldn't be mistaken for anything else. He was giving his word that he would do what he could to help us help him.

"Now," I said with all that cleared up. "Do you need to go back to the hospital?"

"I don't know. They weren't the most helpful. They took my weapon away. They take everything away. There's nothing to do but wait for my next meal. It makes me feel like a dog."

"You're not a dog," Weiss murmured.

"I am to Salem," he countered. "She's so old and strong. I'm like a dog to her if she's like a person to me."

"Is anything getting better on your medication?" I asked.

"Maybe the hallucinations but it's hard to tell." He rubbed his face with his hand. "There's not exactly a good reference frame for it. How loud they are. How intense they are."

"How many medications are you on at this point? You said they kept prescribing things."

"Four. Two tranquilizers, an antipsychotic, and some other one that's supposed to help with racing thoughts and tremors caused by the others."

"Is that a lot?" I asked Weiss with a look.

"I don't know," Weiss muttered. "I'm not a psychiatrist."

"They want to get me down to just two medications. They're still experimenting with what works and what doesn't. Some of the medications can make things worse more than they make things better. It's not exact and I just have to trust that they know what they're doing."

"Maybe we need to get a second opinion," Weiss crossed her arms. "Maybe we need to talk to a private provider."

"That means telling them my story again, and it'll take time."

"And it will cost money," I said.

"Money isn't a problem. I have some bank accounts from when I stole from people on the wrong side of the law with millions of Lien, still," Cloud said.

"Who'd you steal that from?" Weiss asked.

"Don Corneo. Then I killed him. Neo and I did. I still have those private bank accounts, they didn't take them from me when I was arrested. Didn't know that they existed."

"Hang in there, Cloud. We'll find something that works for you," Weiss murmured. "It can and will get better."

"I just… I just don't think we will. Don't think it will. Mother's hooks are in me deep. And if this is all I have to look forward to, maybe I should kill myself."

"Don't think that way," I pleaded.

"I am thinking that way. All the time. I can't help it," he muttered. "I obsess about it. Part of why I think maybe she wants me to do it. She told me to run away, in a whisper, once. This is the ultimate form of that. I'm terrified that if I try and kill myself I won't die and I'll become even more of a burden on you both."

"Holy shit," I breathed, eyes wide.

"Let's get that second opinion. It's a good place to start," Weiss said. "Then we'll see. Just… just don't do anything rash."

He gave us a shaky but agreeable nod.

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"How's your boyfriend and girlfriend?" Penny asked as the truck hummed along.

"We had a date that went well the other day. All three of us. But… but Weiss and I are worried about him. I worry about him all the time. He has all these dark thoughts. Remnants of what Salem did to his mind," I answered. "I don't know how to help him. He's struggling and I'm not sure how to reach him."

"Well what did Salem do to him?"

"She took over his mind. He says she spoke and he had to obey."

"Like he was programmed to?" She asked. I looked at Penny. She was a machine for all that she was a real person too, maybe she had some insights I was lacking because of how she was made. "I'm slated for a sparring match with him later this week. His powers make it so that he might be able to keep up with me and present me a real one on one challenge. My abilities often make it difficult for an individual to contest me alone. Ironwood said to treat it like I was fighting Cinder Fall because of how he might have magic. It might be my best chance to practice against such a foe until Winter becomes the new winter maiden."

"That's…" I paused. I hadn't had the chance to go up against him myself any time recently. Not since before Weiss and Yang showed up in Mistral. "I should spar with him too. We always used to back in Anima. I miss it." I shook those thoughts off. "And he says his subconscious is always under her attack. He's afraid of what might be coming through when he's not paying attention. And even when he is sometimes things slip past him."

"He's on a medication regiment, yes?"

I nodded. "But he's not sure how well it's working."

"If I found out I was programmed to do something I hated I'm not sure how I would respond," Penny said. She shook her head slightly. "It would make me sad to say nothing else. And he killed his friends. I can only imagine how hard that would be."

I nodded. "But Salem hasn't had any control over him since then."

"That he himself knows of. If I was programmed against my will I don't know that I would notice it. Would I? Could I? Perhaps that's what he's afraid of. He might be afraid of doing her will unknowingly."

"He said that about killing himself. That he wasn't sure if he would just be playing into her hands if he did take his life. It's… it's too scary to think about. What if I lost him again? It would be my own fault."

"No one would hold you responsible. Salem is a monster. And she's doing something horrible to him. She's hacking his brain."

"Is there any way I can keep him safe? He doesn't sleep well. He says he's vulnerable to her while he does."

"He's probably right. And sleep is a time for the brain to repair itself. Has he suffered any other brain trauma related phenomena?"

"He thinks he's having miniature strokes and seizures because of it."

"Ruby… this sounds bad," Penny confessed to me. "It sounds like she's winning. Slowly but surely. She's breaking him down into what she wants him to be. If he was a machine like me it would be fast but this wetware attack is slow going."

"What do I do, Penny? How do I save him from this?"

"I'm not sure that you can, it sounds like he must fight as well as he is able against her attacks. For as long as he is able."

The truck rolled along for a quiet moment.

"He has sisters, right? They might be able to shed some light on this. The successful models may know more," Penny murmured.

"They work for Salem. She has them too."

"Ruby…"

I felt like crying. I felt so utterly helpless. How could I possibly save him from this… this nightmare he lived in.

"I'm going to be there for him. Whatever he needs. I won't let him lose himself. Not over to Salem."

"Ruby I think… I think you should start to let go. Remember him how he was, before it's too late. Before she takes him."

"I'm not going to give up on him. I refuse to abandon him." I was adamant.

"I think you're going to hurt yourself. I hate to see you this way."

"Weiss and I will come up with a plan to keep him safe."

"It doesn't sound like you can. He's being hacked remotely. Not unless you kill Salem. Stop things at the source."

"We can't kill her. She's immortal. Like Ozpin." It was so unfair. It felt like checkmate five turns ago. "I won't let him walk through hell. I would lose myself for him."

"Ruby…"

"I mean it. If I have to fight Salem herself I will. Cloud says he knows where she is all the time. Like some kind of radar. We can find her and beat her. She's only immortal. Not invincible. That's what Cloud said. I'm going to help him cut her into tiny pieces so she can never harm a hair on his head again."

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-WG

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momentsuspended-intime · 3 years

Text

Finding light in the darkness.

*Trigger warning* This post mentions suicide, overdosing, crisis team, alcohol, drug abuse, and other scenarios people may find triggering or offensive. Please proceed with caution.

Don’t be afraid of change, it is leading you to a new beginning. The pain you feel today will be the strength you feel tomorrow. Every day is a new beginning. Take a deep breath and start again.

Sitting in my living room, empty boxes of codeine surrounding me, this is it I thought, all the pain was going to end. Finally.

I texted my ex, I messaged my friends, all saying goodbye and how sorry I was for causing so much turmoil. I felt broken and defeated, I just wanted it all to stop. My head was racing, I just wanted all these thoughts to stop going round and round my head, was a little peace too much to ask for? Suddenly my Mum entered the room her face was pale. “What have you done?!” she cried, tears streaming down her face. All I could do was look at her and apologise, I had a momentary lapse where I hadn’t considered my next steps. One of my friends had messaged my Mum in a panic; my ex was on the phone, I could hear him crying but I just felt numb.

My Dad then raced into the room “Why would you do this, Victoria?” “Not my baby, please no” Those words will haunt me for the rest of my life. I can count on one hand how many times I’ve seen my Dad cry, but this was different. In that moment I thought “had I made a mistake?” but I still felt numb. Maybe it was the 60 codeine tablets I took or the adrenaline pumping through my body but all I felt was nothing. It had been like that for weeks now. This empty feeling inside me, like a black hole, sucking out every little piece of love and emotions I had. I didn’t realise it at the time but I was suffering with Borderline Personality Disorder, but I’ll get to that later.

Suddenly I was in the back of an ambulance, ECG hooked up to my body, and I’d spend hours in the hospital, being seen by different Doctors and Mental Health Nurses. My parents were pushing to having me committed. The hospital didn’t do anything; they sent me home and in less than 24 hours I’d be back in the hospital after a second failed attempt at taking my own life. 120 codeine tablets in total over 24 hours. Thank god I’m alive writing this now. I’m not a religious person but I must have someone looking down on me, keeping me safe.

You might be wondering how I got to this point, you see I’ve always known something wasn’t quite right, I could never put my finger on it but I never felt ‘normal’. Whatever normal is anyway. My head had always been a chaotic place for as long as I can remember, I always felt things so intensely, but that was normal right? I never knew any better. I would say goodbye to my ex after a lovely weekend together (he was in the RAF so I only got to see him on weekends) and I would have been crying hysterically, like he was being deployed for 6 months but in reality I’d be seeing him again in 5 days time. Minutes later in my car with music blaring I’d be singing and dancing along to the radio, like the previous few moments never happened. Something that would annoy the average person would make me fly into a fit of rage; my family described it as like walking on eggshells when they were around me. Too scared to say certain things out of fear of how I would react.

Anyway I’m digressing here, but the point is I always knew something wasn’t right with me. So what happened to make me feel so low? I had a week from hell. I’d been fired from my job by e-mail, basically told not to come in the following Monday. I was heartbroken, I was a photographer for a Cigar and Whiskey company, and I’d studied Photography at University. I could do that job in my sleep but that e-mail hit me like a tone of bricks. Later that week I would find out that my Nan had stage 5 terminal kidney disease and a couple days later my boyfriend of 3 and a half years would break my heart. It was traumatic, we’d spent 4 lovely days together and on the Sunday he woke up, looked at me and ended it. Just like that. I still remember the stabbing sensation in my stomach when I instantly knew something was wrong. An hour later I was driving 4 hours back from Buckinghamshire, crying my eyes out, reality had not yet set in and I couldn’t believe this was really happening. I still remember hearing Lizzo on the radio “If he don’t love you anymore, just walk yo’ fine ass out the door”. How ironic.

The day after my stint in the hospital I find myself sat in a room at the Crisis Centre on Northgate Street, waiting to be seen by a Psychiatrist and Mental Health Nurse to discuss what needs to be done. I’m angry, exhausted, confused and want anything but help. One of the Mental Health Nurses looks at me and says, “If you’re going to kill yourself, you’re going to do it anyway”. That was it, I went super saiyan, how dare he say that to me! These people are supposed to be here to help me, I know I didn’t want help at that point but how could someone in authority whose profession it is to support and care for those in a crisis say something so repulsive? That would be one of many unsavoury experiences I’d have with the Mental Health services.

After finally speaking to the manager (I promise I’m not a Karen), we all agreed that at home treatment would be best for my situation and me. Over the next few weeks I would be seen by the Crisis team every day. Every damn day I would have to explain in intricate detail what had happened and how we got to this point. You see with the Crisis team you don’t see the same person every day, they’re all on shifts, so each visit I would meet someone new and be expected to open up to a complete stranger about how I was feeling. When in a crisis a person needs consistency, the chance to build a rapport with someone and to feel like they’re being listened to. Not judged for being in the position I found myself in.

After many visits with a Psychiatrist and members of the Crisis team they came to a conclusion, I didn’t realise just how life changing this revelation would be. I had Borderline Personality Disorder. Suddenly everything fell into place; intense and unstable emotions? Check. Feeling empty and angry? Check. Impulsivity? Check. In total there’s 9 different symptoms for BPD (I’ll cover this in a future post), and I had all 9.

If you’re wondering what Borderline Personality Disorder is exactly then let me give you a brief outline, of course this is one of the most misunderstood and often stigmatised mental health issue a person can have. In simple terms BPD is a condition that affects how you think, feel and interact with other people. People with BPD experience a pervasive pattern of instability, both in the way they view themselves and with interpersonal relationships.

BPD isn’t a fad, it isn’t quirky, it can be soul destroying and it almost cost me my life. Experiencing a break up, losing a job and finding out a loved one is ill was just too much. Just one of those things can cause someone with BPD to lose control, they say things come in threes and for me it was true. To a ‘normal’ person a break up is hard, unless you’re lucky enough to part ways as friends, for me it felt like someone had died. That might sound dramatic but it was true, I didn’t realise but my ex was my FP (favourite person). People with BPD often have a FP, someone they rely on and put on a pedestal, and this person can do no wrong. My problem is my FP broke my heart.

Now don’t get me wrong I know it takes two to tango, I wasn’t a saint but in my defence I didn’t realise I was ill. I was moody, never wanted to spend time with his family, argued over every little thing and I wanted him all to myself. I didn’t realise it at the time but I was obsessed.

I spent the next two weeks at a friend’s house, drinking and getting high. My head was a mess, thoughts racing; I just wanted a moment of calm. I thought I was making myself feel better, trying to forget all the chaos going on in my life but I was just making everything worse. I wasn’t facing these problems head on, I was masking them and I didn’t realise it but things were about to erupt.

During this time I was a train wreck, I was drinking at every moment I could. Taking the dog out so I could nip to the shops and down a bottle or two of Lambrini in the park (how classy, right?). My problem was during this time drinking would make me disassociate; I’d become violent and angry. At one point I found myself in the back of a police van, but I’m not ready to talk about that yet.

I had reached rock bottom, my family stood by me, and god knows why- I gave them every opportunity to disown me and kick me out of the house but they never did and for that I am eternally grateful. I knew something had to change, I HAD to change. I couldn’t keep going on living like this, surly there’s more to life than this?

I decided I would quit drinking and get my life back on track. I knew it wouldn’t be easy, but anything worth having in life isn’t. I decided to try and raise money for NSFT (Norfolk and Suffolk Foundation Trust), at this point I had been discharged by the Crisis team and I was now in the hands of NSFT. This is when I met Allison, my Mental Health Nurse and things finally started to change for the better.

I started cycling 30 miles every day, I reached over 500 miles but due to health reasons I had stop. It’s my aim to re-start my little goal and hopefully add to the £250 I’ve raised so far. I started engaging with NSFT; I had weekly meetings with my MH Nurse, Allison and went to Recovery College, learning ways to cope with my diagnosis and my recovery.

During this time I started feeling better, I was given a cocktail of medications such as antipsychotics and anti-depressants and slowly the real me was starting to come out.

2 years on I feel like a completely different person. I’ve rebuilt my relationship with my family; I’m one year sober and living in a beautiful new house. Treatment, medication and personal growth have changed me. Just yesterday my Sister was saying she could finally see the real me, the one that had always been there but just needed some nurturing (and treatment) to help shine through.

I’ve made many mistakes in life, I’m sure you’ll hear more about these in future posts but I decided I wanted to give back and use my experiences to help other people. You see I’ve always felt lost, like I never knew who I was as a person or what I wanted to do in life but I’ve finally found my calling. Last November I enrolled on a course and now I’m studying to become a Mental Health Nurse myself.

During my recovery I found that talking to someone who has lived experience of mental health issues utterly valuable. They understand you in a way no one else does, you have this shared connection. So I decided I wanted to take my lived experience, mistakes I’ve made, everything I’ve learnt over the past two years and try to help someone else that’s going through a Crisis.

I started volunteering at a Mental Health Charity called Together, working with the service users to offer them some support and it gave me a real taste of how it would be to work as a Mental Health Nurse and help someone who really needed it. Unfortunately lockdown hit and I had to stop volunteering.

I’m still working on my online course and hopefully by the end of the year I’ll be a Peer Support Worker and from there I’ll be able to join a course to specialise in Mental Health Nursing. For the first time in my life I have a plan.

What happened to that angry girl, who was moody all the time and argued over every little thing? I can say proudly that she no longer exists. Now I’m confident, happy and feel motivated to get as much out of life as possible. I’ve even started dating again! I’ll occasionally feel my mood flip quite quickly but I’m better at managing it now. Like any other illness you learn to live with it, this time though I’m not letting my diagnosis define me.

My relationship with my family has never been better, of course it’s not easy to forgive and there’s some things you can’t forget but my family have never held the things I’ve done against me. The past two years have been really tough but I’ve learnt a lot about myself as a person and the type of person I want to be. It hasn’t been easy writing this blog post, I wanted to give an honest and raw account of what it’s like to experience the darkest point of your life and what it’s like to rebuild from the ground up.

