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bunnyhanasong · 4 years

Text

Lost and Found

Main ship: pharmercy

Side ships: n/a

Genre: angst, hurt/comfort, reunion

Synopsis: Dr. Angela Ziegler has spent years focusing solely on her work and saving lives. When a familiar face comes to her in the worst way imagined, the level-headed doctor is left battling logic and emotion in a way she never wished to experience.

Note: This is a short story that I wrote for my creative writing course last semester that I have edited to contain Pharah and Mercy as opposed to my original characters I submitted it with. As I was writing it, I noticed how much inspiration I had taken from Pharmercy with the doctorxsoldier trope, so I thought I would edit it and post as a fan fic since I'm rather fond of it and got a very good mark on it. So, Mr. O if you're reading this; yes this short story was basically gay Overwatch fan fiction lmao. For now this is just a oneshot, though I have thought about expanding the story in the future. Feedback, comments, and suggestions for future pieces in this universe are very much appreciated and will motivate me to write again for this!

Content warnings: canon typical violence, medical talk, military talk, PTSD, traumatic injuries, takes place in a hospital

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Incoming trauma, IED blast with three major casualties; one DOA, two in critical condition.

Angela groaned as her pager beeped angrily at her, the words highlighting the screen causing her to shoot up from her bunk. The on-call room was dark and there were at least two other pagers beeping away, trying to get their owners up to meet the trauma. The bottom bunk she had been occupying for less than 45 minutes, though not exactly the pinnacle of comfort, was warm and inviting in that moment. Still, she pushed herself up and made to leave, trying to pull her blonde hair into a haphazard bun as she followed the other doctors out into the hallway.

The doctor and nurse in front of Angela were chattering in what she knew was Arabic, though her minimal knowledge in the language rendered eavesdropping nearly impossible. Angela was from Switzerland originally, so she only spoke German and English, the latter being thanks to school. She had chosen to learn English throughout high school and university, which came in handy since that was the tongue she spoke predominantly here. She was the head doctor of a Swiss medical aid team, sent to a military base outside of Cairo, Egypt to help their short-staffed trauma centre. None of her team knew Arabic, save for a few phrases, so they were relying on each other and their English knowledge to get them through the mission. As the head doctor and the most fluent English speaker, Angela was the one who received the most information from the Military doctors.

“Dr. Ziegler,” an accented voice brought Angela’s attention to the nurses’ station across the trauma bay. She made her way to the nurse who had said her name, a kind, stout Egyptian woman by the name of Salma. She had been the friendliest nurse by far and welcomed the Swiss doctors warmly. Coming to stand by the triage desk, Angela asked the nurse for more information on what had occurred.

“Our military had sent a team to patrol a territory not far from the base where reports had been made of criminal activity. I guess they stepped too close to unmapped land, an IED mine went off before anyone could react. We lost one immediately, the other two are on the bus in critical condition; ETA 10 minutes.”

Angela nodded along with her words, feeling her stomach sink at the fact that they lost a patient already. She shook off the thought though, no sense in getting emotional now; she would just need to focus on keeping the remaining two alive. She had already seen her fair share of explosion aftermath in her two weeks on base already, which was a terrifying wake up call for the woman. Still, as a doctor she had learned quickly that one must separate feelings from work, otherwise the emotional impact of the job would have put her out of commission years ago. She kept this in mind as she left the nurses’ station, passing a group of Egyptian staff barking orders in Arabic and making her way to a familiar redheaded woman.

“Ange!” the younger doctor greeted Angela in German with a sign of relief, “We have no idea where to even start with this. Do you have any more information on the trauma?”

Amelia Schmidt, 35-year-old and a cardio surgeon by trade, though here she had switched from daily open heart surgeries to more frequent traumas and millions of sutures. She had been Angela’s closest friend since they started working at the same hospital almost about eight years prior. She was certainly a spunky person, always ready to jump into action and meet the problem head on. Being in Egypt was changing that for Amelia though, she felt very out of her element and was finding herself relying on Angela a lot more than usual. The language barrier was certainly difficult, not to mention the culture shock, and Amelia finally felt the overwhelming weight of her profession full force. Still, she never lost her spirit and still kept Angela and the others optimistic, her jovial attitude making nightshifts and long days a bit more bearable.

“Two casualties incoming, both soldiers. Landmine went off and they must have got the front of the blast. Jump in where you can and keep an eye on the younger doctors with us in case translation becomes a problem. If you need help with Arabic, let Salma know like always.”

Amelia nodded at her friend’s words, “Okay.”

Angela didn’t have time to ask her friend how things had been while she had taken a short nap, because the doors to the trauma bay crashed open. There was a lot of shouting in multiple languages as Dr. Ziegler tried to direct her staff in German while the local doctors did the same in their language. She ran up to the medic pushing a gurney, asking in her heavily accented English what they were looking at.

The paramedic looked slightly confused but thankfully answered the blonde woman in English after a moment’s pause, “Private Ahmed Abassi, age 23. GCS 8, responds to pressure but currently nonverbal and only semi-conscious. He was thrown by the explosion and has a suspected rib fracture and shoulder dislocation. Abdomen seems stiff, we assume some internal bleeding but could not get a portable ultrasound in the field.”

Angela nodded as they wheeled into a trauma room, stopping so she could pull on a pair of gloves. She worked with the nurses who had come to help, doing a secondary scan of the patient’s body. She identified some shrapnel that caused superficial wounds but her main concern was the distention of his abdomen and the apparent pain response the young soldier had to it. He was barely conscious but groaned in pain as she palpated the area, apologizing to him gently in Arabic as she continued to check his chest and torso for injuries. Though her words were jumbled and she stuttered more than she liked, Angela still made sure to speak to her patient calmly through her exam, just in case he was more aware than they thought. She asked a nurse to get the portable ultrasound and x-ray so they could check for internal injuries, which was her greatest concern in that moment. As she was monitoring his vitals and reassessing his condition on the coma scale chart, one of her younger doctors ran into the room.

“Dr. Ziegler,” the young man asked in a slightly overwhelmed tone, “Dr. Khan is asking for your help in trauma one.”