If you’re experiencing a hard time just know my inbox is always open, you’re not in this alone and I promise you things will get better.

Until next time.

Victoria Jane x

#BPD #borderline personality traits #borderline personality #mental health #bpdwarrior #tw suicice #trigger warning #it gets better #one step at a time #personal post #mental health blog

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need-a-new-hobby · 4 years

Text

Demonology

note: this is my first emily centred fic, i hope i’ve done it justice \\ emily’s such a badass, i just imaging piper looking up to her and being so heartbroken to see her so sad \\ warnings: attempted depiction of loss and grief \\ apologies in advance if i have misrepresented grief, please do tell me if i have

“No way. Inigo every single time.” Piper shook her head at Garcia as she tossed a popcorn kernel in her mouth.

“But Westley became a freaking bandit for Buttercup!”

“Yeah, and Inigo spends the rest of his childhood and young adulthood mastering the sword for his father,” Piper argued. “How is that not attractive?”

“Because Westley is cuter.” Garcia stomped and Piper was about to launch her popcorn kernel at Garcia’s eye when she spotted a dripping Emily in the elevator. “Hey, Em! Who’s your favourite from the Princess Bride, Inigo or Westley?” But Garcia garnered no response as Emily staggered towards her, slightly shivering.

“Did you get that file for Tommy Vee like I asked?” Emily’s voice tumbled out, shaking and shivering, and Piper instinctively pulled off her own knee-length coat, holding it out to Emily. But she ignored it, reaching for the file instead. Piper faltered, tucking her coat over her arm. “Is Hotch still here?”

“I’m pretty sure he lives here…” Penelope trailed off as Emily pushed past between them. “What’s up with her?”

“Dunno. Guess she doesn’t want to talk about it yet,” Piper commented as Penelope pushed forward to the elevator. Piper stared at the door Emily went through until Penelope called out her name. “JJ’s coming back tomorrow right?”

“Yep. I’m thinking lasagne to celebrate her first day back.”

“Great idea.” The elevator doors closed as Emily tumbled her way to Hotch’s office, numb to the bone. But that wasn’t because of the rain.

“I just found out that... An old friend of mine died.” Emily fought the tears threatening to spill over the brink of her eyelashes.

“I'm sorry. Do you need to take some time?”

“Um... There's a chance that he could have been murdered, and there might be a second case.”

“What do you need?”

“Just some leeway to check it out.”

“Of course. Anything.”

“Thank you,”

“Emily, if you want to take a few days and let us look into it...” Hotch offered, taking a step towards his battered agent.

“Matthew was...incredibly messed up, and I hadn't seen him in a long time, but he was important to me,” Emily explained, though there was no need.

“At least let us help.” Emily nodded as she sniffled and left the office after thanking him.

Somehow, she managed to stumble home, eyes fluttering closed as her head hit the pillow. She woke up early later that morning, dragging herself into the shower. As the water pounded her skin, she closed her eyes and there he was, bright as day. Before the drugs. Before the alcohol. Holding hands high, glee-stricken faces. Hot water melded with tears as they streamed down Emily’s face.

Emily thought she’d be the first one at the office, except she saw Piper doing paperwork at her desk. “Piper, it’s 7 am.” Without looking up or halting her pen, Piper gave her some excuse that Emily saw right through.

“Fine. I was worried about you.”

“I—” Before Emily could respond, Hotch appeared from his office, telling Emily the M.E. was ready to see her and Piper grabbed her grey winter coat, wrapping it around the pale turtleneck she was already wearing as well as her bike keys.

“C’mon. You can explain when we get there. I don’t have a spare helmet though.” Piper’s bike was liberating as it weaved through traffic, wind whipping Emily’s charcoal hair into a frenzy. They skidded to a stop outside the morgue and Emily unhooked her leg from around the bike.

“Now I get how you’re the first at scenes,” Emily joked weakly as Piper shook out her hair.

“Trust me, helmet hair is not fun.” Piper said as she hooked an arm around Emily’s, striding into the morgue with her. As the examiner revealed Matthew Benton’s pale body, Emily choked, and Piper answered her cell. “Got it.”

“Is it possible someone could have induced the heart attack?” Emily managed to ask.

“The easiest way to stop the heart is an injection of potassium. I would have found traces.”

“There's no other way?”

“I suppose it's possible he could have been injected with epinephrine. It wouldn't register, because clinically, it's identical to the natural adrenalin in the body.”

“Did he have a medical history of cardiac problems?”

“No. The attack was induced by his prolonged abuse of drugs and methamphetamines.”

“Was he tied?” Emily lifted Matthew’s wrists gently, stomach sick.

“The wounds are superficial.”

“Anything else out of the ordinary?”

“He bled heavily from his nose, but with the damage to his septum, my guess is that it was prolonged abuse of cocaine or methamphetamine.”

“And what about the other autopsy,” Piper asked. “Thomas Valentine?” The ME nodded, turning to the next body.

“He died of dehydration. There were traces of prescription antipsychotics in his system. I understand from his family he had a history of mental illness.”

“So, his death was induced by the antipsychotics too?” The doctor nodded

“Piper.” Emily held up Thomas’s wrist.

“Considering the self-inflicted wounds and the history of mental illness, the police didn't suspect foul play.”

“So, you have 2 bodies with ligature marks – each superficial. But you just dismiss them?” Emily confronted the examiner

“There's no medical reason to connect these deaths,” the ME defended herself. Nervous by Emily’s undiplomatic outbursts, Piper excused them, and they walked out into the rain. Before Emily could hook her leg around the bike, Piper tugged at her arm.

“Hey, we’ll find out who did this.” Emily’s shoulder sagged.

“You believe me?” Piper’s stomach dropped at the desperation in Emily’s voice as rain dripped down her coat.

“Always.” Piper shot Emily a soft smile as she donned her helmet and they drove back to the office.

While JJ fixed Piper and Emily a hot cup of coffee, the others filed in, filling in Piper, Emily and JJ. Thomas Valentine was a schizophrenic who was married but lived alone. Spencer and Derek described how his wife took the kids away to protect them and how he was cursing God. Rossi and Hotch filled them in on Mrs Benton’s firm belief that Matthew was possessed, and Emily scoffed at that.

“Matthew had a thing about challenging the church. He could push it. When we were in high school, his mom and dad consulted a priest because they were afraid that he was possessed.” Derek pointed out that Mrs Valentine had suggested the same thing and both houses had scuff marks under the beds.

“Well, drug addiction and schizophrenia are the most common conditions to be misconceived as possession.” Piper spoke rationally, trying to fit things together. “Plus, both had conditions that could induce their deaths what with both having consistent levels of drugs in their system. Could the unsub have known these conditions?” The question wasn’t directed towards anyone in particular and Penelope’s rush into the room pushed it to the side.

“So, both Thomas Valentine and Matthew Benton were in Galicia, Spain over the same week 4 months ago.”

“That mean anything to you?”

“Yeah.” Piper stood up. “Galicia is one of the biggest Christian pilgrimage sites in the world and the cathedral is absolutely breathtaking.” Spencer noticed the gleam in Piper’s eyes. “Actually, it’s been a UNESCO World Heritage Site since the 90’s.” Derek threw his hands up and took a seat.

“So what, we think these are exorcisms?”

“It could be.” Piper leaned on the mahogany table, challenging Derek.

“Look, I know the Bible just as well as anyone, but I also know there's nothing more open to behavioural interpretation than religion.”

“Meaning what?”

“I think it's dangerous for us to wanna find a connection between these deaths.” Piper nodded slowly and straightened.

“Spencer, to the best of your knowledge, what are the main causes of heart attacks?”

“Complete or partial blockage of the coronary artery, age, high blood pressure, high triglyceride levels, obesity, diabetes, metabolic syndrome, family history of heart attacks, lack of physical activity, stress, illicit drug use, a history of preeclampsia, an autoimmune condition…”

“And apart from drugs, how many of those apply to both our victims?”

“Well, really it’s just drugs and stress.”

“Right, Emily?” Emily hummed as she sipped her coffee. “How long had Matthew been using?”

“Since we were about 16. Why?”

“Right, so if Matthew is almost 30, he’s been using for at most 15 years, wouldn’t there have been a sign before now?” They were all silent, staring at her, then Derek. “Guys, my math skills aren’t that bad.” Spencer shrugged, muttering that calling them skills was a bit of a stretch. She resisted the urge to slap him with a hardcover, mainly because the only thing in her hand was a cup of coffee. “What about silent killers, things you can’t see in a medical exam?”

“Chronic stress, maybe,” Reid suggested.

“Guys, don’t you think this is a stretch? I mean seriously, stress?”

“When stress is excessive, it can contribute to everything from hypertension, to ulcers to irritable bowel syndrome,” Spencer said.

“What could the guy be that stressed about?” Tired from Derek’s negativity, Emily slammed down two pictures of Thomas and Matthew’s wrists.

“Maybe he was stressed about a guy holding him down, trying to banish the devil out of him.” Emily stared him down until JJ squeezed her arm and soothed her back into her seat.

“Guys, look, I'm willing to say that we might have an unsub who ritualises killings as if they were exorcisms, maybe, but right now, we don't even know if we have a crime yet.” But before Piper or Emily could retaliate, Rossi intervened.

“Derek’s right. We need to step back. Let me talk to someone before I have us all telling ghost stories.” Piper downed the last dregs of her coffee while Rossi left to brave the pounding rain outside. Emily stormed out quietly, refusing to make eye contact with the team. Piper and Spencer tramped downstairs to their desks.

“You really think this is a serial killer?”

“I don’t know, Spence. All I know is that if it is, there’s someone out there who’s gonna kill again. I don’t want to take that chance.”

^-^

Rossi pulled up in front of his church, the largest congregation in his area, and closed the door behind him before he took the marble steps two at a time, careful not to slip. He shoved open the large double doors to the church, walking across to catch a familiar priest cleaning the altar.

“Hey, stranger,” the priest greeted Dave.

“I know. It's been too long.”

“So maybe after we speak, you'll let me take your confession?”

“Gonna strong-arm me?” The priest laughed.

“You bet. So, how can I help you?”

“What do you know about exorcisms?” Jimmy raised an eyebrow as he sat down in the first pew to answer the question.

“Well, they're, uh- they're controversial. The Vatican issued a new exorcism rite in 1999, so nobody speaks out against it, but if pressed, not every priest believes in demonic possessions.”

“Do you?”

“Let me put it this way. You believe that evil exists.”

“I've seen it.”

“So, if children are born innocent, at what point does evil enter them?”

“How common are exorcisms?”

“Conservatively, I’d say 400 or 500 a year.”

“Has anyone died in one?”

“What's this about, Davey?”

“I'm looking into the deaths of 2 men. Both were troubled. Each recently had made the same pilgrimage to Galicia, Spain. Each died within the last 2 weeks.”

“And why do you suspect exorcism?”

“Well, it's just a theory. One of our agents knew one of the men. She was afraid there might be some foul play.”

“You agree?”

“Would you know if one took place here in DC?”

“If it's sanctioned, probably.”

“If not?”

“Well, then it's not a true exorcism.”

“Thanks, Jimmy.” As Rossi turned his back, the priest raised his arm, first to God, then to the Father and finally the Holy Spirit, praying for his friend’s soul.

As Rossi returned from his trip, Piper jumped up to retrieve him. “Garcia got a call, 38-year-old white male found dead in his bed by his fiancée,” she told him as they rushed up to Hotch’s cabin. “Patrick Cavanaugh was in Galicia, Spain at the same time as Thomas and Matthew.” Rossi opened the door to Hotch’s office as Piper finished. “Reid, Prentiss and Morgan already left to see the scene.” Piper returned to her desk, resuming her leftover paperwork.

^-^

Derek walked behind Emily and Spencer as they trudged through the brief respite from the rain up to the Cavanaugh household. They flashed their badges to the officer standing guard outside the house. “What can you tell us?”

“Uh, white male, been dead for hours. Medics think it was a brain aneurysm.”

“You mind if we take a look at the scene?”

“Knock yourselves out.” The three agents walked into the room and Spencer noticed the scratches under the bedposts.

“This is kind of starting to freak me out a little bit.”

“Let's figure out if we have a crime before we start freaking out.”

“Obviously we have a crime.”

“Prentiss, how does an unsub induce an aneurysm?”

“Uh, could be caused by stress,” Spencer intervened.

“Yeah, like if you were restrained on a bed while someone tried to banish the devil from their body.”

“All I’m saying is I think we should go easy,” Derek spoke as Mrs Cavanaugh entered the room.

“Can I help you?” Her voice was meek and yet reverberated around the room. Being the closest to her, Derek held out his badge. “FBI? What are you doing here?”

“We’re investigating a series of unexpected deaths,” Reid provided from the back of the room.

“I don’t understand.” Sidelining any empathy that she could have held for the recent widow, Emily started interrogating her.

“Was Patrick acting erratically recently?”

“He had a brain condition. He was getting headaches, wasn't acting like himself.”

“Were you aware of a trip he took recently to Galicia, Spain? Uh, there's a church there called Santiago de Compostela we think he may have visited.” Emily stepped closer to the young widow.

“My fiancé travelled a lot for work. I don't know everywhere he went.”

“With all due respect, ma'am, I don't think you're telling us the truth.”

“Excuse me?”

“Did you believe Patrick was possessed?”

“I'd like some privacy, please?”

“Was someone trying to rid him of demons? Is that how he died?”

“No.”

“You really believe he had a brain condition?” Derek stepped in between, urging Emily to stop and motioning for her to leave before apologising to the young lady for Emily’s behaviour. But apparently, Hotch had already heard about the incident as the three found him waiting in front of the elevators.

“What happened?”

“I think there may be a third victim,” Emily maintained as professionally as possible.

“Is that what you think?” Hotch turned to Derek who glanced at Emily quickly before inputting.

“I don't know.”

“Uh, we have ligature marks, the Spain connection, and scuff marks under the bed.” Emily attempted to salvage the case as it fell apart at the seams.

“Hotch, it's weird, definitely, but there's no way to physically connect dehydration, a heart attack, and an aneurism.” Hotch sighed and Derek asked him if everything was okay.

“We've had a complaint. JJ 's trying to smooth it over with the DC police, but we haven't been invited in on the case.” Hotch uncrossed his arms, face neutral as always and Spencer followed his boss into the bullpen. Derek made to follow too, stopped only by Emily’s voice.

“Hey, that's how you have my back?”

“Prentiss, I'm trying to protect you.” Derek held his hands up.

“I don't need protection,” she spat.

“Hotch just said he got a complaint, and he didn't come down on you. You realize that? You just dodged a bullet. We have to approach this just like we do any other case.”

“Meaning what?” She narrowed her eyes at him, daring him to continue.

“Grief can make us wanna believe there's a reason for things when there's not.”

“That woman couldn't even use Patrick's name. She could only say, "my fiancé," because she's convinced something else died in that room that night.” She pushed past him, deliberately digging her shoulder against him, as she walked into the bullpen. As she poured coffee, Spencer recounted the earlier events to Piper.

“Yikes. Is Em okay?”

“I don’t know. She’s convinced there’s an unsub.”

“You don’t think so.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Spencer said as he sat at his desk. “It’s out of my hands.”

“Yeah, I heard there was a complaint.” Piper unclipped her hair, scooping it into a ponytail as she watched Emily glare at Derek over her cup. “Also, Garcia found something.” Piper rolled her chair closer to Spencer, leaning in as she spoke. “Turns out there was a blog posting by Matthew to create a support group for people who felt betrayed by their faith.”

“That explains how they all met.”

“That’s what I said. But it gets better.” Piper slurped at her tea. “And by better, I mean worse. The week the 3 of them were in Spain, the services at Santiago de Compostela were cancelled when the priest there died of, and get this, a heart attack. And,” she emphasised. “If you listen to the conspiracy chatter, there is a strong belief he was killed to interrupt services during the height of the pilgrimage. Their best guess is some kind of gas, sarin or VX, something that wouldn't show up in an autopsy. But it could be anything that would induce stress, cause a heart attack.”

“Then we have a motive. And a potential MO, An eye for an eye.”

“That’s what I said.” Piper’s eyes widened. “But Hotch can’t authorise an investigation.” She leaned back in her chair.

“Wait, but why’d you say that so secretively? Everyone knows, right?”

“Yeah. I’ve just always wanted to do that.” Piper beamed, spinning her chair before skidding over to her own desk. After a few minutes, Emily walked over, shrugging off her coat and getting down to get some work done. Piper looked up to see an attractive man walk up to Emily’s desk and she embraced him quickly. She couldn’t quite make out their hushed conversation but saw Rossi approach them and the two agents left to ‘grab coffee’.

^-^

“You know, there are nicer places to take a girl to coffee.” Emily stood outside the ruins of a burnt down house and Rossi snorted.

“You ever watch The Exorcist?”

“Yeah. Piper hated it.” Rossi nodded.

“The real case started right here. The fire department actually burned down the house themselves. The authorities referred to the boy as Robbie Doe. He's still in the DC area today.”

“Why did you bring me here?”

“Whole lot of effort went into destroying the house of a kid who probably had onset schizophrenia or Tourette’s syndrome.”

“I'm not following you.”

“You're sure he was murdered. So, what's the story?” Emily sighed. “If you, uh, don't wanna explain, that's fine, but if you do, I'm all in.”

“Matthew knew the Bible inside and out, and he started to question everything.”

“Why?”

“We moved around a lot when I was a kid, 'cause of my mom's postings,” Emily said, pawing at the ground with her foot. “It was hard to get accepted, and when you're 15, that's all you want. You'll do almost anything.”

“You got pregnant,” Rossi inferred, and Emily nodded. “Was Matthew the—”

“No. I couldn’t tell my mom and I didn’t know what to do.” Emily’s voice cracked. “Matthew suggested I go see a priest. He said that if I had an abortion, I wasn't welcome in his congregation.”

“What’d you do?”

“Matthew found a doctor. He took me there. He stayed with me. That Sunday when we got back to Rome, he held my hand and walked me into the church. Father Gamino actually stopped his sermon, but Matthew told me to hold my head up, and we walked to the front pew.”

“What happened?”

“He and Matthew just stared at each other. It was like a battle of wills, and-- and then suddenly Father Gamino went back to his sermon. Matthew saved my life. He made me feel like i was worthy of... Love and friendship. But that's when his anger and questioning started. Then the drugs. His parents saw it all and assumed he was possessed by something evil.” Emily exhaled, looking at the overcast sky to avoid eye contact with Rossi. “It’s my fault…that Matthew’s life unravelled. Rossi watched her blink away tears before he continued.

“Garcia uncovered some information. It's possible Matthew and the others killed someone in Spain.”

“No. I don't believe that.”

“I'm just saying if we keep pushing, you have to be prepared for what we might discover.”

“I need Matthew to rest in peace. I owe him that.”

“Then let's go give a profile.” Rossi moved towards the SUV they rolled in.

“The-the police haven't invited us in.”

“The police aren't gonna do us any good on this one, anyway.”

^-^

Piper was perched on the podium, tightening her small ponytail over her dark cardigan as she watched the group of priests. Spencer stood in an adjacent corner, leaning his back against the wall as Rossi delivered the profile in front of their audience. “We are not here to examine your beliefs in demonology or exorcism, but we are operating on the theory that the person responsible for these deaths does believe. We believe the inciting incident was the death of Father Raul del Toro in Galicia, Spain, 4 months ago.”

“Th-there's an element who believes that the death was actually a murder.” Emily shoved her hands in her pockets.

“The man we’re looking for is probably a priest with a psychotic break,” Piper continued. “He may be under the delusion that he is working for God, would be obsessed with the event in Galicia.”

“He believes he's fighting evil and may very well have followed these men here to Washington,” Spencer finished Piper’s sentence. “We believe that one of the exorcisms took place over enough days for the victim to die of dehydration.”

“Uh, if I may,” David’s priest raised his hand, saying, “An exorcism is like a prize fight. It's completely draining, both physically and spiritually. Now, if this man truly performed 3 rituals within the last few weeks, he would need medical care.”

“Is there somewhere he would go to convalesce?”

“Um, anything less than a working hospital would be too dangerous.” Spencer met Piper’s eyes and she jumped off her perch, following him outside as he dialled Garcia.

“Garcia, it's Reid.”

“Speak, boy wonder.”

“I need you to run Catholic hospital records. Look for any admissions for exhaustion immediately following Patrick Cavanaugh's death. You got it?”

“You know I do.”

“Alright, now run the same search for the days immediately following the first 2 deaths.”

“Oh, I sense a cross-check in my future.”

“Do you have anything?”

“One hit- Father Paul Silvano. Currently at St. Agatha's hospital on 214.” Piper’s forehead unwrinkled and she sprinted down the halls of the church to Rossi, flinging the door open, announcing 3 magical words.

“We got him.”

^-^

“What do you mean he has diplomatic immunity?” Emily slammed a hand on Hotch’s desk.

“Exactly that. Emily, he’s protected by the Italian government. My hands are tied."

“Hotch, he killed three people.”

“There’s no proof.”

“He admitted he was there at each crime scene, that he performed an exorcism on him.” As the fight continued, Spencer gazed intently into the window from his desk.

“What do you think is happening?”

“Auntie Em and Dad are fighting again,” Piper answered as she scribbled the last word on her file, finally completing the week’s paperwork.

“I can see that. I mean, what do you think is gonna happen?”

“The regular. Hotch doesn’t listen to anyone except Rossi so hopefully he can sort this one out. Emily will storm out in 3… 2… 1…” Spencer watched her slam the door behind her as Rossi continued the argument with Hotch, sighing. JJ walked over, leaning her back on Emily’s desk.

“Can we deport him?”

“I doubt it,” Spencer sighed, leaning back in his chair.

“It's crazy. Diplomatic immunity wasn't intended to shield people from murder charges,” Piper complained as she stacked her finished paperwork.

“So Hotch bypasses the state department,” JJ suggested, “goes straight to the Italian Consulate.”

“And loses his career,” Spencer snorted. “The state department won't risk the potential embarrassment. They'll shut us all down.”

“Well, there's some realpolitik for you,” Piper puffed. “So, what do we do now?”

“Did you check his papers with ICE?” Spencer turned to JJ.

“Yeah. His diplomatic status runs till the end of the month.” Piper stood up, starting to pace.

“Okay, let’s go back to the profile. He's a believer.” Piper juggled a stress ball in her hands. “He deals in certainties. In his mind, he has a job to do. Which doesn't end until the end of the month.” Spencer stood up.

“There's another victim on his list.” As the realisation dawned on her, Piper jumped up onto Spencer’s desk before leaping over the partition, sprinting up to Hotch’s office. Spencer just blinked at where Piper had stood merely seconds ago. “That’s starting to get annoying.” Rossi then stormed out to catch Emily by the elevator and they went for another ‘drive.’

They drove to the Benton household where Mrs Benton recognised Emily perfectly, greeting her snidely. “We know Matthew died during an exorcism by Father Paul Silvano. He's performed 3 in the last few weeks. Each subject has died. We believe he's planning another one.”

“That's none of our business.”

“Matthew's gone. You've accepted that. At least let us warn the last family so they know what kind of choice they're facing.” Emily’s pleading met silence. “This isn't about me. This is about other families and the people they love.” Mrs Benton just sighed and walked back inside, leaving the door open for them to come in.

“Father Paul didn't kill Matthew.” Mr Benton was perched next to his wife on the arm of her chair.

“Why are you so willing to accept that? I- I'm just trying to find the truth about how your son died,” Emily pleaded with them from the opposite chair.

“Then listen to me. Father Paul never laid a hand on Matthew.”

‘How do you know that?”

“Because it was me.” He looked ashamed as he stared at his worn leather shoes. “I held him down, I sanctioned the exorcism.”

“I was there.”

“You stood there and watched Matthew die?”

“He wasn't the person you knew.”

“Because Father Paul said that?”

“Something horrible happened on that trip to Spain.”

“You believe that because Father Paul said it. You can't think for yourself?”

“Young lady, do not speak to me like that.”

“How could you allow him to perform a ritual over Matthew?”

“I loved my son.”

“Then you knew how Matthew was. You knew how paranoid he could be.”

“I was trying to save his life.” Emily stood up in frustration at Mr Benton.

“That priest must have done something. Matthew's heart wouldn't have just given out.”

“That thing killed Matthew! It was inside him for years. I know you know that's true.”

“No. Matthew was a sweet boy. He was just troubled.”

“He was never troubled until he met you,” Mrs Benton murmured loud enough for Emily to hear and she recoiled.

“Look, Father Paul explained that Matthew was a conduit. If you opened yourself up to him, you were putting yourself in danger of being taken over.”

“Was anyone with him in Spain or in DC?”

“No-one. He didn’t see anyone when he came back,” Matthew’s father explained.

“No, that's not true. I - I know for a fact he saw our friend John Cooley. His parents worked with my mother at the embassy in Rome. You called him to tell him Matthew had died.”

“I haven't spoken with John Cooley in over 20 years, not since you were kids in Italy.”

^-^

While Rossi went to smooth things over with Hotch, Emily went to John’s apartment, meeting Derek there. Derek flanked Emily as they stormed the apartment. Emily raised her gun, rushing to protect John as Derek dragged Father Paul away. Once outside, Emily freed John while Derek cuffed Paul. Carefully, Emily guided her old friend to the ambulance though his complaints of being fine. Before he left, he murmured something to Emily. “I'm sorry I wasn't there for you. In Italy.” Emily just smiled, rubbing his arm gently before pushing him gently to the ambulance. She rubbed her own arm as the ambulance doors closed and drove away. Piper stood next to Emily.

“You saved him.” Emily nodded. “If you want to crash over at my place, we can watch old movies together,” Piper offered as Hotch approached. She squeezed Emily’s shoulder gently before leaving them.

“If you want my gun and badge, I understand.”

“There’s no need. The Vatican intervened.” Morgan dragged Father Paul over to them. “There's a plane ticket in your name to Rome. Agent Morgan and I will drive you to the airport. Any of your belongings can be shipped to you.”

“You have no right to deport me.”

“The Italian government has rescinded your diplomatic status. They'll do with you as they see fit when you're back in their jurisdiction.” Hotch motioned for the SUV. But as they left, the father called over his shoulder.

“You’ve made the world a more dangerous place. May God’s love be with you.”

“And with you,” she spat back. Rossi, Piper and Spencer joined her and Derek

“I saw that guy up there. He was certain he was fighting against some kind of evil,” Derek murmured to the group as the snow glistened on his shoulders.

“We all have to be certain,” Rossi remarked as he watched the priest leave with Hotch.

“Rossi, don't tell me you believe in evil.”

“Don't tell me you do this job and you don't.”

“I believe there are evil acts, but those are choices, brain chemistry,” Derek explained. “What do you think, Pipes?”

“There’s no evil in the world. Every feeling, every emotion has its justification. For him, it was his beliefs. I think it’s easy for us to dismiss someone or something as evil.” Piper puffed; her breath smoky. Morgan nodded thoughtfully before Hotch called him. One by one, they all left to their own SUVs. Piper looked over to Emily, who stared thoughtfully into the snow, one tear rolling down her cheek. Piper draped an arm over her shoulder. “C’mon, let’s get you home.” Piper drove Emily carefully to her own apartment, letting her in gently. Emily couldn’t help smiling as Penelope held a hot bowl of soup.

“It’s chicken noodle.” Garcia beamed at Emily who took it, smiling softly at the soup. “Also, the movie choices are Sweet Home Alabama, Pretty Woman or Titanic.”

“I don’t know, I should—”

“How about just a quiet night in? Tell me you still made that lasagne.” Emily sat on Piper’s maroon couch, slurping at her chicken noodle soup as Piper and Penelope fought over how to cut lasagne.

“It’s not pie, Piper! You don’t cut it into triangles.”

“But it’s fun!” Emily giggled despite herself and Piper glanced over, smiling softly as she walked over, wrapping Emily in a throw when the doorbell rang. Piper opened the door for JJ who carried little Henry in one arm and a bottle of champagne in the other. Piper held Henry in her arms as JJ walked over to Penelope. The four girls sat on the floor, slurping soup, drinking champagne and eating lasagne. Emily smiled, finally feeling at home.

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transgenderteensurvivalguide · 5 years

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What do doctors look for when finding out if you are fit to have top surgery

Kii says:

Here’s an in depth medical article about what is looked for when someone is being assessed for surgery, but I personally don’t know enough about medical science to get helpful info from this. (Edit: Here’s another medical article.)

This article lists some factors that may affect a decision about an elective surgery as:

Conditions that cause a high risk of infection

Uncontrolled diabetes

Heart problems

Anemia

Being a smoker

Nutritional deficiencies

Mental health problems

Sleep disorders

The most common binding injuries I’ve seen cited as making someone unfit for top surgery are warped ribs (ribs that do not grow into the correct shape because of too-tight compression over many years) and broken ribs that did not heal properly and are either at risk of more damage or have healed in a shape that is abnormal.

This doesn’t mean that everyone with these conditions is unable to have surgery. It means that extra precautions or testing may have to be done to make sure that people with these conditions can safely handle anesthesia, surgery, and the recovery process. For example, this may mean that someone may be required to try various solutions to control their diabetes, or quit smoking, before the surgery can happen.

If this is something you are dealing with, you should talk to your doctor about your options.

——

Lee says:

I’ll add a few more things that surgeons consider when they’re deciding if you’re fit to have top surgery, or therapists consider before writing you the WPATH letter saying you’re fit to have surgery.

Weight:

One thing Kii didn’t mention that surgeons may consider when deciding if you’re fit to have top surgery is your weight. One of the mods here was told to lose weight or they wouldn’t be able to get surgery, as I recall.

As long as you don’t have any serious health complications because of your weight, you usually can get top surgery. It just might be harder to find a surgeon.

Fat folk are probably going to have to get double incision top surgery, since their chest would be too large for a keyhole or periareolar, but they can get just as flat as anyone else with double incision.

It’s more likely you’ll get “dog ears” at the end of your scars towards your armpits, but that can be dealt with by getting a revision which is often free. Make sure you ask your top surgeon what their policy on revisions are, and what fees you’d have to pay if you needed one.

There can be some fatphobia when you’re looking for a top surgeon- there can be some increased risks for overweight people going under anesthesia, and some top surgeons use that as an excuse to turn down a patient even when it is possible for them to get surgery safely.

You may have to “surgeon shop” a bit to find a surgeon who is competent, capable and willing, but it’s possible and achievable! I have two fat trans guy friends who got top surgery in the past year, and they’re totally happy with their results.

Acne:

Surgeons prefer to operate when you have unbroken skin- that’s why you usually aren’t supposed to shave your chest area on your own the day before surgery, they do it themselves in the operating room if needed. They want to reduce the chance of an infection, which could be spread by the bacteria in acne, and you’ll be taking antibiotics when you’re post-op to also help reduce the chance of infection.

I actually have heard about people having their top surgery dates cancelled or postponed because they had bad acne or pustules near the operative site, so it is a possibility that this could delay your top surgery.

I know Dr. Wilkins at UofM was hesitant about operating on a patient with acne, but in the end that patient ended up being cleared for surgery- I can’t recall if the acne cleared up or if the surgeon changed his mind, but I do remember him being on the fence about whether he was going to operate or postpone the surgery. I also remember Dr. Turkeltaub saying he wanted to wait to operate on a patient with acne until it was more controlled, and Dr. Lorianni has said the same thing- and those are just three of the surgeons who I can recall saying that off the top of my head, I’m sure there are more.

If you have acne, you should bring it up in your consultation with your top surgeon! Tell them you have bad acne, list any treatments you’ve tried, then say that you don’t think that it will be improving before surgery and ask if it’s possible to get surgery anyway.

If the first top surgeon who you have a consultation with says they don’t want to do surgery until your acne has improved, try getting a second opinion from another top surgeon in another consultation.

If you think your acne is bad enough that it’ll impact your chances of being able to get top surgery then you should see a dermatologist! However, some top surgeons want you to wait several months after being on Accutane before getting surgery. So it’s really best to have your consult with the top surgeon, ask if you’re good to go for surgery despite the acne, and then ask if any acne treatment like Accutane will need to be stopped a certain amount of time before your surgery.