Angela nodded and turned to a nurse she knew spoke English, “I will be back to check on Private Abassi in a bit, please get those blood tests and the type-and-cross orders ASAP.”

She followed the resident out into the hall and found Dr. Khan standing outside the trauma room in question. The Egyptian doctor was the head trauma surgeon there and was very no-nonsense. She was tall and slightly intimidating, years of military training apparent in her posture and demeanour. Still, she had been friendly and helpful to the visiting doctors, which Angela was thankful for. She didn’t even have a chance to ask what was wrong before the other woman spoke in a terse voice.

“Female in her early thirties. She is awake and noncompliant. Traumatic trans-radial amputation and other assumed injuries we cannot diagnose due to her adamance to leave. She needs to be examined and we need to operate but we first need to assess her mental state.”

Angela was a bit taken aback by the sudden information dump, “And you need me because...?”

“Your friend said you worked in psychology before switching to surgery, yes?”

Ah, so she wanted a psych consult. Angela had done a minor is psychology and worked as a psychiatrist for a couple years before deciding she much rather preferred the surgical side of her profession. It had been years since she had done a proper psych consult, but her knowledge of the workup and proper patient care had not escaped her.

“I did. Do you need me to do a workup now? Shouldn’t her physical injuries take priority?”

Dr. Khan shook her head, “We have reasons to believe this is a Post-Traumatic Stress attack. She took the biggest force of the explosion; witnesses say she threw herself towards it to protect her younger soldiers. She is a security chief, so we know she has seen a lot of battle already, and was held captive by enemy forces for a fortnight last year.”

“And unknown people touching her while she is in shock may cause her to become violent or prone to self-injury,” Angela concluded, nodding. She gestured for the trauma surgeon to take her to see the patient, following behind her into the room. It had been a while since she had done a proper psych evaluation, but she was hopeful that this would be simple and not include any communication barriers.

There was a large amount of hospital personnel in the room, surrounding a figure clad in a tattered military uniform. There was a group of nurses trying to dress the soldier’s arm, which had been amputated, probably by shrapnel, just below the elbow. That needed to be assessed and closed properly, but surgery was not an option until a proper workup was done. To do a workup though, they first needed to calm the patient so she would be compliant; which was already proving to be an issue. The soldier was thrashing in the nurses’ hold, trying to escape their grasp and the IV in her remaining arm.

Jumping into action, Angela waved away two security personnel who were trying to restraint the soldier’s wrist and ankles, “You are only making this worse by restraining her. Please refrain from touching the patient.”

Making her way towards the bed, she glanced back at Doctor Khan, “Patient name?”

She looked down at the patient and didn’t even hear Khan’s response. It wasn’t necessary; she new exactly who this was. If her name badge on her uniform, somehow still intact, wasn’t identifiable enough, the eye of Horus tattoo under her right eye gave away her identity. The patient’s terrified dark eyes met hers and Angela knew that there was recognition under the layers of shock and drug-induced haze.

“F-fareeha?” Angela murmured, shocked, and took a seat in the chair pulled up beside the hospital bed. She had already tuned out all the background noise of the room, focusing completely on the woman in front of her. She was trying very hard to separate emotions from the situation, but now that she knew who the patient was it was becoming increasingly difficult. Still, she had a job to do and that was the priority in this moment.

Returning her focus to the task at hand, Angela spoke softly to the injured soldier in front of her. She had obviously recognized the blonde doctor by now and was staring at her in confusion, as if she could not understand why Angela was in front of her. The way she looked at her was reassuring though, since she seemed responsive despite her injuries and apparent blood loss. Angela took a glance at the monitor for a moment to check her vitals, saw her heart rate and blood pressure were concerningly high, and took a moment to attempt to soothe the patient’s nerves.

“Fareeha, I need you to stay still, okay?” Angela tried again to reassume her doctor tone as she spoke to the soldier, “You need to let us take care of you. Take a deep breath for me, alright?”

The Egyptian woman tried to speak but she was having trouble, whether that be due to focusing issues or her pain. The other hospital staff were speaking loudly and it was clearly distracting the patient. She was trying to even her breathing like Angela asked, but too deep of an inhale caused her breathing to hitch and her whole body to flinch, which made her assume she had sustained some broken ribs. Fareeha fumbled around on the bed until she caught Angela’s hand with her remaining one, looking up at the doctor with tear-filled eyes. The blonde didn’t pull her hand away, sensing that she needed comfort in this moment, and just hushed her gently.

“Focus on me, alright? Can you understand me?” she had been speaking English the whole time, since she knew Fareeha knew it as well. It was easier than attempting to speak her rusty Arabic, which probably wouldn’t be understandable anyway considering how much her voice wavered. After a pause, Fareeha nodded shakily, wincing as her body disagreed with the movement.

“Good, stay still,” Angela was still holding her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze, “You’re safe, Fareeha. You had an accident out in the field but we’re going to get you through this.”

Angela was trying her best to stay calm herself, speaking softly and keeping the patient’s focus on her. She knew she was letting her emotions get the better of her but she couldn’t help it. Not when Fareeha had such a tight grip on her hand and her eyes held so many questions and so much pain. Still, she knew the most important thing was to keep Fareeha distracted so her heart rate stayed down, wanting to avoid any more panic. She could see the nurses still trying to staunch the flow of blood from Fareeha’s amputation, silently praying that the patient stayed unaware of that aspect of her injury for the time being.

“M-my… my t-team?” the soldier’s voice was raspy and she spoke through gritted teeth but to Angela it was a relief to hear, “Are… t-they o…okay?”

That question made Angela hesitate, glancing back anxiously at Dr. Khan. She didn’t know how to respond to that, since she was not aware of how Ahmed’s condition was faring and did not even know the name of the soldier who had been killed by the blast. Fareeha squeezed her hand, trying to catch her attention again, and Angela sighed. Of course it was just like Fareeha to only care about her team when faced with life threatening injuries herself, ever the selfless hero she was.

“Private Abassi is in surgery right now, Chief Amari,” Khan supplied quickly, “Your other members are either back at base or in the waiting room.”