So schedule your initial consult with both a top surgeon and with a dermatologist, and tell your dermatologist that you want to see what you can do to manage your acne without the Major treatments like Accutane at first, then you can go on that if needed after your top surgery consult.

But people have had top surgery with acne (example, example), and whether it impacts surgery really depends on the severity of the acne, whether it could be treated/reduced in the months before surgery, and the particular surgeon’s comfort level with operating on patients with acne. I’m not saying it’s impossible to get top surgery when you have acne- plenty of people have- but yes, some surgeons will delay your surgery because of it.

Dealing with Acne and Other Skin Breakouts

Psychosis:

I faced barriers to top surgery because the doctors in charge of my treatment don’t want to write me a letter stating I’m fit to make a decision on top surgery because I had a psychotic disorder, so I had to wait to get top surgery until they determined that my symptoms were under control.

The WPATH guidelines say:

“Any co-existing psychological, medical, or social problems that could interfere with treatment (e.g., that may compromise treatment adherence) have been addressed, such that the adolescent’s situation and functioning are stable enough to start treatment"

The presence of co-existing mental health concerns does not necessarily preclude possible changes in gender role or access to feminizing/masculinizing hormones or surgery; rather, these concerns need to be optimally managed prior to or concurrent with treatment of gender dysphoria. In addition, clients should be assessed for their ability to provide educated and informed consent for medical treatments.

When patients with gender dysphoria are also diagnosed with severe psychiatric disorders and impaired reality testing (e.g., psychotic episodes, bipolar disorder, dissociative identity disorder, borderline personality disorder), an effort must be made to improve these conditions with psychotropic medications and/or psychotherapy before surgery is contemplated.

Reevaluation by a mental health professional qualified to assess and manage psychotic conditions should be conducted prior to surgery, describing the patient’s mental status and readiness for surgery. It is preferable that this mental health professional be familiar with the patient. No surgery should be performed while a patient is actively psychotic.”

I did eventually get my letters, but it took about 6 months in an intensive outpatient program, 1 hospitalization in the psych ward for 2 weeks, and antipsychotics twice a day and anti-depressants once a day which I’m continuing to take before I was stable enough.

#kii says #medical #top surgery #surgery #Lee says #Anonymous #transgenderteensurvivalguide #trans #transgender

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bedbellyandbeyond · 5 years

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Dr Gardi

The flight home seemed faster than the first. The time zones helped as well because heading back to Canada would land them earlier in the day than if they'd travelled the same time in Europe. Due to the time constraint, they hadn't driven and instead took a private jet back to Frankfurt for their international flight. Why they couldn't have done that in the first place, Sydryn's answer was terribly frugal for someone who clearly had accumulated several millions of dollars (at least) in their lifetime. Nevertheless, it was important that they get back faster this time. Yori was called ahead of time so he knew of their arrival. Lino came to pick up his brother, Ruben, and Dusty, while Sydryn had a car waiting for them and Köbi to head to the hospital.

When they got home, Vi and Yori were waiting on the porch with the kids. The pups ran up to the car while Vi was holding Grey, but as soon as Dusty stepped out of the vehicle, Grey immediately called out his name and disappeared, reappearing in Dusty’s arms. Dusty was so stunned, he nearly dropped him, but managed to hold onto him and held him tight. “Grey!” “Daddy! I miss you!” Grey whined, pulling his arms tight around Dusty's neck. His father chuckled incredulously. “You teleported!” “I did?” Grey asked, clearly not registering what he'd just done. “Yeah! You were…” Dusty pointed to Vi. “Has he…Has he done it before?” Vi shook his head. “First time.” “Grey!” Dusty kissed his son's cheek and hugged him tight. “I missed you too, so much…” Dante and Ruben were hoisting their giggling children up in their arms as they walked back to the house. “We missed you so much,” Dante was saying, as he carried Rowan. “You don't even know.” “Are Daddy and Papa still fighting?” Skylar asked. Ruben looked at Dante and smiled. “I think we're okay now. You don't have to worry. We have a lot to talk about though.” “Talking's boring!” Marco stated. “Can we play a game?” “Maybe we'll play a quick game and then we'll talk, okay?” Dante suggested. “Sure,” Ruben agreed. “Does this mean Grey has to go home?” Rowan asked. “Not yet.” Dante motioned for Dusty to come join them inside before walking up the porch to Yori who was waiting for his kisses.

Arriving at the hospital, Köbi and Sydryn were met in the lobby by Aoife. She re-explained what happened when Reid was admitted as she took them up to his room. When they got there, Reid did not look good at all. His usually vibrant red hair was dull and he was a sickly pale, almost blue. He was a skinny as every but his eyes were sunken with fatigue. They had him attached to a ventilator as well as other devices monitoring his health. No one had seen him in worse a shape. “How long has he been out?” Sydryn asked, lifting the doctor's limp hand. “Since he was admitted,” Aoife answered. “No one's been able to wake him.” Sydryn checked Reid's eyes which had rolled back under the lids, and then his mouth which was rather dry. “Has he been carrying on with those occult experiments of his?” “Of course…” Aoife said. “He keeps getting funded…” Sydryn started to strip the doctor down, first examining his muscle mass and then noticing the tattoo under his navel. They rubbed over it with their thumb and grimaced. “You've got to be kidding me… Permanent invitation to be possessed.” Sydryn backed off, and pushed the angel forward. “Köbi, take a look.” “Oh, um… Hello,” Köbi said first waving to Aoife. “I'm Köbi.” “I gathered. Can you help him?” Aoife asked. “I can try,” Köbi said. “Toiling with the after life is serious business, you see… It's complicated and hard to determine the affects on the human body…” Köbi placed a hand over Reid's heart and closed his eyes. “…This body is very damaged… No sleep… No food… Not to mention his soul…His soul is deeply scarred.” “Scarred soul?” Aoife frowned. “What's that supposed to mean?” “It means what it means,” Köbi tried to explain. “A soul can be damaged just like a body. I've never seen anything like this though. Whatever he's been doing should've killed him by now, but he's managed to avoid bodily harm by putting it on his soul… But finally his body has caught up to it and gave out.” “What are you trying to say then?” Aoife asked. “He's going to die?” “He could, I won't lie to you,” Köbi said. “What does he do? How'd he get like this?” “He's been researching ghosts,” Aoife explained. “He got that tattoo because it, um… Well, it lets him get knocked up by ghosts.” “Really?” Köbi pulled his hand away and looked disgusted. “That's absurdly irresponsible! You can't muddle in the affairs of the dead like that! You're just asking to be damned!” “He spends all night working on it,” Aoife went on. “I haven't seen him sleep in weeks. I haven't seen him eat. I figured he was when I just wasn't around…” “No, this body hasn't seen food or sleep in at least a month,” Köbi stated. “Does he take any medication?” “Testosterone, dietary supplements, antipsychotic medication,” Aoife listed. “There are almost no traces of any of those in his system,” Köbi stated. “There's caffeine though. Honestly, he should be dead. I can't even tell what’s keeping him alive.” “Can you do anything?” Aoife asked. “Hmm…” Köbi rubbed Reid's chest in circles. “I think I can wake him up…” His hand started to glow and he placed it on Reid's forehead. The spot where he touched was shone blue for a second or two before fading. Reid suddenly jolted forward and his eyes flew wide awake as he cried out. “Angel!” Sydryn and Aoife drew sighs of relief. Köbi smiled and pat his shoulder. “Rest, Dr. Gardi,” he stated. “What…” Reid blinked at Köbi and then rubbed his eyes, with a shaky hand. “You… An angel. Am I dead?” “Mostly, yeah,” Köbi admitted. “Köbi,” Sydryn snapped, slapping the angel at the back of his head. “Reid, you're not dead. You've neglected your health for the sake of your research and you almost became the ghosts you've been researching. You've been in a coma for three days. So you're going to stay here until you make a full recovery and I am going to run the hospital wing at APID from this time.” “Syd… I cannae just lie here…” Reid murmured. “I'm so close. I actually…I think I saw him…” “Who?” “The soldier…the one that comes back, over an' over…” Reid placed a hand over his stomach. “…I have a boyfriend.” Sydryn rolled their eyes. “Köbi, put him to sleep for now. I'll look over his research and see what he's done to himself…” “My research? No, you can't—” Reid was cut off when Köbi touched his forehead again and he immediately fell back into sleep. Sydryn sighed. “When he took up this research, I didn’t think he'd go this far… I thought you were keeping an eye on him.” Aoife put her hands on her hips. “I tried. He's grown man. What was I supposed to do, force feed him his medication? Strap him into bed? I have a life too.” “Well, I'll monitor him I suppose…” Sydryn stated. “Tomorrow morning, we'll have him transported back to APID. Aoife, you should take a few days off, I think. Köbi will assist me.” “Don't mean to be rude, but are you even a medical professional?” Aoife asked the angel. “No, not really… But I can help people,” Köbi said. “As long as Syd tells me what to do, I'm alright.” Sydryn placed a hand on Aoife's shoulder. “You need to take a break. Reid has caused you too much stress. Relax. Spend some time with your girlfriend. I'll need you back soon, but you do need time.” Aoife sighed. “You're right… I've spent too much time being this stupid fool's mother…” She pushed Reid's hair out of his face and fluffed his pillow. “Alright, I'm done.” “Good.” Sydryn looked to Aoife and smiled. “Honestly, I have to thank you for calling me. I didn’t think I’d ever have a good reason to leave that god forsaken hell hole.” “Don’t mention it. We needed you,” Aoife said. “How’s my brother?” “I’m pretty sure his massages made one of my guests fall in love with him,” Sydryn stated. Aoife nodded. “Sounds like Aodhán…” She fixed her hair and grabbed her bag. “Alright, I’m heading out. Good luck with the Scot.” “Thank you. Don’t worry about us. We’ll be taking good care of him.” “Good. Good night.” “Night.”

#lore #Reid #Köbi #Sydryn #Aoife #Dusty #Dante #Ruben #Grey #Vi #Skylar #Marco #Rowan #Lino

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chac-ozai · 5 years

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Intent to Kill (Bruce Wayne x John Doe)

My first telltale batman ficlet! Vigilante Joker may be back behind Arkham’s bars, but the friendship he and Bruce cultivated could not be broken. Bruce comes to visit his best buddy in the asylum, but nothing could prepare him for what he finds. Tags: Angst, hurt/comfort, slow burn, drug use

They weren't expecting him at all. Not many would consider Arkham asylum one of the finer attractions outside of Gotham, and even less would consider it a place where Bruce Wayne would frequent nearly twice a week. Paparazzi had a way of sniffing out every little detail in Bruce's life no matter how well he kept himself out of the public eye; ever since the public fiasco he'd endured with Waller, Cobblepot.

These visits, they made him feel sane. Bruce thought it was funny somehow, that he'd be parking his cherry-red coupe at Arkam's gates, a stark contrast against the hallowness of it's faded masonry. Feeling sane, at an insane asylum. Bruce had to smile, he couldn't contain it, thinking of the absurdity of his life and where his comforts lie.

He knew exactly where his friend stayed, the sound of his footsteps greeted with the dull roar of groaning, screaming. The Male ward was particularly active today it sounds, he hoped John wasn't too annoyed by it. Bruce fiddled with the gift he'd brought in his breast pocket, tucked away safely along with a small packet of Skittles. Anything he could do to make his friend's day he'd do, Bruce thought.

“Mr. Wayne!OH, I, huh, uh-” Hall C6's orderly looked shocked to see the billionaire's intimidating form standing in the doorway- “Visiting hours are cut short today, unfortunately. There's been an incident we have half of our staff cleaning up.” He looked nervous, moreso than a standard Arkham orderly should look.

“Incident? I'd ask, but considering your confidentiality, but-” Bruce peeked over the man's shoulders and spied upon John's door, locked tight. “I'm sure you can find the time and place for me? If only just for a few minutes.” Bruce's winning smile somehow couldn't get through to him, and apparently neither did his cash once the first attempt had gone under.

“I'm sorry Mr. Wayne, I'm under strict orders from Doctor Erickson, I can't let you in.”

“Well you could at least tell me if John Doe's okay?” Bruce felt annoyed, something very easy for him to feel these days. Pressure was building up between his temples and not getting his way was something rare.

“You said it yourself, confidentiality.” The orderly began the process of slowly closing the door on Bruce, a massive hand reaching out and holding it open. Bruce could hear a particularly intense, one-sided argument coming from a patient's room nearby, a garbled wail punctuating the air.

“You're avoiding the question. What's your name? Can I get a name?” Mr. Wayne's voice dropped-

“Larry. Why?”

“Can I speak to Dr. Erickson, Larry? How much is it going to cost for just a chat?”

“...” Larry looked at Bruce thumbing through his wallet, his mind harkening to the recent tax hike he'd endured this week. “I'll bring her right over, if you just give me a moment.” Larry took the 3 fresh hundreds and pocketed them, his lumbering self disappearing down the hall. When Larry returned, the familiar face of Dr. Erickson put Bruce in an immediate sense of dread.

“I just want to talk to John. Please.” Bruce implored. When he got a no, that's when he'd had enough of the standoff- “You do understand the more you turn me away and avoid my questions, the more suspicious I'm becoming. If this visit is going to be a problem, I can always take a visit to Mayor Dunham and see about lightening my monthly donations.”

“Mr. Wayne, you do understand this is highly illegal, what you're asking. Mr. Doe can't take visitors right n-”

“And why not?”

“He's asleep.”

“Let me through.” Bruce demanded, something wasn't right- The workers had made no attempt to physically restrain Wayne as he strode past them, something of an exasperated sigh coming from the Doctor.

“John!” Bruce stood at his door, the little paper notetag with his name on it affixed into his eyes. “John, it's me, Bruce.”

No answer. Bruce rapped his bare knuckles on the slot of the door and Dr. Erickson began to sweat.

“You see, he's asleep. Why don't you just come back tomorrow?”

“Open the door.”

You just couldn't say no to a man like Bruce. Erickson was past the point of calling security, he only gave the solemn nod to the orderly to unlock the bolt of John's door. Bruce's steady heartbeat almost fell out of rhythm when the room inside was still lit, the walls barren and bleak.

“John.” Bruce inched his way inside, untrusting of his friend's state. John, while normally bouncing off the walls in excitement to see his best friend, was as far from himself Bruce had ever seen. On the bed he lay sprawled, his cheap blanket barely covering a leg. Fuck, he looked dead until Bruce saw the uneven rise and fall of his chest.

“Hey, John!” Bruce fell to his knee beside the bed, reaching out and placing a warm hand on his forearm. He was clammy, but only a moment went by before John's eyes fluttered open, gazing wearily at Bruce's chest before laying half-lidded.

“What's wrong with him?” Wayne's anger spiked, peeking back in alarm at the doctor, who held fast to his stethoscope around his neck. Bruce knelt by John's bed and shook his shoulder, and what came out of his mouth shattered something inside Bruce- A hauntingly low moan, ending in a gargle. His eyes failed to focus on Bruce's face even though John knew his best buddy was there.

“Mr. Wayne-”

“John! Shit, get up! What happened to him?!” Bruce called out, two fingers placed beneath his jawline and felt his pulse, slow but steady. He tried to pull John up to sit but the man fell limp, Bruce seeing the pinpoints of his pupils inside his listless eyes. He knew right away what had happened- He placed John back down onto his bed and about-faced, rage in his eyes-

“Have you been overdosing him on sedatives?!” Bruce yelled “How many drugs do you have in him right now?! And you just leave him locked in his room unattended?!”

“Mr. Wayne! John had a violent outburst earlier today, we had no choice but to tranquilize him.”

“No shit he had a violent outburst! He's a sick man, what gives you the right to put him into a coma? What drugs do you have him on?! Let me see the charts.”

“Bruce,”

“If I don't get those reports, I'm filing a lawsuit that you cannot possibly win. What's it going to be? Your job, or his chart?”

“..I'll fetch them.” Erickson shuffled out, looking grim. Bruce practically dove to John's bedside and placed a hand under his head, trying in vain to lift it and inspect his face. His mouth hung open and saliva seeped freely across his cheek and into Bruce's hand.

“Ah, John.” Bruce groaned “I can't believe this shit.”

“Bbrruh..” John tried to speak, Bruce hushing him and flashing him a very fake smile.

“You're going to be alright. You can hear me, right?”

John gave no response. Bruce climbed into the bed and sat, cradling John's head in the crook of his elbow, turning his head as not to choke on his saliva. Bruce glared daggers at the orderly-

“You do realize you could have killed him.”

“He attacked three patients, we only followed protocol.”

“Yeah, protocol, and what is that? Pump them full of drugs and hope they don't wake up? That sounds like an easy way to get rid of a problem.”

“Mr. Wayne.” Erickson returned and felt his heart drop at the sight of John laying prone across the billionaire's lap. He handed the report over on shaking hands, knowing his career was on the line-

“Give me that.” Bruce's eyes scanned the first page of many beneath it. “Already I'm seeing malpractice. What's this, you haven't been taking his vitals in between his doses. Midazolam IM induction, Diazepam IM, Clozapine, Pentobarbitol?! And you just gave this to him all at the same time?!”

No response. Bruce looked down at John and saw that he was trying to open his eyes- he wasn't dying, but Bruce wasn't going to accept anything like this. The bat inside him wanted to beat everyone who did this to a bloody pulp, this was a fate worse than death for his best friend. His heart broke all the while he grew more frightening, placing John back on the bed while he waved the chart in the doctor's face.

“Is this how you handle your patients here?! Another milliliter and my friend could have been dead in his cell for hours and you wouldn't have even known!” Bruce's cheeks where red in fury, he shoved the doctor and the orderly out of the room, standing in the doorway as a barrier between them and John.

“I'm going to go over every page of these records, and I'm going to unleash hell on this hospital in ways you can't even imagine.” Bruce, taking control, slammed the door to the cell and approached John's bed, his throat tightening at the pitiful sight.

“Here I am, buddy. I'm not going anywhere.”

“Mhh.” John tried to squeak out, his eyes heavily glazed in his attempt to look up at Bruce. The larger man couldn't contain himself, he had everything inside him needing to climb into that bed beside him and embrace his friend.

“I've got you, John.” Bruce tries to comfort him, picking up the lanky man and nestling himself right at his side, letting John's pale arm lay across his chest. Jesus, he was cold as ice. Bruce placed his friend's head against his chest, an arm around his shoulder holding him steady as he shared his warmth.

“Is that alright? You comfortable?” What the hell was he supposed to say? Bruce was overwhelmed, hugging his friend tight to his side as he placed the clipboard on his stomach, thumbing back the page to yesterday's report.

The amount of drugs they'd put him on was insane. Bruce wasn't a medical doctor but he knew most of these drugs, powerful antipsychotics and anticonvulsants. The amount of benzos they pumped him full of the past few days was legitimately cruel, it could have taken a horse down. Bruce felt a warm wetness on his chest, John's eyes where open but he was drooling freely onto his shirt, something Bruce entirely ignored.

He saw something there, 2 days ago and recorded at 12:15pm, John had apparently received a dose of flumazenil in an apparent “emergency” noted in the chart. So it was true, they had been overdosing John.... Bruce's heart ached. He cradled John a little closer and felt the noise in his chest better than he heard it. Wayne's memory flashed back to the crazy times they had, how Bruce had used him despite his sincere desire to save him. He really does like John, he is a good friend, no matter how sick he is.

“I'm going to get you out of here. I promise, John.” Bruce tells his buddy, patting his shoulder. John's hand grasped at his collared shirt in response and all Wayne wanted to do was mourn. It wasn't truly his fault John is back in Arkham, but thinking of his father and what he'd done to these desperate souls, he knew he could change things.

John had to get out of here, every tortured individual in here deserves better, no matter how dangerous they are. Bruce's heart was filled with a sensation of justice, but it wasn't Batman's work...it was his own. The camera affixed on him be damned, Bruce leaned in and kissed the top of John's head in a vain attempt at something, whatever it took to get to fix this.

#Batjokes #batman #telltale #joker #john doe #bruce wayne #fanfiction #fanart #john doe x bruce wayne #batman x joker #my gay art

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ironandmagic · 5 years

Text

The Eagle

I spend most of my time in psychiatric hospitals. I talk with wanderers, rock stars, mathematicians, drunks, victims of extraterrestrial plots, and people who at first, and often even at second glance, seem quite all right in every way. The top psychiatrists in the city have met with me more often than they'd like, and many patients know me on a first name basis. Just the other day I met a man who was convinced that he was, in some ways, an eagle. He asked if I'd like to hear his cry. Sure, why not? So he jumped up on his bed, spread his arms, tilted back his head, and let loose. It was loud. I mean really loud. The crackling shriek was so real it sent shivers up my spine. (He thinks he's an eagle – what if he thinks I'm a rodent?) But then he stopped, smiled, and asked how I thought he had done. Apparently he made these same noises in the local park a few days ago and picnicking families didn't appreciate the performance. The police were called, and they decided within 30 seconds that he should be taken to the hospital.I told him I had never heard anything so life-like in my life. He seemed pleased.

More people than you think are hospitalized in this manner. A person is brought in and, after being questioned by a physician, is told that he will be held in hospital as an involuntary patient. He no longer has the right to leave. He is "certifiable." If he considers himself an eagle, he can consider himself caged.

What would you do in this situation? Angry, confused, and scared, you might yell out something like, "I'll kill you if you lock me up in here!" The attending physician will use this as evidence of homicidal ideation should you retain a lawyer to challenge your detention. Which is why I'm in hospital. I'm the lawyer.

With So, you end up being held and treated against your will – because your will has been called into question. What are the odds of getting out? Well, on paper, here in the city of Toronto, about 10 percent of challenges to involuntary status succeed. Much of the time, my role isn't so much to win as it is to ensure you are treated with respect.

On admission, it is often strongly suggested that you take some benzodiazepines: medication the staff tells you will help you relax.

Whether you think this is a good idea or not is beside the point – you'll be getting pro re nata medication (Latin for "according to circumstances") until you calm down. The drugs make you feel drowsy and dizzy. More medication is offered later in the day. By now, you're likely to accept it.

Two days later, you might no longer wish to receive any medication at all. You're asleep all the time and you want to get back home so you can tackle that mathematical equation that you've been working on for years. Or perhaps your best friend is performing in a play tomorrow evening. Or you're simply fed up with being denied the right to enjoy a beautiful day. Physicians sometimes mistake your refusal to take medication as an indication of incapacity.

And so the eagle is handed a piece of paper indicating that the physician has found him incapable of consenting to treatment. The doctor is trying to contact his mother, to whom he has not spoken in years. She has never appreciated his love of nature, his obsession with birds of prey. She's tired of dealing with his illness. That afternoon, she consents, on his behalf, to a long-acting injection of halperidol – a typical antipsychotic medication. Side-effects are not discussed, though they may turn out to be pronounced. But not to worry, the physician has a variety of medications to deal with any problems.

Some clients ask to see their naturopath. Others ask for the marijuana that they use to keep the anxiety or the voices at bay. Many physicians will see such people as holistic quacks or drug addicts, and will check for "street drugs" in their urine each time they return from a pass to the outside world. The same doctors will not hesitate to order increased dosages of benzodiazepines and antipychotics. Sometimes my clients are so medicated that I am unable to communicate with them. Sometimes all they can do is grab my arm, pull me close, and whisper, "Get me out of here." Of course, many patients choose not to challenge their detention. Many others find themselves in those hospitals that do not make the necessary effort to help a person understand their rights. I've helped some clients get out of hospital on "technicalities" – physicians can't stand that. A technicality, though, is usually something so fundamental to the process of involuntary detention that its bypass is an affront to human dignity.

After a brief stay in hospital, the eagle is considered manageable. Despite the involuntary muscle spasms, restlessness, shakiness, drowsiness, slower gait, blurred vision, and sexual dysfunction, and the fact that he can no longer express himself as an eagle, his treatment is considered a success and he is ready to return to the community. But not as a free person.

In the province that I live in, Ontario, the government has passed a bill that expanded the criteria for involuntary detention, but also introduced the "community treatment order." The order is a legal mechanism that allows a person to live free in the community only as long as they agree to take prescribed medication. Failure to do so can result in involuntary detention. What if a person wants to refuse the drugs? On paper, a legal challenge has a two to three percent chance of success.

But let's be clear. Medication and involuntary hospitalization have helped many people in the mental health system regain control of their lives. But for others, the loss of the fundamental civil rights that we often take for granted is a lingering shock and assault. They have no choice but to refer to themselves as psychiatric survivors. Mental health laws worldwide use the justification of people's "best interests" to deprive law-abiding citizens of their rights and freedoms, but as the court declared in one landmark case, "History has shown that the road to injustice is frequently lit with the light of good intention."

Outside the hospital, my clients face troubles far more challenging than the ones inside their heads. There is stigma, of course, often compounded by the crippling effects of poverty. There is the growing sense that the public needs protection from people with mental health problems. There are economic policies that brush aside the people who struggle hardest in day-to-day life. There is environmental degradation, the postmodern religion of unsustainable growth, consumption, and production. Do you suppose the mentally ill fail to recognize these problems?

The eagle leans close to my ear. "Crazy is working 70 hours a week at a job you can't stand," he says.

#Nils Riis #work #mental health

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scruffandyarn · 6 years

Text

That One Time Scruff Wrote an Avengers Fic (part 5)

That One Time Masterlist

Bucky x enhanced!female!reader

Warnings: profanity, mentions of medication (including antipsychotic medication), medical testing

Thanks, as always, to these wonderful human beans: @siriuspiggyback (you are the absolute best) @fangirl-library (you kick-ass, wonderful person) @written-loki-imagines (thank you for your fantastical support) @bkwrm523 (where would I be without you in my life) @thejamesoldier (you’re amazing and deserve every good thing) @samingtonwilson (you’re super duper awesome) @invisibleanonymousmonsters (thank you so much for all your inspiration) @feelmyroarrrr (this is all your fault, still love you)

@shirukitsune @electraphyng

Word count: 1688

Previously:

“How are you feeling?” Pepper sat down on the bed next to you.

“My head hurts.”

“I can go grab your–”

“I–I’ll be alright. I’ve got to wean myself off of them.” You sat up and cringed at the stab of pain behind your eye. “Then I get to go without them for two weeks. Might as well start now.”

“Are you going to be okay…” Pepper looked at the two doctors. “She gets headaches if she goes hours without her pills, and you want her to go without them for two weeks?”

“It’s just to get it out of her system. Once it’s out, we’ll be able to see how her brain functions without interference from the medication so we can figure out a better way to regulate it.”

“Are you sure this is what you want? When I suggested that they could help you, I didn’t realize you’d have to go without your meds.”

“I’m gonna at least try.”

Now:

Once you and Pepper left the lab, you both headed towards the elevator. Waiting for you was Bucky. And his nervousness was clear.

Shit.

“So...what we were talking about this morning…?”

“Do you think it could wait until she can sleep off her headache?” Pepper didn’t wait for him to respond before leading you into the elevator and down to your room. “Get some sleep. I’ll wake you when it’s time for dinner.”

“Thanks.” You headed into your room and she pulled the door shut behind you. All you wanted now was to sleep.

“How did the green one’s testing go?”

You nearly jumped out of your skin at the sound of Loki’s voice. “What the hell are you doing in here?!” He’d apparently been waiting for you in the attached bathroom.

“I wanted to see if I could be of service.”

“What service?” There was something devious in the way he was looking at you.

“Part of the reason I am the God of Lies is because I can also tell when a person is lying, not just because of my silver tongue. I believe I can help you with your gift.”

“It’s not just lying, though.”

“I understand that, my dear, but I can tell you are very nervous right now. But there is a spark of hope in you at the idea that I could help.”

“Could you make the pain go away so I don’t have to do these tests?”

“It is possible that through training, you could learn how to filter out the emotions of others. You’d still be able to determine what they are, but perhaps you could protect yourself from having them take over your mind.”

“And I wouldn’t have to take medication anymore?”

“Not for this.”

Your elation was gone almost as quickly as it arrived. “I don’t know if I should trust you. If you help me, what do you want in return?”

“You don’t think I could do this from the kindness of my heart?”

And there was the lie you’d been waiting for.

“No. You want something out of this. What?”

“I merely want to see if your powers could be expanded.” It didn’t feel like a complete lie. It also didn’t feel like the complete truth.

“Expand? How?”

“Have you ever tried manipulating the emotions of others?”

“That’s not something I can do.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’ve never done it before, so yeah. Pretty sure.”

“I see.”

“How are you supposed to help me if you have no powers?”

“Just because Allfather removed my powers does not mean I am without access to other sources of magic.” At your blank expression, he continued. “Spells? Incantations?” He sighed.

The expression on his face and the feelings you were getting from him spelled trouble. “I don’t think I want your help.”

“How about this--if you work with me for a week and you see no improvements, then I will leave you alone about this matter. However, if you do notice improvements, then you will owe me a favor and we can continue your training.”

“I don’t want to owe you anything.” That was a terrifying thought.

“Very well. We will speak no more on this matter. I hope the good doctors are able to come up with something soon to help you.” He nodded and then exited your room.

What kind of favor could Loki want from you? You were just a simple empath. You didn’t really have any other skills. Well, at least none that could be useful to a god. Right?

Shit, this was making your head hurt worse.

You could face over three weeks of increasing pain in your head, or, you could sign yourself up for owing a trickster god a favor. Neither sounded like a pleasant option.

Rubbing your temples, you decided thinking about any of this could wait until after you slept this headache away.

Unfortunately, the headache you’d gone to sleep with was the same one you woke up with. Someone’s room was on either side of the one you were occupying--boredom from the left and gloomy from the right. This was going to be a nightmare, going without your pills.

Since you were staying here for at least three weeks, maybe Tony could provide a room that was a little more isolated. Maybe he had a room that was Loki-proof. Maybe a room where you could avoid Bucky for the duration. You weren’t sure you could handle much more of the heartbreak you felt for him.

As you rubbed your eyes, you heard a knock on the door. The energy on the other side was tired, but not anxious. “Come in.”

Pepper pushed the door open and stepped inside. “Hey, sleepyhead. Are you feeling any better?”

“Maybe?” You sighed.

“What is it?”

“I hate to be a bother—I am very appreciative of the accommodations being made for me, but, would it be possible for me to get a room that’s further away from anyone else’s room?”

“Oh! Of course! In fact, we can move you right now. There’s a perfect spot on the floor above us.”

You snatched up the toiletries you had taken from your suitcase. Pepper grabbed the clothes you’d worn the day before and shoved them in your suitcase. Together, the two of you made your way towards the elevator.

She showed you down a long hallway, all the way down to the very end. “Will this work? There’s three empty suites between you and Bucky.”

“Bucky?” Shit. How were you supposed to avoid him now? “Is there a way to be three rooms down from anyone else?”

“Unfortunately, no. I get that you’re not ready for the Winter Soldier conversation with him, but this is the only one available that will give you some space. I think, though, if you just level with him, let him know you don’t want to do it, he’ll back off.”

“Okay.” You dropped your stuff on the bed. “How do I lock the door?” You figured that’s how Loki gained access to the room you’d been in previously.

“Just tell F.R.I.D.A.Y.--she’ll lock the door for you. You can let her know who you want to have access to your room, even. I completely forgot to tell you all about this before, didn’t I?”

“So F.R.I.D.A.Y. can make it so that only you and I can unlock the door?”

“Would you like me to adjust your room’s settings now, Emoji?”

“Yes, please.”

“Oh my god. I told Tony to put your real name in the system. I will chew him out--”

“Don’t worry about it.” You smiled up at her. “If Tony Stark thinks I’m a superhero, I can live with having F.R.I.D.A.Y. calling me Emoji.”

Pepper returned your smile. “Ready to eat?”

“Definitely.”

The next morning, you dutifully cut your dosage of Clozapine and atenolol in half. You pocketed 4 codeine pills, hoping that would be enough to get you through the day.

“Good morning, F.R.I.D.A.Y.” You smiled up at your ceiling even though you were pretty sure there were no cameras installed.

“Good morning, Emoji. How may I help you?”

“Would you be able to tell me if anyone is in the kitchen or dining area?”

“Both rooms are vacant at the moment. Would you like me to see if anyone is available to join you?”