Angela did not want to lie to Fareeha but knew they could not tell her the truth about the deceased. It would not be fair to distress her like that, not now, and it would certainly ruin things after they had finally gotten her calm. The doctor just nodded along with the attending surgeon’s words, making eye contact with Fareeha.

“Fareeha, you need surgery,” though the extent of her injuries was not yet known, it was obvious she would need to be anesthetized to have her traumatic amputation corrected and cleaned up. She was unsure if the patient had even registered that she was missing her hand and forearm, most likely due to shock or the concern for her team she seemed to hold over her own health.

“Surgery?”

Angela hummed in affirmation, frowning at the way the younger woman sounded so confused, “Can you let the other doctors look you over? I promise you are safe; we just need to make sure you’re not bleeding internally or have any fractures we missed.”

It took a little more coaxing and Angela promising to stay right beside her before the younger woman agreed. The Swiss doctor held her hand the whole time, spoke to her gently in English and broken Arabic, hoping to calm her nerves. The doctor’s shaky attempt at speaking her mother tongue made Fareeha smile despite her pain, a familiar and warm sight that soothed Angela’s own anxieties. When Doctor Khan confirmed that Fareeha had suffered major bruising and a few rib fractures, as well as a concussion, she ordered some scans to make sure there was no bleeding or injury they had missed.

The other staff members were still bustling around, ordering scans and cleaning up the space. Angela had stepped away to speak to the attending doctor, explaining how she knew Fareeha and what steps they had to take now. The soldier in question was slumped back into the uncomfortable neck brace she was stuck in, still trying to crane her neck to see the only familiar face she knew in the room.

“Angie?”

The nickname Angela had not been called in years made her jump, sure Amelia called her “Ange” sometimes but that was different. There was a mixture of fondness and fear in Fareeha’s voice as she called out to the blonde doctor, who had been speaking to Khan in a hushed tone across the room. Turning her attention back to the patient who called for her, Fareeha’s dark eyes searching for reassurance before the unfamiliar nurses wheeled her to the operating theatre.

Angela walked back to her side, not even thinking as she reached out to brush matted dark hair off Fareeha’s face, “You’ll be alright, Fareehali.”

The affectionate nickname surprised the younger woman, “W-will you be here… when it’s d-done?”

Angela nodded, “Of course. I promise.” The fear and uncertainty was clear on her face and it broke Angela’s heart, seeing this strong soldier so scared. She held onto Fareeha’s hand for a little longer, promising her that the surgery would be over before she knew it and Fareeha was in good hands.

When she was reassured that there would be a familiar face there when she woke up, the solider let the staff members wheel her down the hallway. Angela was left in the hall by herself, dumbfounded by the situation she had just been thrown into. She went back to the trauma bay in a daze, worry eating away at her stomach as she slouched heavily against a wall.

“Ange?” Amelia’s cheerful voice drew her out of her thoughts, “You okay?”

Angela shrugged, already feeling the dull ache of a migraine throbbing in her skull, “Patient’s gone to surgery.”

Amelia raised an eyebrow, “You’re not operating? You have privileges here and usually you never pass up the chance to operate.”

The older woman had taken a seat in a chair, her head falling into her hands as she felt her body weighed down with the emotions she had tried to fight off. She stayed quiet for a moment as she tried to collect herself, feeling her friend’s concerned stare drilling into her. Angela didn’t raise her head to look at Amelia and her reply was muffled.

“Can’t operate. Not on her.”

“Who?”

Angela sighed, “The security chief with the traumatic amputation. She’s… uh… she’s my ex-girlfriend.”

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The first thing Fareeha was aware of when she woke up was the scent of disinfectant, which was so strong it felt like a hit to the face. The second thing she noticed was that her left arm was numb, and a quick glance down explained why. Her elbow was wrapped in a tight layer of bandages, but the rest of her lower arm was gone, an empty space on the bed where it should be. She recalled one of the nurses mentioning something about a traumatic amputation, but it had disappeared from her mind in a haze of adrenaline and pain medication. She was not too sure about much that had happened in the trauma room, to be honest; everything fuzzy with the weight of anesthetic. Now, though, the reality was hitting her; she was missing her left arm and might never fight again.

She felt a weight on her other arm and turned her head, much too fast which made her wince, and saw a familiar figure beside her. Angela Ziegler was there in all her glory, slumped over in a visitor’s chair that had been pulled as close to the bed as possible. She was fast asleep, her hand clutching tightly to Fareeha’s remaining one as if she would disappear if Angela let go. She was still clad in her beige scrubs, her rumpled white coat having been discarded over the back of the chair, and her hair was a mess, tumbling over her shoulders as if it had fallen from its haphazard knot. Despite her clear exhaustion and disheveled state, Fareeha would never be over how beautiful the Swiss woman was, and she felt her heart clench painfully as she remembered how bittersweet this reunion was.

Their breakup was not exactly a bad one; there had not been any ill feelings or fights. It was mostly a mutual decision out of necessity rather than falling out of love. Fareeha had been an exchange student in Switzerland back in her second year of University. She soon met Angela, a quiet and calculated med student well on her way to her degree. They quickly became friends and improved their English together as a means of communication. Like so many cliché love stories, their friendship grew closer until it was more than that. They dated for a while, Fareeha staying in Switzerland longer than her exchange had been for, and they were happy. Thing were good and Angela even made solid plans to visit her girlfriend the next summer in Egypt when she undoubtably would have to go home.

When Fareeha went back to Egypt, they made long distance work for a while and it was still okay. It was when the Egyptian woman told her girlfriend she would be joining the army that Angela knew things wouldn’t work out, not then anyway. They were too far apart and she needed to focus on her career, Fareeha’s military service would leave her plagued by fear for her partner’s safety and distract her from the hospital. Fareeha proposed a break, understanding Angela’s point of view but knew the older woman would never stop her from doing what she wanted. Angela had let her go without a fight and they parted ways, though there had been many tears on both sides and a long skype call of apologies and regrets.

They had stayed in touch at first, friendly and civil, but soon grew apart. Mostly due to Fareeha’s training and deployments, which prohibited her from using her phone often. Eventually their correspondence lulled until it stopped all together. It had been maybe three years since they last spoke by then and Fareeha was completely overwhelmed by the doctor’s presence. The fact that she was here though, since she must she have had work to be doing, was reassuring. It made her feel safe to have Angela here, especially since her mind threatened to swallow her in a whirlwind of memories and trauma. Though it didn’t stop the panic completely, Angela being there was enough to keep her from falling deep into her head in that moment.

The effects of the anesthetic were wearing off, though she still felt groggy from the IV of what she assumed was morphine. She certainly wasn’t complaining about the drugs though, since she knew her pain would have been almost blinding without the steady flow of pain relief into her bloodstream. Now that her head was clearer, Fareeha tried her hardest to distract herself from the overwhelming numbness she felt on her left side. She felt as though maybe the fact that she had had a traumatic amputation hadn’t sunk in completely beforehand, but now that the pain was breaking through her hazy mind, she felt the panic over the topic rising.

Thinking about it only made it worse, Fareeha noted, but she couldn’t stop herself. Left in the silent and bland hospital room to her own devices, her head was filled with memories from the accident as they all flooded back. The yell of shock that left her friend Noor as she realized too late that she stepped on an unmarked mine. The way she had thrown herself to grab her friend but had been too late to stop the damage. The force of the explosion that sent them all flying backwards. It all came back in a rush, overwhelming her beyond belief.

Her head was aching, she had a concussion if she remembered correctly, and she just wanted to go back to sleep. Sleep would surely bring nightmares now, though, and the solider was not sure how much more panic she could handle at that point. Fareeha tried to focus her mind on Angela instead, observing her sleeping form languidly in an attempt to keep herself calm. She gave the doctor’s hand a gentle squeeze, more as reassurance for herself than anything, and it caused the other woman to stir.

“Fareehali?” the nickname was mumbled and tired, followed by a string of words in German that Fareeha was unable to place properly. It had been too long since she head or spoke in Swiss-German, her third language, and she was too out of it to recognize what the doctor said. Hearing her voice was reassuring though, even though the sleepily mumbled words pricked at her heart more than she would like to admit; mind flooded with memories of their past. This time she wasn’t waking up in their shared bed next to the beautiful doctor, who was too tired to speak in anything but her mother tongue but still greeted Fareeha good morning with gentle kisses and a strong hug. This time she was injured and in the hospital, Angela was her doctor and they had been broken up for over half a decade. Thing were bittersweet, she sighed to herself, and this was certainly not how she imagined their reunion.

“Hi, Angie,” Fareeha replied as the blonde lifted her head, her grip on the other woman’s hand not faltering for a moment. It took a little while for Angela to wake up properly, her unruly hair sticking to sleep-flushed cheeks as she lifted her free hand to rub at her eye. After a moment though, she seemed to jump back into doctor mode.

“How’s your pain?” she questioned, glancing over at the machine beside the bed to check Fareeha’s vital signs. Fareeha couldn’t help but smile weakly at the focused look on her face, thinking she looked downright adorable when she was fussing over her like this. Perhaps an inappropriate thought for a soldier being treated for traumatic injuries, Fareeha would just blame her gay brain winning over logic for that though.

Fareeha shrugged weakly, “Can’t feel my arm,” she nodded pointedly to the bandaged stump that was propped up on a pillow as if it wasn’t obvious. She tilted her head back into the pillows and winced a little, “Head hurts.”

Angela frowned at that, reaching up to absentmindedly smooth her messy dark hair down, “I’m sorry, Fareeha.”

“Nothing anyone could do.”

“you… threw yourself in front of the explosion?”

Fareeha flinched but nodded all the same, “Not my finest idea. It seemed like the right thing to do though; I had to protect those kids. Dumbasses, the lot of them, but at the end of the day they’re good soldiers.”

Angela shook her head, “You could have died, Fareeha.”

“I could die any day, Angie. That’s how this line of work goes.”

“But…” Angela’s eyes were full of pain as she stared at her, “I can’t lose you… not again, Fareehali.”

That confession had Fareeha pausing, taken aback by the statement. It had been three years since they last spoke, six since they broke up, yet by that admission it sounded like Angela hadn’t let her go completely. Maybe she had not let Angela go either, still, that was a loaded statement and the solider was unsure of how to reply.

“Angela…” Fareeha spoke gently, though her tone was guarded, “It’s been so long.”

The blonde scoffed, blue eyes holding a challenging edge to their stare, “And? That doesn’t mean anything… I miss you, Fareeha. When I saw you in the trauma bay earlier, it was like my worst fear being realized before my eyes. If you had died down there or in surgery, I don’t know if I could have handled it.”

The Egyptian woman felt her heart sink as tears welled in Angela’s eyes. She hated seeing her in pain, hated that she couldn’t fix it immediately. The older woman had always been so strong, so calculated and sure of herself, so to see her now close to tears and almost shaking; it made Fareeha want to cry as well.

“I’m sorry,” Fareeha’s voice was barely above a whisper, “I didn’t want to leave you… I didn’t want to scare you like this.”

“I know…” Angela mumbled, hiding behind her curtain of blonde hair. She laughed at her own emotional behaviour and swiped at the tears on her cheeks, “This is so unprofessional of me.”

“Angie… how long have you been in Egypt?”

Angela looked at her with a sheepish smile, “Two weeks. We’re here for a couple months, unless something severe happens.”

Fareeha nodded, “Did you… think about contacting me?”

“I did, actually,” Angela laughed a little, “I contacted your mother. I wasn’t sure if you still had the same phone number so I found Ana though the trauma centre’s records, she works here sometimes, yeah?”

“Not as often as she used to but yeah. I haven’t talked to her in a while to be honest.”

“Fareeha!” Angela shook her head, “Call your mother for once, dumbass. She misses you.”

“I know”

The doctor sighed and observed her for a moment, “I… miss you.”

“Angie,” Fareeha sighed, watching her with pain in her eyes.

“I do.”

“I know” Fareeha said again, “I miss you too.”