“Oh, no. No thanks. I think I’m going to need as little human contact as possible while I’m doing all these tests.”

“Understood. If you’d like, I can sync up with your tablet and inform you from there when it is clear for you to eat.”

“That would be fantastic!” You dug through your bag and pulled out your tablet. “Do I need to do anything?”

“Just turn it on and I will be able to complete the process.”

If you truly thought about it, it should probably concern you at how you were happily following the directions of an AI. “Thank you, so much.”

“You’re very welcome. Is there anything else I may assist you with?”

“Where are Bucky and Loki right now?” Confrontation was not your speed. Avoidance, however, was.

“Sergeant Barnes is currently in the gym and The Trickster is out with his brother.”

“Okay, great. Could you maybe keep me updated on their location so I can avoid them, or is that too much?”

“I can send that information to your tablet as well, if you’d like.”

“You are a lifesaver, F.R.I.D.A.Y.”

“You help keep Pepper safe, which makes Tony happy. I am more than happy to assist you in any way I can.”

Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad, after all.

Or, maybe this could be a complete and total nightmare.

As soon as you finished eating a bowl of cereal, Sam and Natasha both walked in, both of them feeling grouchy. After they greeted you with a head nod, you put your bowl and spoon in the dishwasher and turned to scurry out of the room. That was the moment Steve came in.

“Were you able to meet up with Bucky yesterday?”

You could tell he was waiting for you to lie. “No, I didn’t. The testing Dr. Banner and Dr. Cho had me do wiped me out, so I slept most of the afternoon.”

“Oh.” Now he felt sheepish. “Will you have time to meet with him today? He’s really upset about what might be going on in his head.”

“I can try. I have to go back to the lab now, and I’m not sure what all I’m gonna have to do.”

“How long are you going to be undergoing these tests?”

“Probably three weeks--maybe four.” A headache was just beginning to take hold of your brain. You reached for a pill, but stopped short. You needed to save those for when it got really bad. “I’m gonna head to the lab now.”

“Alright.”

You didn’t wait for him to say anything else before darting out of the kitchen.

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #avengers #marvel #fanfic #Bucky's only here for a moment #but we've also got #Pepper Potts #Loki Laufeyson #f.r.i.d.a.y #Steve Rogers #and a few others mentioned or in passing

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katiessentimentsandlessons-blog · 5 years

Text

Bipolar Disorder: The Monster Inside Me

Bipolar disorder does not define who I am as a human being, but it is part of whats crafted me into the person that I am. Being bipolar is the hardest thing I've ever had to live through. However, the fight it puts me through every day is one of the things I have to thank the most for making me as strong as I've become. There is so much false information and criticism on not only this mental illness, but every mental illness. To be able to research the psychological details of a disorder is one thing, but mental illness is one of those things that you never fully understand unless you've dealt with it first hand. Also, even if two people have the same illness, that same illness can affect both of them very differently. They may have different symptoms, they may handle it differently. Some might take medication or they might not, and the same medication isn't always right for everybody. Every person alive fights their own personal battle day to day, wether they are mentally ill or not - but you should never force someone to feel badly about themselves about a part of them they had no say in having. A lot of people down-play what others go through because they've been misinformed. People use illnesses like bipolar disorder, obsessive compulsive disorder, and a lot of others as adjectives when they talk. If you don't live with the monster of that sickness under your bed, you could never understand how painful it is to hear people using it for humor. Being bipolar is not equivalent to being moody from time to time. It is not simple feelings, it's complex emotions that consume you. Thoughts aren't fleeting, they crash into your brain like tidal waves. It is not going from sad to happy, it is going from manic to depressed and never knowing a feeling that exists in between those. Going from manic to depressed can happen every couple months, every couple weeks, every couple days, or every couple hours. Mania and depression are nearly impossible to describe well enough, but this is just an insight on what living with it looks like.

Mania

M edication has always been necessary to control my over the top personality. The irony is that antipsychotics are one of the most expensive medications, and they're made nearly impossible to receive for a lot of people. More times than I can count, when my mood escalated past the point of being contained, I've self-medicated based on which drugs I tried that made me feel human. Addiction is a hard thing to avoid when you've been told your whole life that a little pill will fix all your problems.

A ttention seeking, I've been told, is one of my largest character defects. When I'm floating above the clouds, I crave for everyone to love me. I suddenly become a master at communicating and can lure almost anyone into wanting to figure out my chaotic mind. I forget the difference between a stranger and a friend, and I could make a saint fall in love with the devil in my eyes.

N othing is impossible, literally. At least it's literal in my mind. I've been completely and utterly convinced that I can see the future, and that everyone around me can read my corrupt thoughts. Paranoia, delusions, and hallucinations are hard to distinguish between reality when they feel so real you almost reach out to touch them.

I nsane. Thats how you're perceived by others, and even yourself. Your brain doesn't work the way it's supposed to, you weren't born with the same chemicals as a neurotypical. You reach cloud nine just as easily as you reach rock bottom, and all you want is to feel normal.

A wake all night, your mind races without pause. You over analyze your entire life, and come up with a million plans to better it that you know you won't really make happen. Because just as quickly as you can reach the top of the world, you will always slip and fall soul first on the concrete.

Depression

D iminished. Your pride is nonexistent, accepting yourself is out of the question, and it's difficult to even get out of your bed. The sun can peak through the cracks of your blinds and the birds can be inviting you to wake up, and yet the first thing you think is "why did I have to survive the night."

E motional. Everything makes you cry, just some spilled milk is the end of the world. You can't handle the world around you and being six feet deep sounds better than feeling everything so deeply. You wish you could become numb but everything affects you like a third degree burn.

P ills. You take enough just to feel alive, only it takes so many that you begin to think you're about to die. You may not be intending to overdose but it doesn't quite matter to you if you do. You flirt with death on a regular basis, it feels like you might as well meet the devil because you're already accustomed to hell.

R ock bottom. You find yourself here every time you think you've overcome this disease. You're always right back to the place you don't want to be, laying on the floor with your eyes swollen shut because you've cried out all the tears in your body.

E nd your life, that's what the voices in your head keep telling you is the answer. Nothing is worth this pain, no matter what you do, it feels as if you'll never feel better. You find yourself wishing you'd go back to manic because anything sounds better than feeling this low.

S tarve. Food becomes your enemy, you can't control your mind but you can control your body. You keep losing weight and it feels like an accomplishment, you can't ever lose enough even if your bones are protruding. You obsess over the number on the scale and how many calories you consume, filling your stomach with nothing but water because maybe that will finally drown out your thoughts.

S elf harm. You've been a cutter for longer than you can remember, it's become a part of your identity. It doesn't matter how many scars cover your body, you'll always find a place of skin to create more. Bleeding out is much more simple than letting the emotions out. You do this in an attempt to not frighten people with your mind but all it does is make people frightened by the sight of your arms and legs.

E lephant in the room, thats how you feel. You convince yourself you're good at hiding the chaos inside you but everyone around you notices and they walk around you on eggshells. Your depression becomes like a canvas in a museum, displayed for everyone to see just by looking in your eyes.

D on't know how to stop. You get told daily that you "need to just stop," but if only you knew how to, you would. You wish everyone would just cease to care because you're so tired of hurting everyone you get close to. Being a hermit sounds like a more logical life for someone like you, but you're biggest fear is being alone. Your existence is nothing but pain, whether it's your pain or the pain you inflict on others.

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myfeels-havefeelings · 6 years

Text

Day 3 - Two Can Play at that Game

Azel regarded Callen cautiously. The young man had been known to cause trouble, with complete disregard for the wellbeing of others. He’s been in and out of the correctional facility many times, now. Too many times for someone of his age. But he supposed it was warranted, considering all he's said to have done. What Azel didn't understand was why they sent Callen to him.

“So... You’re supposed to be my new therapist or something?”

“I'm not a therapist, or anything of the sort. Please don't refer to me as such.”

Callen shrugged. “They made you sound like a therapist, my bad. So what are you, then?”

“Nothing you’ve heard of, I'm sure,” he answered dryly. “Since you’re here, and I doubt they’ll let you leave anytime soon, why don't you tell me your age and a few of the things you’ve done recently?”

Callen raised an eyebrow, leaning back in his seat. “Shouldn't you already know that info? They gave you my file.”

“Yes, but I’ve yet to look at it. It’s better for you to willingly give that information out; to show that I do not have complete control in this situation.” Azel ignored the suspicious look he was given, reaching into his desk drawer to pull out a medium sized notebook. “This will be yours while you’re here. Please use it at least once a week, preferably halfway through or near the end. That way I can better monitor your thought process.”

“How are you going to monitor anything if it’s only once a week?”

“Well, Callen, you’re going to be here for awhile so there will be a lot to look over in the coming months. And you are free to write in it more often than that, if you feel it is necessary.”

Callen took the book, putting it in the bag he was given when they first decided to send him here. “Right. Well, you’re not going to see much progress. And I'm pretty sure you’re gonna end up dropping me soon, anyway.”

Azel hummed. “We’ll see. Do you plan on answering my previous question?”

Callen huffed out a laugh, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the desk as he clasped his hands, chin resting on his knuckles. “Since you asked so nicely. I'm 22, and the most recent thing I've done is-”

“I would have appreciated a heads up about how volatile he was, Kara.”

Kara chuckled, the sound coming out slightly muffled through the phone. ‘I thought you would have guessed that, with all the statements and reports about him.’

“I assumed he was unstable, yes. But not like that.” Azel sighed, running a hand over his face. “Is there anything else I need to know, that you have yet to mention?”

‘Not that I can think of. Everything else should be in his file.’

“And you’re sure?”

‘As sure as I can be at the moment. Listen, I gotta go. A new order just came in, and I can hear you-know-who screaming about it already. If I remember anything, I’ll call.’

“Okay, thank you. And please don't antagonize her this time.”

‘No promises. Bye!’

“Goodbye.” He sighed again after hanging up, running a hand through his hair. This would be more of a problem than he thought. He should go through the medical records, at least. That way he would know what medications he was taking - if any. He doubted they kept him on them once they moved him out of the facility.

“So, you didn't change your mind,” Callen mumbled as he sat down, setting his bag at his feet. “I thought you would decide to drop me, after yesterday.”

“I've dealt with worse. How are you feeling today.”

“That didn't sound like a question, but I suppose I'm feeling fine.”

Azel nodded, opening the folder on his desk. “Are you sure? Because according to your medical records they had you on antipsychotics, and a mood stabilizer. So I would assume you'd be experiencing withdrawal symptoms by now, since they've taken you off of them.”

“That would only happen if I'd been regularly taking them in the first place. Which, obviously, I was not. And I thought you weren't going to look at my file?”

“I haven't touched your file. Your medical records are in a different category, though. As that is information that I constantly need to be up to date on, as it is crucial to your wellbeing.”

“And everything else?”

Azel waved a hand, “Knowing how much damage you've done, and what exactly you did, isn't something I necessarily need to be on top of. That's information you may share on your own, if you feel the need.”

Callen gave him a blank stare before rolling his eyes. “Okay, sure. So what's the other reason you brought up my medical records? That couldn't have been the only one.”

“There's the fact that you didn't need any antipsychotics, considering you never showed any signs of psychosis.” He flipped the folder around, pointing to the section he'd circled earlier. “And the fact that the dosage they had for your mood stabilizer was entirely too high, which ended up having the opposite effect.”

Callen glanced over the paper, frowning. “So they were trying to kill me.”

“Wait, what?” Azel exclaimed in confusion. “How did you come to that conclusion?”

“Whenever I had to take the meds it made my moods worse when they wore off, which gave them more reason to hurt me. They were trying to get it to the point where they would have no choice but to-”

“Stop,” Azel interrupted, holding a hand up, “that's enough. I get where you’re going. But I really don't think they were trying to kill you, Callen.”

“Then what were they trying to do?” he asked as he crossed his arms over his chest, voice tinged with agitation. “Cause that seems like the only plausible direction, with how they treated me.”

Azel wondered if he should look at Callen’s file, if only to know what all they did to the boy. But he decided against it; it’s not as if they would put corrective measures in the records. It would be too risky, and there would be the possibility that the facility could be shut down from abuse and torture charges. Maybe he should have Kara look into it.

“At most, I think they would have you constantly sedated and under watch for being too violent. But if you were taking the correct dosage as often as this says you were supposed to, you would have been catatonic since you were also on unneeded antipsychotics.”

“A living corpse.”

“No.”

“It’s the same thing. Either way, I’d be pretty much dead. They were trying to kill me!” Azel winced slightly at the yell, sighing internally when Callen knocked the folder off his desk as he surged up out of his seat. “It was their faults in the first place! I never did anything wrong, they were just too much of little bitches to handle the fact that I was stronger! If it wasn't for them, I wouldn't have been out of my fucking mind. I wouldn't have hurt those people! But are they going to say that? Are they going to take the blame? Of course not!”

Callen kicked the chair over in his anger, and Azel watched in mournful resignation as he practically tore apart his Peace Lily plant in the back corner of the room while ranting about all that happened. At least he was getting information out of the fit. He’d have to clean up and replace the plant. He huffed. And it was a present from his father, too.

“Did you get it out of your system?” he asked after several minutes, mentally mourning the loss of his plant.

Callen panted from exertion, hands clenched into fists at his sides. He stared blankly ahead for a long moment before walking back over to the chair and setting it up, sitting down after. “Sorry. But that's what I mean. After they started me on the meds, I was like that after they wore off, but worse. And I felt threatened with them around me, so I lashed out.”

“Which is understandable,” Azel stated. “Please refrain from attacking my plants in the future.”

“No promises. So now what?”

“Now,” Azel started, reaching down to pick up the folder and the few papers that fell out, “we try to get you the correct dosage of the correct type of mood stabilizer. They were giving you a stabilizer for depression, when you needed one for manic episodes. After correcting that you should begin to have less fits.”

“And that'll work?”

“Let's hope it does, or you'll have to start working to pay me back for the damage.”

Callen snorted pulling his legs up, hugging his knees to his chest. “Sure. Hey, did you know I once skinned someone alive?”

Azel hummed as Callen began explaining the process, tuning most of it out.

This boy was going to be the death of his sanity.

Kara laughed at Azel's retelling of the session.

“So you just let him explain in extreme detail?”

“It was better than the alternative of possibly sending him into another fit. Have you found anything?”

“A lot, actually. I was just waiting for you to finish.” Azel stood, walking over to stand behind her.

“Here are the records of any treatments he received, down here are his hours in solitary confinement. Then...” She switched to a different tab, scrolling down. “These are all the times he was supposed to take his medicine, and the highlighted areas are the times he actually did. I also have video feed to go through.”

“Wonderful. Thank you, Kara. Can you email those to me? I'll go over them tomorrow night.”

“Sure thing. Have you figured out why they sent him to you, yet?” she asked, turning to face him. “I mean, it's been three days. You'd have to know by now.”

“I don't think the higher ups at the facility fully understand what I do. They certainly wouldn't have sent him here if they did. But it's their funeral, so I suppose it was a good thing it happened.”

Kara grinned. “Should I tell her? We can start preparing now.”

Azel shrugged, moving to grab his things. “If you want to. It won't be for a long while, but early prep never hurts. I'll see you tomorrow, Kara. Take care.”

“You too, Azel.”

Callen was wide-eyed with surprise, eyes scanning over the papers in front of him. “You... H-how... How did you get all this? I know this stuff isn't in my file because they never report these things. What... Did you hack in or something?”

Azel waved a hand. “Not me, but an associate of mine. She's very good at digging things up. We also have video files of how you and the other patients were treated. We can take all of this as proof, and set up a very good court case against them.”

Callen frowned, setting down the folder. “Just a court case?”

“Do you have any other ideas?”

“Well, not really. But won't they just be put in jail? It’s not as if they can really do anything to them, considering how much money they have. They could probably bail themselves out, anyway.” Callen’s face twisted in rage. “That's dumb. They shouldn't be able to do that.”

“Avoid the table if you’re going to hit something, please.” Azel pulled the folder back to him, closing it. “Now, have you written in the journal at all? It’s been enough days; I thought I should ask.”

The brunet shrugged, pulling the journal out of his back and handing it to Azel. “I had a fit, last night. And wrote in it. I doubt it makes much sense.”