Angela was holding onto her hand again, silent tears streaking down her cheeks. Fareeha tugged on her hand until she took the hint, slouching down so the soldier could wrap her arm around her. Angela melted against her strong body, trying to be careful and avoid straining her injuries. It felt safe like this, something neither woman had felt properly in years; the familiarity and warmth that came with the desperate embrace. This was the comfort both had missed so dearly, something the doctor had let go of out of fear of the unknown. Yet here they were six years later, the only reassurance they found from the unknown being in each other’s arms.

“Promise me,” Angela mumbled into her shoulder, “That you won’t scare me like this again. I can’t lose you, not after all this.”

“Angela, you couldn’t handle the distance last time…”

“I don’t care,” the Swiss woman wore her stress and exhaustion on her face as she lifted her head, “I’ll do whatever it takes this time. I’ll stay here if I have to, transfer all my work here. I can’t leave you, Fareeha, certainly not like this.”

“I-” Fareeha took a shaky breath, “You mean that?”

“Whatever it takes,” Angela’s tone was serious and firm, a sure nod punctuating her tearful words. Fareeha knew she wasn’t lying and she knew from experience that Angela never broke her promises. She also knew that the blonde was the most stubborn, head-strong woman she had the pleasure of meeting.

“Okay.”

“O-okay?”

“I promise,” Fareeha concluded as she held tightly onto the woman who had truthfully never stopped being the object of her affection, “I won’t leave you again.”

That admission made Angela burst into tears again, holding tightly to the younger woman as her whole body shook with a mixture of relief and emotion. Fareeha just held her as best she could, pressing a cautious kiss to the Swiss woman’s forehead, apologizing so quietly it was almost inaudible. It was an apology for a lot of things, leaving her; scaring her; not being there to protect and love Angela for all those years. Angela just scoffed and told her to shut up, returning her affection with a gentle kiss on the lips that held six years of pain, regret, and love.

Even though the future was terrifying and their reunion was as bittersweet as reunions go, none of that seemed to matter in that moment. All that mattered was the promise of safety and comfort they had found in each other all those years ago, a promise that felt stronger than any war, IED, or distance that threatened to separate them again.

#i finally have time to write again i need to write the next chap of foolish girl #overwatch #angela ziegler #mercy #fareeha amari #pharah #pharmercy #overwatch fanfic #pharmercy fan fiction #overwatch fan fiction #my fics #ptsd tw #military tw #hospital tw #amputation tw

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reyphorian · 4 years

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based on what happened in growing pains i can safely conclude that steven deals with the gem (or hybrid gem?) equivalent of fibromyalgia

he’s undergone immense stress from countless traumatic events and the mental shock of it all finally being over at the same time all of his loved ones are parting ways to move forward in their lives, also triggering depression, both of which can be triggers for developing fibromyalgia

having gone through a lot of traumatic events growing up and struggling with depression since i was 10, i was diagnosed with C-PTSD in july and then in august with fibromyalgia. i’m not even sure how long i’ve dealt with chronic pain but if i had to guess, probably around when i turned 16, about the same time i was getting deeper into involvement with a couple of people who put me through a lot of abuse. it wasn’t until about 2 years ago that i realized i was actually in a lot of pain all the time but i had no idea what was causing it. once i was able to see a rheumatologist i was diagnosed and she told me stress can exacerbate the pain, so management of it would be important.

ever since then i’ve noticed that whenever i cry i spend about a day afterward feeling like my whole body is as tender as a gourmet chicken nugget. doesn’t matter what i cry about, if it’s a movie or a breakdown or anything that would make me cry, i still feel so tender everywhere. if i’ve been dealing with a lot of anger and frustration my body aches. when my cat passed away about two weeks after i was diagnosed i realized my pain has gotten significantly worse because losing him was very traumatic experience to me.

in steven’s case, his gem fibro takes the form of his physical appearance being altered. he turns into pink steven pretty much any time he feels stressed out and his body starts growing uncontrollably when dealing with distressing situations like connie rejecting his proposal. because of his extensive emotional and physical trauma (this can also be a trigger for fibro) he’s developed C-PTSD and depression and as his mind is trying to cope with a suddenly drastic change in life, his body is taking this all out on itself. we can kinda see this in pink pearl too, although her situation isn’t a widespread problem (maybe a little closer to complex regional pain syndrome?).

i really liked the way his C-PTSD was being directly addressed too, like steven going over all the traumatic events in his life starting with the most mild things only to list more that increase in severity till it hit how much trauma happened. it’s something i went through and it’s something i’ve seen friends go through as they start to actually look back at these events and start to realize that was all trauma. it’s a pretty realistic portrayal, and it’s really comforting to see not only C-PTSD being discussed but also to see someone talking about how childhood trauma can even affect the body and can cause physical problems when responding to future stress, even for small things. it’s so meaningful to feel like my own struggles with fibromyalgia and C-PTSD are being represented on a tv show that’s so popular among so many age groups and it’s so important to be teaching kids about these things and creating a dialogue about it.

#au79 data log #steven universe #steven universe future #suf #growing pains #fibromyalgia #ptsd #c-ptsd #complex post traumatic stress disorder #complex trauma disorder #childhood ptsd #chronic pain

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mytearsrricochet · 5 years

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Tw suicide—do not read if you are easily triggered by mentions of suicide.

This isn’t for anything in particular, but I feel comfortable sharing my story after a really long time of being silent. Yesterday was suicide prevention/awareness day so I feel like i should speak about my own life.

The first two pictures are from 2014-15. I was 15/16 years old at the time. During this time period, I attempted suicide twice.

These weren’t my first attempts. In 2011, I attempted suicide. I was 12 years old. I swallowed a lot of pills because I was in a horrifying situation. My father was slipping into alcoholism and was dating an abusive woman who would be the reason I was later diagnosed with PTSD. I have a very scary childhood that we don’t have time to unpack, but I was a severely depressed child. I told everyone it was an accident, but it was a very Meredith Grey moment. It wasn’t that I was necessarily trying to die, but I was gonna see if I could maybe experiment with how many pills I could take.

Around the times the first two pics were taken, I was in a severely abusive relationship that would ultimately last 4 years and still has a strong hold on me and my self esteem even though it ended 3 years ago. This person was a pathological liar with a vile need to control and manipulate me. I was only 13 years old when we started dating; I had no idea it would lead to what it became. I don’t even know if it started off that way. I’ve repressed a lot of moments from my relationship because they’re truly too traumatizing. Because of this relationship, I was emotionally unstable enough that it became a catalyst for two more suicide attempts. I was suffering from anorexia and undiagnosed mental illnesses. My father was relapsing (he is an alcoholic who continues to relapse even today). My mother had cut me out of her life. My two friends at the time were manipulative and would threaten suicide if I didn’t do certain things like drink with them, which at the time was a trigger for me that set off panic attacks. I was so lonely. It was destroying me. Every single day was the hardest one I had experienced. I thought dying was the only way to go. I stashed sleeping pills and painkillers in my closet in between my attempts just in case I wanted to try again. And for both attempts, no one knew. I just vomited or dealt with severe abdominal pain for days and said I had caught a bug. My grandma eventually got me to go to therapy in a very healthy way, and I encourage everyone to allow people to seek help in their own ways on their own time. It helped immensely that I wasn’t forced but rather talked to about it.

Thankfully when I was 17, my relationship ended. It was heartbreaking at the time, but I handled it pretty well. Unfortunately a few months later, I fell back into a depressive episode that I didn’t know would happen. I overdosed on painkillers. But for some reason, my body went into survival mode and I panicked. I tried to wake up my dad and tell him that I had overdosed and needed to go to the hospital, but he didn’t listen. He said I was fine. And I was after a couple days, but that was one of my grand awakenings. My future started looking up as I committed to a great university. I found many great new friends.

Unfortunately during my freshman year of college, I was at a building on campus when a student jumped from the parking garage attached to the building. Knowing that I was so close to a suicide attempt sent me into another episode. Within 3 days, there were two more suicide attempts from jumping from a parking garage on campus. It was a MASSIVE deal, and I go to a school with over 50,000 students. At the same time, I got some of the worst news of my life that i still don’t feel comfortable sharing. I became extremely close to attempting suicide yet again, but my friends were there for me in ways no one ever had been. They stayed with me while I grieved and made sure I left my dorm room when they noticed I hadn’t.

My friends became my family, and I am proud that it has been almost three years since my last attempt (almost two years since my almost attempt). I am still suffering from depression, anxiety, and PTSD. But I am so much happier. I’m more than halfway done with getting my degree and am only about a year away from getting my licensure. I am starting a new position as an intern for a reproductive justice group that will allow me to work with the community around my university to pass pro-choice legislation. I have been on better terms with most of my family and have even come around to forgiving certain people for the things they did to me. I live in a new city and share a house with 5 of my best friends. I relapse sometimes and sink into episodes or allow my eating disorder to take control. I’ve had a hard time lately. But I am so so so happy that my hard times are now met with support from my friends rather than pills from my closet. I included the last two pictures because this is who I am now, laughing in gardens with my sorority sisters and smiling whenever I can. I won’t tell you it gets better because you’ve heard that before and some days are still difficult. But I don’t feel like it’s my duty to die and end my suffering. I now feel like it’s manageable. That didn’t happen overnight or with no help. I went to therapy for years, got on antidepressants and anxiety meds, and formed a strong support system. It’s not an easy road to take but it’s the only one.

Thank you for reading and letting me share my story even though it was hard and emotionally taxing for me to type out. I really hope if you’re reading this you take something away from it. Love you all 💕

#whew this was hard #tw suicide #text

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giftofshewbread · 5 years

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PTSD Versus My Hope of Forever

: By Jonathan Brentner Published on:November 2, 2018

My expectations of Jesus’ imminent appearing and a joyous eternity with Him are not simply things about which I enjoy writing; they are deeply personal to me. They provide an incentive to keep using my gifts to serve the Lord amidst disappointments, failures, and even fierce opposition.

My hope of forever also keeps my perspective balanced between now and forever by reminding me that eternal realities are so much more valuable than the fleeting things of this life. That, however, was a lesson I learned the hard way!

It took the Lord working through much pain and chaos in my life to change my earthbound outlook on life and through that to put me on the path of healing in my battle with PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder).

I am not an expert on PTSD (far, far from it). I share my experiences so that I might help others who may also be struggling with lingering anxieties and deep wounds from their past.

My Nightmarish Experiences While a Pastor

I am not a veteran of war and I fully realize that survivors of combat experience much more severe PTSD symptoms than I can imagine. My struggles have deepened my empathy for those men and women who bravely served our country facing the nightmarish terrors of war and now suffer the consequences.

My nightmare occurred during my second pastorate. Everything went well for a couple of years, and then everything changed as I encountered harsh criticism regarding my preaching and ministry. Although I tried to improve, it seemed as though, the harder I tried to please my critics, the more mistakes I made and the opposition grew more aggressive.

One of the older women in the church voiced the disapproval of several in the church with these biting words: “You’re ministry is a joke!” She repeated this accusation after countless evening services making sure everyone heard her. Some in the church defended me, but that did not deter her loud outbursts that still ring in my ears.

The opposition at church added financial pressure to my predicament; some stopped giving at the insistence of those who believed I had failed as a pastor. This intensified the pressure I felt to make things happen (never a good motivation to say the least). The harder I tried to bring about the required church growth, the more I failed.

The financial woes at church added considerable stress to an already tense situation at home. My wife had earlier fallen into a deep depression with major mood swings. I tried to encourage her, but my efforts fell far short. I did not understand what was happening or why she had become so angry with me in such a short amount of time.

I felt like a ball in a pinball machine bouncing between angry outbursts at home and hostility at the church. As the clanging of each bounce grew louder, I became increasingly fearful of my future. However, rather than face my anxieties, I buried them deep within me. Somehow I would make everything work and come out on top. That did not happen.

As opposition to my ministry intensified, I resigned from the church and continued working at a factory, a job I had begun over a year earlier as attendance at the church had dwindled.

Although I loved preaching about prophecy, I valued my success as a pastor over my life in eternity. As a result, I barely survived the trauma of being forced to leave the job I dearly loved.