“It’s better than nothing,” Azel muttered as he flipped it open to the first page. He blankly stared down at the jumbled, scratchy writing before huffing. At least his thoughts were very obvious.

It wasn't my fault. I didn't mean to

They shouldn't be allowed to taser kids

She was so small and they HURT her

They should be burned, exactly like they did to the others

BURN THEM DOWN

Don't hurt anyone. Don't. You’ll be hurt

HE WAS A BABY AND THEY KILLED HIM

They should all suffer

Azel continued reading what he could, only slightly worried at the repeated statements of burning the place down. He paused when the writing changed from chicken scratch to perfectly readable, the heading just above being ‘How To: Burning Bodies’. He felt he should stop, but he would have to read this eventually.

Callen fidgeted uneasily as Azel continued to read, glancing around the room as his leg shook, fingers tapping on the desk. Writing during his fit had not been a good idea at all, and he was regretting it more and my each passing second. He doesn't even remember what exactly he wrote; he just knows there was a lot of angry words. Maybe he should have looked it over before coming in today.

“Callen.”

“Hm?”

“Stop picking at the chair. Walk around if you need to, but don't break anything valuable.”

Callen was out of the chair immediately, restlessly pacing around the room. He ran his hands over the spines of the few books on the wall shelf, tugging the petals off a few flowers as he passed them. He should have read it over before bringing it in. He shouldn't have even brought it in in the first place. How stupid was he? There was no way they’d let him stay after reading that. They were going to send him back, and he’d have to sit through all their “treatments” again to be “corrected” of his behaviours.

He didn't want to go back.

Azel watched in quiet worry as Callen stood frozen, shoulders hunched with clenched hands. This couldn't be good. “Callen, come here.”

He didn't move, didn't even seem like he heard him, so Azel stood and walked over to him. “Callen,” he said softly, resting a hand on the boy’s shoulder, “are you alright?”

“Please don't send me back,” Callen whispered.

“What? Why would I do that?”

“Cause- cause you read it! I don't remember what I wrote, but I was so angry, and now you don't want me here anymore cause I'm too dangerous. You’re going to send me back.”

“I'm not going to send you back, Callen. That would be counterproductive; I would be sending you back into a dangerous environment that would set you off again. Sending you there would basically be forcing you into a situation where you have no free will; I would never do that to anyone.”

“But... But then what are you going to do?”

Azel led him back over to his desk, having him sit as he picked up the journal. “This page here,” he started, flipping to the third to last written page, “is where you started writing a plan on how to burn down the facility.”

“I... Yes.”

“You did not finish the plan, but I would like you to put some more thought into it. This is the only alternative to putting them in jail, after all.”

Azel grinned at the feral look on Callen’s face at the statement, gently patting his back. “Once you finish it, bring it to me and we’ll go over it. Alright?”

“You’re... You’re really willing to help me burn that place down? You’re willing to help me get everyone out?”

“Of course. I wouldn't suggest it if I wasn't. And besides, the facility started it anyway. They should know other people can play their games just as well. And that's exactly what we’re going to do.”

Callen grinned, eyes shining with glee. “Thank you, Azel!”

“No problem, kid. Now go get some lunch, this session ran a bit longer than expected.” Callen nodded, putting the book back in his bag before standing.

He was finally going to put them down.

I’m actually keeping up with this, oh my gosh. This is part one of the bit with these two, and part two is going to be done with Day 4′s prompt. Thank you all for reading!

Day 1, Day 2 and Day 4 and the prompt list.

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loverikajeann · 3 years

Text

MAT and “recovery” ?

WARNING: I type my thoughts, I don’t necessarily think about grammar or consider spelling...it’s my blog and you’re welcome to have a read just be prepared for the random nonsense.

-scribblings that only make sense to me I suppose (shrugs)-

Wow. This topic or question rather has been on my mind very single day since I have considered myself to be “CLEAN” . Holy shit I swear this is such a HARD subject for MEEEEEEEE! Maybe because I have relapsed so many times that I question myself if I'm even worth giving it another try? You know what though I can already tell that this route is going to be a lot more successful than any of the other paths I have taken...hey that’s a GREAT idea let me start there!!! THE PATHS THAT I HAVE TAKEN AND FAILED!!!

ok so of course I have done the traditional detox for the week or so and then go into the sober living for the remainder of that time I really didn’t feel as though I was progressing at all. I was constantly reminded that only less than five percent of the class would be successful really, and the rest of us were bound for a relapse. It’s as though they said “ You have wasted your time because you will most likely return sooner or later, but feel proud of yourself because you at least realize and acknowledge that you have an addiction”

So what did I do? I was sent home with about seven or eight medications...took them like I was supposed to...and little by little I began to abuse them as well. I also started taking KRATUM which let me tell you is practically an OPIATE but it wasn’t controlled..it wasn’t prescribed and sooner rather than later I also abused that, and sooner rather than later I relapsed. Did the whole traditional detox...sober living thirty day program and was again sent home with seven to eight medications to take...and I feel like these meds were absolute BULLSHIT. I mean gabapentin for nerve pain I wasn’t really experiencing. Then muscle relaxer that made me sleepy. Antipsychotic medications to help me “sleep” and it was some pretty heavy shit like Seroquel which I heard can be addictive in itself, and easily abused. Then Buspar for generalized anxiety which I ahve to agree I did feel here and there but I was supposed to take this on a daily basis. And finally Zoloft, which I have to admit was the only medication in my opinion that i felt I truly needed. You know I ended up relapsing again and ended up at the same place for the third and very last time. There was a conference during my last stay at the rehab in where the speaker talked about Suboxone and how they were the miracle drug due to the help of detox as well as the extreme amount of not functioning at all, he made it seem as though anyway. But I looked aroumd the room and said to him “Most of us get used to driving in much worse substances; Heroin, Meth or even worse like Fentanyl and we could drive “JUST FINE!” , anyway all of began my questioning of what their specific strategy was at this place and pretty much all of the REHAB facilities in southern california and then it came to me like a lightning bolt of IDK something spectacular...you see they dont want to send you home on SUBOXONE because it truly is a FUCKING MIRACLE DRUG!! They’d have this drug that you can honestly take as long as you need it and AS LONG as you do not abuse it. It covers the SAME receptors of any opiate which means it is in the same drug class however it acts THE COMPLETE OPPOSITE in the BRAIN! Meaning it BLOCKS those receptors, you do NOT get a HIGH Or a EUPHORIA effect ( i know sucks, but trust me it’s an important part fo your recovery) and becuase it does the OPPOSITE of what an opiate would do...it fools your brain into thinking that you got your “fix” sort of speak so you dont have any cravings...did you hear me?! YOU DONT HAVE CRAVINGS! you can go about your life and function like a regular adult...work, do family stuff...be NORMAL!! And with the guidance of your doctor, you will slowly be tapered down,. It is a very slow process but it’s done carefully and as long and you and your doc are on the same page you will YOU WILL be successful. MY doctor described it as a “soft landing” it took years for your brain to get “Smashed” like the egg in the commercial, and so it’s going to take years for it to repair. Dr. A described it as a DEEP wound like breaking a femur bone for example...it can’t be repaired in the amount of time of a one week detox right? Or how about thirty days in physical therapy? Doesn’t make semse does it? Well addiction created a big wound like I said, and instead of taking seven or eight meds that I truly dont need like muscle relaxers I am HAPPY TO ANNOUNCE MY CURRENT TREATMENT (thanks to Dr.A)

ok so....I checked into an ER hospital where they were already expecting me (yes I know VIP treatment is quite nice) I was given subozone after they dii a quick assesment of my current insanity stage and detoxing I had to do. I was sent home with about two weeks worth of SUBS, I take one in the AM and one again in the PM. I was required to enter an outpatient program at the hopsital in Arrowhead, which I think it abosolutely perfect becae we actively participate in our recovery...we do ZOOM meetings twice a week with our counselor. Ok you know know those meds they have you take at a rehab? Like HVRC? Well once you are sent home after a few hours at the ER, not you dont stay over night at all. I got sent hone with just the suboxone. Yes those first few days well the first week even was hell. I was in a lot of pain and I couldnt even move it took me over 24 hours to take a piss, three days or so to even put anything in my mouth! But no meds other than the SUBOXONE! And eventually, I woke up just like you genuinely HAPPY MAN. No cravings at all...not thoughts of using. I focus on the task at hand, I enjoy the day I’m presented with by god. Dr. Avalos said I will be weaned off once I let him know I’m ready meaning this is where I feel mentally strong, physically capable and have the support I need from my family members. And as long as I have NOT been abusing my script meaning not taking more than what I need to and so on, it should be a decent landing. Ofcourse he did say it would not be easy or a piece of cake...there will be some changes in my mood and all of that because yeah who likes going through med changes at all right, but it wont be impossible and like he said as long as I feel strong enough and I am honest about that then I got this! Obviously like anyother opiates he did say you shouldn’t discontinue taking without consulting because yeah it won’t be pretty meaning same detox s/sx do apply as if you were detoxing from any other opiate. So it was simple, just follow the doctors instructions, complete the 90 day outpatient program, get a sponsor and attend NA meetings, work the steps adn eventually be of service. And this time around I am happy to say that it’s WORKING, And thank god that at least if its the whole “Just for Today” speech, I can most def say that “Just for Today: I don’t have to use, I don’t have to get sick, I dont have to lie or cheat or steal..I can enjoy my day freely surrounded by the people who love me and those I love the nost as well.”

-Erika Valdez

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ladylovesalot · 3 years

Text

Bipolar Journal

For someone with mental illness sometimes it’s therapeutic to keep a journal even if it isn’t a consistent thing, they write in it. During my first manic episode from 2012-2015, I kept a small diary of my thoughts and drew the hallucinations that I would see. When my mother found it I was embarrassed and ashamed of the things that I had written in it. During my manic episode, I was suffering from a condition called hypergraphia which is a compulsive need to write. I would write down any thought that came into my head no matter good, bad, or strange, and further elaborate on why I was feeling the way that I was. After I left the hospital for the first time I immediately threw it away so no one else would find it. The only reason why I kept it even after my mother found it was so that I could better explain to the doctor at the hospital what I was thinking and what I was seeing since I drew everything I hallucinated.

While there, I was diagnosed with depression and generalized anxiety disorder. Before going to the hospital, I was taking medication for bipolar type 1 since that is what a supervising psychiatrist thought I had. There were many theories as to what I had since symptoms weren’t all lining up under a perfect column; I was hallucinating and couldn’t tell if they were real or not, I was paranoid of everyone around me. So much so I changed my OBGYN doctor because I was convinced she wanted me to kill me. I thought people were following me and when I looked behind me, I would see black shadows quickly disappear into crowds or behind buildings. I was constantly having panic attacks, and would be fueled with energy, and suffered from compulsions that soon affected my day-to-day life, as well as depressive episodes. Before seeing someone that specialized in mental disorders I was telling everything to my therapist who was worried that I had one of three things; bipolar, schizophrenia, or schizoaffective disorder which is a combination of the two.

Upon leaving the hospital I was put on antipsychotics and anti-anxiety medication. While this helped elevate my mood and somewhat control my panic attacks, it was short-lived. I was soon in the hospital again, this time a private facility where I could get the one-on-one attention I needed rather than one open to the general public. This was four months after being released. It was here I was once again diagnosed with bipolar type 1 and generalized anxiety. Four years later in 2019, I had yet another manic episode which was shorter since I knew what was wrong and tried to take action to get it under control before it got worse as well as loving family and friends that could visibly see something was not right. Bipolar is different for everyone. Some can go months and sometimes years without having a manic episode. I was blessed enough to be one that went years.

Even though the entries begin on September 17, I was experiencing the symptoms about a week or two prior and then decided to document it to look for contingencies between this one and my first. It helped as well to have a “friend” that I could write everything out with and “talk” to without feeling judged or afraid.

Some of it is disturbing and can be triggering for those that have a mental illness. Going back and typing this out, I felt myself beginning to fall back into my old way of thinking and had to take a break for a bit.

Names and places have been changed to respect the privacy of those involved. The entries are the same as in the journal to show what I dealt with. Because of this, some grammar and punctuation will not be correct. “People” other than me talking will be addressed as “B”.

————————————————————

September 17, 2019

It’s been a while and I was determined to write something every day even if it was something small. I haven’t. I’m a complete failure. I fucking hate myself. I’ll feel fine one minute then want to fucking scream the next. What’s wrong with me??? I can’t fucking take this anymore! I don’t want to be around anyone. Not even Justin. I love him so much but I hate myself and just need to be left alone. I don’t want to be a burden. What the fuck do I do?! I have nothing to be complaining about. Should I call Dr. Harriet again? I can’t afford her. If I call Noel I don’t know what he’d do but I wouldn’t like it. I want to die I want to die. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. I’m nothing I’m worthless I’m nothing I’m worthless. Why can’t I just be happy? I have no reason not to. I just need to buy stuff then I’ll be happy. Fuck everyone. I just want to be happy. Fuck them fuck them fuck them. I want my head not to be so fuzzy. I need to rip it all out. I’m so fucking ugly it’ll be good. Fuck fuck fuck fuck I suck aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!!! Fuck them all!

Why won’t these thoughts leave me alone????? I NEED THEM OUT! I don’t think the voices are coming back but I need to do it. Then I’ll be happy and I just want to be happy. When I’ve cut myself by accident it didn’t even hurt. Will it still not hurt? I can try and see what happens. I’ll take the pills tomorrow and then see if it hurts. I don’t want to go in. I need to be alone. I can’t fucking do this. I’ll call Ned maybe he’ll know. Maybe Cassie. I miss her. Fuck her for leaving. Fuck Ruby for leaving. Fuck Cheryl for leaving. All my friends are fucking leaving me. What do I do? I have no friends. I’m a loser.

You’re a fucking loser You’re a fucking loser you’re a fucking loser you’re a fucking loser.

He better not come out. I need to be alone. How can I be alone? Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.

September 18, 2019

I feel a bit better today. I just want to be left alone today. I really don’t want to go to work. I just want to be alone all day. I want everyone to go away and just leave me alone. What do I do?

September 19, 2019

Maureen is mad at me. I don’t understand why Aaron can’t have sugar. I can’t change everything around him. I’m nothing but a fuck up. Why would anyone hire me?? Why would anyone want to take me on as an apprentice? I suck. I’m worthless. I bet it’s a mistake even trying to design my own tattoo. People will-

September 20, 2019, AM

I want to pull my head apart. There is something in there. I’m trying to act as normal as possible for Justin’s sake but the will is beginning to go away. I have no one to talk to. Dr. Ned isn’t calling. Even though I do the stuff the cotton is in me but it doesn’t me as much I need to do something. No one understands what I’m going through. Should I call Harriet? I don’t see her anymore so she might not talk to me. I need to rip my hair off! What do I do?? I need someone to tell me what to do. What would the voices say? I need them to help me.

September 20, 2019, PM

How am I supposed to help myself? I cant tell Justin the truth. He’ll want to leave me. I don’t want to go to the wedding tomorrow. I need help. Why won’t Ned call back??? I called him two fuckling days in a row!

All the little boys and all the little girls won’t get out of my head.

I’m a worthless piece of shit. I’m nothing I’m nothing you’re nothing and everyone hates you!

Why does everyone hate me?

(B) Because you annoy the fuck out of them. You don’t even have friends within the group. They feel sorry for you and only talk to you because ofJustin. You’re useless. You won’t amount to anything you piece of shit.

Help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me someone help me, please. Everyone sucks. No one loves me. People only feel sorry for me.

(B) You suck so much. You’re nothing.

I need help. Someone come help me. I’m nothing I’m nothing.

(B) You hate yourself.

Someone help me someone help me please Justin help. Justin help me, please. Why does no one care about me?

September 21, 2019

If I see those lines there it would be so perfect. I would finally be happy. Justin doesn’t understand. I love him so much but he just doesn’t. I want to tell him everything but that’ll scare him. I can’t do it. I can’t trust anyone. Maybe Ned and maybe mom because mom knows what to do. I don’t feel anything.

(B) You suck Shannon. No one loves you.