Months after my resignation, my wife admitted to a lengthy romance with my closest friend and my strongest advocate amidst my turmoil as a pastor. He had stopped by many times to encourage me during my turmoil as a pastor, and now he had betrayed me.

This disclosure stunned me as nothing else could have done. I remember long walks crying out to the Lord, nights without sleep but full of tears, and deep, piercing emotional pain I believed would never end. Even at work, I often could not stop the tears from flowing down my cheeks.

I wanted to run far, far away from God, from His people, and from everything life seemed to be. Looking back, I realize it was my unwavering belief in Jesus’ resurrection that kept me from running; I knew I had nowhere else to go to find life.

A Respite from the Grief

As the shock wore off, I returned to school at The University of Iowa the following year to pursue an MBA degree. My emphasis in finance and accounting proved to be a good fit for me.

Through a series of promotions during the next several years, I moved up from a second shift data entry operator to a position as Senior Financial Analyst at the company I had begun working at while in school. I found surprising enjoyment in being a number cruncher; I loved my new career of managing the finances for various government contracts.

I soon forgot about the ugliness of my past as I pursued success in the business world.

My walk with the Lord gradually deepened during this time. I continued to write adult Sunday school curriculum for David C. Cook, something I started during my final year as a pastor (and continue to this day).

During this time of spiritual renewal, however, I remained unaware of the powerful fears that raged below the surface of my consciousness, waiting to ambush me at the worst possible time.

Terrors in the Night

Many years later, I met a woman whom I thought was the answer to my loneliness. She was not. Our marriage got off to a rocky start and never recovered. My wife’s discontentment with me caused a renewal of past anxieties inside me that caused much conflict in our relationship.

My counselor at the time diagnosed my symptoms as PTSD; he said my panic attacks stemmed from unresolved fears from long ago, especially during the tumultuous years of my second pastorate and conflict at home. Remarriage and the problems in our relationship had reopened and aggravated old wounds buried inside me.

It was the perfect storm. I came into the marriage with buried anxieties from my past, and my wife entered with high expectations stemming from deep wounds in her previous marriage. My struggles shattered her trust in me; her angry response to my issues and her frequent verbal abuse inflamed my PTSD symptoms. She wanted what she had with her previous husband, which I could not give her.

She spoke often of her desire to leave me. For more than a year, I resisted her pleas for a separation. Eventually, however, I realized I had no other choice but to go along with her plan that we sell our home and live separate lives.

As the turmoil at home grew, my panic attacks intensified. At times, these assaults sprang up out of nowhere. I remember feeling completely peaceful one night as I fell asleep. Then, at 3 a.m., I woke up overwhelmed in a state of great terror. What was happening to me? How could I feel so fearful apart from any conscious worry or threat?

On this particular occasion, I battled the anxiousness with Scripture and prayer for an hour before I again felt the Lord’s peace in my heart. I also began to recognize the devil’s role in these attacks as he sought to take advantage of my weakness that night.

A Song Restores My Eternal Focus

During this time, I attended a Steve Green concert. As I walked into the auditorium that evening, I knew my life was over. Thoughts of my failures as a pastor and husband plagued me night and day.

I will never forget, however, the way God spoke to me that night at the concert. As Steve Green introduced one of his songs, In Brokenness You Shine, I heard the Lord speak these words into my heart, “Jonathan, this is for you.” After that, it seemed as though the crowded auditorium became strangely vacant and Steve was singing only to me.

The lyrics pierced my soul that evening and ignited the process through which the Lord calmed my fears and healed the deep wounds of my heart. Jesus caused hope to come alive in my heart again just as the words to In Brokenness You Shine said He would do.

My renewed anticipation of a joyous forever seemed more than enough to get me through this life even if my circumstances never improved or even got worse. After the concert, I wrote about my hope of eternity and how that eclipsed my feelings of despair and fears regarding my earthly future.

It was not that any of my beliefs regarding my future hope changed; they hadn’t. However, I learned to give eternal realities more weight than my troubles – something Paul wrote about in Romans 8:18. As I shifted my ultimate hopes to forever, the Lord opened my heart to His healing touch.

It still took time for the Lord to heal the deep wounds of my past that continued to cause the middle of the night attacks. I later read a book written by John Eldredge entitled Wild at Heart. The Lord used the words of this book to give me a strategy for dealing with the devil’s assaults.

Rather than flee from the fears of my past, I stood my ground, asking the Lord for insight into the wounds causing them.

I remember one night in particular when the Lord used a significant panic attack to reveal the nature of my deepest wound: a long-held inner conviction of being unlovable, unworthy of love, and as a result unwanted by others. This wound began during the bullying I experienced in high school and deepened significantly with the betrayal I felt during the time of my second pastorate as everything caved in on me. My attacks were but a symptom of deep wound inside my soul.

This disclosure became a significant turning point as my panic attacks diminished both in frequency and intensity.

A Touch of the Savior’s Love

In the lyrics to In Brokenness You Shine, Steve Green used the phrase “your love surrounds.” He sang of the Lord coming to us in our grief and lovingly staying with us regardless of what others might say or do.

These words came alive for me a few years after the Steve Green concert.

After work one day, I went for a long run listening to songs of praise on my iPad Shuffle. Later, I spent time alone with the Lord in my prayer closet. Because recent events had caused anxieties regarding my future to resurface, I began my time of prayer by submitting my future anew to the Lord.

A few moments later, I asked the Lord this question: “If you were seated right here next to me in this closet, what would you say to me?”

Before I finished the question, I heard his response in my soul: “I love you!” Tears streamed down my face from both joy and amazement.

The touch of my Savior’s love that night vanquished all the remaining effects of PTSD.

My Story

This is my story of how the Lord delivered me from PTSD. It’s not a pretty story; but then again, my life shows how God can use the worst of times for His glory and bring joy out of great sorrow, feelings of hopelessness, and utter failure. The Lord can shine His light on the ugliest of circumstances and make the shattered pieces of a badly broken life shine again. It took time, but He did that for me.