Who else is there? I don’t know what’s going on anymore. Fuck fuck fuck. I don’t even want to kill myself. I think I just want to be gone. I don’t want to go back to Intercare. I can’t right now. I need to be more self-reliant. I can’t depend on everyone else. I can’t depend on the meds. No one can help me. Why?? I’m useless.

(B) You’re useless. No one likes you. How can someone ever love you? They’re all lying. All of them are fucking liars.

They don’t love me. Help help help help help help help help help me someone, anyone. I can’t do this. Why was that woman so mean?

(B) She thinks you’re crazy. That’s why.

Do I want to be gone? I want to cut. I have to cut. I need to feel it. I’m going to do it. I need to do it. It’s there it’s there. It’s telling me to. Justin wants to leave me. I know he does.

(B) You’re worthless.

I don’t know if I’m hearing the voices or not, why is this happening? I know something’s wrong but I don’t know what. I NEED TO DO IT!! Even if it’s with a pen it’ll be okay.

(B) You can do it. You just need to get Justin distracted then you can do it. I believe in you. You just need to believe in yourself. You don’t need to ask permission. Just do it. You’ll be so happy. Or you can be a miserable coward because that’s what you are. A fake to everyone. Everyone thinks you’re okay now but you’re not.

September 22, 2019

I felt numb today. Last night was so much fun then the weed helped and now I’m going crazy again. I don’t want to go anywhere. I want to cut.

(B) It’s there. You need to find the knives then you’ll be good at at least figuring things out. You need to do it tomorrow after work. You’re a clever girl so think like him. You can do it. I believe in you.

I want to do it but I shouldn’t but the desire is so strong I need to. I’ll go crazy.

(B) You stupid piece of shit, then find them. You heard clanging. There are only three places they can be; kitchen, bathroom, office. Check above the fridge first. You’re afraid of heights but overcome it to get what you need.

I need those knives and scissors. Anything at this point.

(B) You can do it. He sleeps like the dead. Go out tonight to find them. Maybe use the nail clippers at the very least. You’re doing a great job with how you’re feeling. They can only be in three- a couple- of places; living room, kitchen, office. You need to look above the sink, you fucking idiot. He knows how you are. But you need to cut. You'll feel so much better.

September 23, 2019

(B) Good job Shannon! You did it! You pushed through it and now everything is perfect. Fuck Maureen. You need to make her life miserable. She’s a fucking bitch that needs to die. She should not be texting you angry about this. I know you’re getting sleepy now. But push through it. You deserve the beer. And the vape. If you can handle it take some more-

September 30, 2019

Today was amazing. The razor doesn’t even hurt at first and then the blood comes then you see the line. The lines are so beautiful. You were right. All I needed to do was try. But now I need to hide it. He’ll see and get mad. I don’t want him mad. I don’t want him to send me away. I love him so much. So fucking much.

October 3, 2019

(B) Finally, you’re back again.

I tried to do it yesterday but couldn’t muster up anything to write. I want to see the blood again but also know it’s bad.

(B) But that’s never stopped you before?

I know but I’m so torn. What should I do?

(B) You should also do...but not? Don’t do it. DON’T. DO. IT. Do you want to go back to the hospital? You joke that they have good food but we know you hate it. Except for one time your biggest concern was when you could leave. Do you want to disappoint everybody? Be a disappointment to your students. The fact that you’re writing shows you want to.

I want to but can’t. I need you all to stop. One at a time. It’s okay to write but not talk. What if someone reads this?

(B) They’ll think you’re more insane than you already are.

October 24, 2019

Looking back on the entries I realize how everything was spiraling out of control. So much has happened since then both good and bad. I got fired from Joyous Praise because of a text I sent Terry during my manic episode. When the pastor asked if I’ve ever had thoughts or wants to hurt a child I of course said no and would never even think of doing that. When he said-

October 31, 2019

Today I’ll be going to get my things that I bought for my classroom from the pastoral office. Terry was supposed to return a shirt I let her borrow and for two days she said she’d bring it but I think she’s afraid of me. I’m 99% sure she knows I know she sent in the text. On the night she was going to bring it I told her Edward and I were going out but I was going to leave the porch light on and she could toss it over the patio. She picked me up every day and knew the apartment number I lived in and that it was on the first floor. An hour later I got a text telling me Sherry was going to be giving me the shirt. Then earlier this week I get a call from Sherry telling me they were going to mail my things to me which I didn’t understand why since I live less than 10 minutes away from the church. I told her I’d come by today to get everything. When I called yesterday to tell her I was coming by at 2:00 pm she didn’t answer so I left a message telling her the time and the things I was coming to get. I’m really hoping there’s everything there. She never returned my call. Her and pastor Allen haven’t returned any of my texts or the email I sent. I feel as if they purposelessly avoiding me. I haven’t gotten a paycheck either like they said I would. l am hoping that comes in soon. Hopefully, I’ll have that answered and all my things by this afternoon.

————————————————————

Mental illness is something that is still stigmatized in our community. Throughout the years, views on it haven’t changed. The only difference between now and the past is that people aren’t thought to be possessed by the devil or witches. Of course in some places of the world, they are still thought to be. When someone comes to you asking for help then listen. If you ask someone how they’re doing and you don’t get socially acceptable “I’m good” then listen to them. You might be very well saving a life or even encourage someone to get the help that they need.

#mentally ill #mental heatlh #mental health awareness #diary #bipolar

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ciderapples · 6 years

Text

The God of Dust and Nothing

Hannibal/Hannigram | on AO3

When Will saw the stag again, it was after so long not seeing it that he mistook it for a real live animal.

He paused on the trail, boots sinking in March mud, and called the dogs back. They circled around him, panting and watching while he clucked softly to shush them, but when he looked into the trees there was nothing at all to be seen.

When Will saw the stag next, there was no mistaking it for anything else. He woke up in his bed, sleep paralysis holding him down, a black snout so close to his face that he could almost taste its wet nose from the smell of its breath.

It was standing on his bed.

For a moment, it just stood there.

Then it pushed closer.

A cold slick touched the tip of Will’s nose, and a puff of warm, humid air gusted over his face. He breathed it in. For a moment, he puzzled over it. Tasted it against his palate. Then he looked up into the cold, impassive eyes.

“You’re sick,” he said.

“There’s nothing medically wrong with you,” the third neurologist said. Neurologists one and two had said roughly the same thing. After his experience with Hannibal's neurologist, Will liked his opinions to come in multiples. In sounders.

The corner of his mouth hooked up.

“Mr. Graham?”

The doctor canted his head, trying to put himself in Will’s line of sight, but Will’s line of sight was not straight: it led elsewhere. Uncomfortable with the lack of response, the doctor stumbled on. “There’s plenty more we can try. We can start small on some sedatives for nighttime, maybe try to slot in an antipsychotic but I really only like to prescribe something like that as a last resort.” He tapped his pen on the screen on his laptop.

Will could see in the mirror: Google, open in a cascade of tabs.

hallucinations sleep paralysis hallucinations night hallucinations no heachache sleep clinic virginia FBI health insurance sexy brunette bored teen sucks cock

“Have you ever been to a sleep clinic?” the doctor asked.

Will forced himself to make eye contact, squinting with the effort as his head slowly turned. “I’ll consider it,” he said.

Will did his own Googling.

lasting effects viral meningitis

It was possible, so it seemed, that he’d been left with a ghost.

Had that been part of Hannibal’s design? Or was the stag an unexpected parting gift?

Hannibal would be…pleased.

Wherever he was.

Hannibal was not in Baltimore.

Baltimore was where he should have been, and where he had gone from.

Jack Crawford had called Will at home after Hannibal’s escape. He’d sounded suspicious, as Will had supposed he had a right to be: but of Hannibal, not him. It was Hannibal who’d come looking; not the other way around.

“I’d like to put people on you,” Jack had said.

Agents. Around Will’s house, his little ship on the water.

That wouldn’t do, Will had thought, in Hannibal’s voice.

“No thanks, Jack.”

He’d looked around the living room, then, across the warm mounds of dog all crowding to be closest to the fire. Something else was there, too, sleeping on the rug just inside the front door. Its feathery, black hackles ruffled in an invisible draft.

Will had wanted to ask Jack if Hannibal had left him anything, but if Hannibal had left him something, Jack would’ve said so. Jack would’ve wanted to see what he’d do.

For a while, Will expected a visit.

He found himself cleaning more. Eating better. Just in case.

But then no visit came, and he snapped back. The house became messy, unkempt, until it begged for order.

Months passed, and they passed slowly.

Will spoke to Jack Crawford less, then much less, then finally not at all. His teaching contracts were quietly not renewed.

Even in Will’s dreams, where his mind could write a more pleasing fiction than his current reality, Hannibal remained firmly himself.

He’d cooked.

They were eating.

And then Hannibal stood over him, pouring wine, and the wine was black. It leaked down the stem of the glass like blood through a vein.

“Are you afraid, Will?” he asked.

Will looked into his eyes, where his eyes should have been. The slits there were empty.

“Yes.”

Hannibal took this as a matter of fact. “Why? Do you think I want to kill you?”

Will tipped his chin up. “Do you?”

“Why would I?” Hannibal smiled tightly. Restrained. He lifted the wine bottle and wiped its dripping mouth with a dark cloth. “Do you think I want revenge?”

“No. You don’t need revenge. You-” his mouth tightened, “-forgave me.”

Hannibal nodded. He put the bottle down on the table. Will could hear the glass breathing: soft, familiar whuffling.

Will swallowed.

“Drink,” Hannibal said.

He lifted his glass. “This isn’t wine.”

“No, it’s not.”

Under Hannibal’s expectant gaze, Will sipped at the stag’s blood. He realized he knew the taste.

“Are you afraid that I’ll come?” Hannibal asked, watching. “Or are you afraid that I won’t?

Will closed the house for the winter.

He bought a beaten-up camper-van, piled the dogs into it, and took off.

There was something wrong with the stag.

It wasn’t well.

It moved too slowly, breathed only with great effort, and had lost its strange coat in gaping patches that splashed along its hide. It looked mangy.

Will had never been able to resist mangy.

When he turned out of the driveway for the last time, the stag walked, or ran, or floated, beside the van, and Will let it lead.

The stag liked to watch the news.

It lay between the hotel beds, on the ground while Will took one mattress and the dogs took the other.

It directed Will to read the papers.

Search for Missing Officer Called Off Community Leader Mourned Serial Slayer in Boynton Body Discovered in Fellowes Park

This was its design.

Its coat started to come in again as they crossed through South Dakota, and was full by Idaho.

In Washington, the stag led the camper up toward the mountains then veered sideways, past peach orchards and sorghum fields, up almost into Canada before it stopped. The town it chose was nothing but a series of roads strung out from a rail depot. Will drove them slowly, his constant companion hoofing along outside the window, and finally the camper rolled to a halt all by itself at the end of a long driveway.

Will didn’t know how he knew, at first, but when he turned down, he realized the driveway was lined in clamshells: so out of place, here, and looking so very much like shattered teacups.

“Are you still afraid, Will?” Hannibal asked.

Will looked the room over. It wasn’t big, but it was Hannibal in every way. Ornate in small, intense bursts, and sparse in every other way. “I know I should be,” he said. “I know I am.”

“But?”

“I don’t want to be.”

Hannibal swept a hand absently over the surface of his small desk. “That time — that urge — has passed,” he said. “I would no more derive pleasure from killing you than from killing a songbird.”

“You’ve killed several songbirds that I know of,” Will said. “You drowned some, just to eat them bones and all, before the eyes of God.”

Hannibal considered this. “Yes,” he said. “So I have. But you are not that kind of songbird, Will. Your fruit is not so forbidden.”

Will drew a wan smile. “And what fruit, exactly, do I bear for you?”

“One I cannot cultivate,” Hannibal said. “One that must grow wild.”

The stag snuffed against Will’s neck, hot and humid.

Will had never known nor imagined Hannibal to be tamed, but Hannibal had no drawings, here. He kept no knives. Will peered into the closets and found no suits, only t-shirts.

Anathema.

Across the kitchen table one night, Will looked at Hannibal hard — across a dinner of cans opened crudely — and debated leaving.

“Will,” Hannibal said. He dabbed a spoonful of creamed corn delicately from the can. “Can you be happy here?”

The stag paced just outside the window, edges smoldering.

Will frowned. “Can you?” he accused.

Hannibal smiled, almost. “This is what they’ll give me, when they catch me,” he said. “I choose to live that new life now, so that I need not fear its revelation.”

“I won’t be a part of that life,” Will said, testing.

Hannibal said, only: “Won’t you?”

Even here, the stag kept Will up nights.

Something was still wrong, or at least, not quite all right.

It stared. It paced. It grated its hooves against the rough wood floors until Will rose from the dead and circled the house like a marble in a funnel, knowing where he’d end up, dropped into the dark hole of the bathroom, into the vortex of the medicine cabinet. He’d brought a straight razor with him from home. It was the only blade in the house. Every night he checked to see if it had disappeared.

So far, Hannibal hadn’t touched it, even to shave.

In three months, not much changed. Then, all at once, everything was different.

It was in the hour of no crickets, before the morning birds, that the stag came to kneel on Will’s chest. It ground its knees in urgently until Will gasped awake. In the no-light of the new moon he stumbled to the bathroom, forgetting to flip the switch. He clawed the mirror forward and swept his hand over the shelf where the razor lived, but for the first time it was bare.

In the pitch, Will went still.

Slowly, cautiously, he reached behind for the light, eyes wide for the mirror, for what would illuminate there.

His fingers slipped on the toggle, shaking, but when the light burned on, there was only himself.

The razor in his own hand, unsheathed.

And an acute, ringing disappointment.

The stag’s head pushed out impossibly through the open cabinet, and they stared, eye-to-eye, realizing.

Then Will took a walk down the hall.

“Will,” Hannibal said, when Will woke him. He did his best to sound awake.

“Hannibal,” Will said. He held the razor at the right angle to catch starlight. He felt he could see Hannibal’s pupils dilate, even in the dark.

“Hello, Will,” Hannibal said, in a completely different way.

Will smiled. He’d almost forgotten how to. He put a plate on the bed. A needle. Thread. Bandages. He didn’t know if they’d be used, but that was the question, wasn’t it, that needed to be answered?

He put the blade to his own throat.

Hannibal’s hand threaded out from under his blanket and touched Will’s knee. “I’m here,” he said.

Will sunk the blade.

Hannibal’s lips parted to catch the spray for just a moment, before he tore out of the bed, into action.

“You’re warmer than most,” Hannibal said. “I suspected you would be.”

Hannibal pulled a slippery finger along the shallow canyon that Will had opened in his own thigh.

“Did you?” Will said, serene with opioids. “I always felt I ran cold.”

“Perhaps in some ways. Not this one.”

Hannibal watched the blood pool.

What had always been missing from surgery — and in a certain sense from killing — was this sense of time; the leisure of watching.

The last time they'd done this, Will had offered his left arm, an exploration of the tricep and the gift of a small strip to be sauteed with fiddleheads from the yard.

There would be no sautee, today.

In a deft movement, Hannibal peeled back a thin, almost transparent sheet of dark, burgundy muscle. Not so much that it would be missed. He lifted it to his mouth on the razor’s edge and took it with his tongue without touching the blade.

In the tasting, the pressing to the roof of his mouth to crush the blood from the fiber, his eyes slipped shut, blindly savoring.

“Will,” he said, when it was gone.

Will opened his eyes. Hannibal remained poised over the cut. The needle and thread waited patiently for when he'd had his fill.

“This isn’t how you I intend to keep you with me in that next life,” he said. “The one Jack Crawford will give me, if he’s able.”

“I know,” Will said, and he did know. From Hannibal's reverent stropping of the razor to his steady stitching afterward, the act was far less field dressing and far more transubstantiation. Consumation, not consumption.

But Hannibal was unsatisfied. He made as if to slice again, but paused. “This is more.”

Will’s hand drifted down on his head, crowning the slate hair with his palm.

“I know.”

Hannibal gazed briefly at the ground, deep beyond the cabin floor, then up, as Will turned his head toward the window, toward the big, black, ruffled, horned shape stalking toward the house.

“See?” Will said. “See?”

#Hannibal #Hannigram #fic #will graham #road trip

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