As a young pastor, I could cite 20 reasons why I believed in the pretribulation rapture; but sadly, I placed a greater worth on the success I could achieve than on my hope of eternity. Once the Lord broke my fierce, self-centered pride through failure, suffering, and loss, I learned the importance of valuing my expectation of heaven over earthly success and accomplishments (see 2 Cor. 4:17-18).

The Lord in His great mercy and grace has restored my life in remarkable ways. First, after many more years of loneliness and singleness I married Ruth, who is the kindest and most loving woman I have ever met. I thank the Lord every day for His steadfast love in bringing her into my life. Second, the Lord opened up a writing ministry for me as a blogger and author.

Psalm 30:5 aptly sums up my life: “For his anger is but for a moment, and his favor is for a lifetime. Weeping may tarry for the night, but joy comes in the morning.”

Jonathan Brentner

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deathordecaf · 6 years

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A (not so) Brief Introduction

Hello to you, entirely hypothetical reader!

My Name is Alessa —or rather that is the name I will be using for the sake of privacy. You see my intention with this blog is two-fold:

To share the information & tools I have learned regarding mental health, in an accessible format for myself, those like me, and those who wish to simply satiate their curiosity.

To keep a record for reflection on my personal journey, in an attempt to provide myself with some perspective on my conditions and appreciate the progress being made, as all too often we are blind to our progress when we need to recognise it most.

As such some of the entries here may be, well, personal. This may not be just so for me, but to those close to me as well. So for the sake of privacy pseudonyms will be used.

But enough waffling! This brief introduction is rapidly growing in length, so in no particular order here are a few key things about me that may provide context to myself as the narrator of this blog:

I am 25 rapidly approaching 26 —making me practically a fossil in Tumblr terms

I come from the land down under

I have a very Australian attitude to swearing in that I often fail to notice I’m swearing at all. Those who to umbrige to so-called “strong language” may not appricate my liberal usage in writting.

I was Diagnosed with Generalised anxiety & OCD at approx. 15yrs

I was also diagnosed with ADHD (ADD at the time) and like many 90′s kids (particularly girls), my parent did not take this to be a legitimate concern and neither treated nor informed me of my condition before they themselves forgot that incident entirely!

I have been on and off a number of antidepressants since my GAD diagnosis. Predominately SSRIs with a couple SNRIs threw in for good measure.

SSRIs and SNRIs show mixed to no results until I was in my early 20s when the newest pills on the block would (after making me disoriented and sick for a week) make me feel fan-fucking-tasic! For About a month or so before my inevitable plumment into my realisation, once again, that i was in fact human garbage & hiding under my desk until the fear subsided in another few month.

I do not like taking SSRIs; it’s not them, it it’s me.

I was bullied ruthlessly in primary school In an attempt to escape the constant bullying we tried changing my school, this was an abject failure and I returned to my previous school and dealt with the bullying I knew.

By the time I reach high school I developed a 0% drama policy, made A number of close friends

I took a Gap year after high school, to really wallow in depression for the first time and ensure that I cut with as many of my social ties as possible, before they realised the truth that i was actual human garbage.

Despite not correctly completing enough qualifying subject in my senior year of High School to apply for university; I took an “alternative pathway to study” test the year following my graduation and scored in the top 5% percent of participants and then enrolled in an art programme in University the following year.

I began a perpetual cycle of dropping in and out of university and working until I became frustrated with my lack of direction or purpose, then returning to study again.

I studied Sociology partially because it interested my and partially because I thought I was to emotional to study psychology like I wanted.

I realised I would never leave this cycle without ongoing professional help.

I was sexually assaulted and had a complete mental breakdown and finally sought the help I needs.

I was now suspecting my Dysthymic + GAD +subclinical OCD combo I’d been labeled with was less than accurate and went to a Psychiatrist for a differential diagnosis

I was was diagnosis with ADHD (again, but this was news to me) and my Psychiatrist agreed the after somewhere in the vicinity of 6+ variety of SSRI was a good enough sample sizes to say they were a good Fit.

I begin taking dexamphetamine (for ADHD + off label depression treatment) and Mirtazipine (for anxiety + chronic insomnia I have had since childhood)

Thing start getting better

Now here’s the “good” bit

I have a job a love

I’ve decided paying for education is for suckers

I’m planning to start a new business to run while working this current jobs (i already have 2)

I’m working on two art projects

My partner and I are living together for the 2nd year so I now know he won’t leave randomly (because that’s definitely NOT a thing i have immense fear around as a result of a number of traumatic events that I’m pretending to not be effected by)

I’ve finally committed to being a vegetarian

dropped 10kgs

I’m hardly sleeping

I’m bursting with amazing ideas

Secretly convinced I’m going to change the world or at the very least Australia (because I’ve got to be “realistic”

I feel amazing, people love me, I love me

So because I’m finally “normal”, i decide i don’t need therapy anymore I’ve decided I CAN BE MY OWN THERAPIST JUST AS WELL!

I’ve even done the “responsible” (please read: deluded) thing and doubled my Mirtazipine dose myself (with out having to waste my doctors time) to help me sleep again, although this doesn’t work so I start combining it with alcohol to knock myself out (this is also increasing)

I’M FINALLY MAKING UP FOR LOST TIME! WHAT COULD POSSIBLY GO WRONG?!

I am depressed

I am more depressed than I have even been

I am not eating because I don’t so the point

It takes me an entire day to sit up right

I keep trying to work, but it’s poor, the stripped my hours back to nothing

I’ve been thinking of hurting myself to try and let the negative feelings out, but i settle for writing nasty thing about myself on my skin and hiding them under my clothes as a reminder that I am human garbage.

We can no longer afford our rent so we move in with my partners parents.

I go to the general practitioner near by she doesn’t want to write a mirtazipine script but does, she asks if I’m okay... I confess I had planned on killing myself a few night ago while visiting my father and his new family and that I only stopped myself because I couldn’t guarantee my three half siblings wouldn’t find my body and be traumatised. I confess I still want to hurt myself and that a feel I am a burden. She wan’t me to go to the hospital immediately but I talk her into a referral instead on the provisor i check in a week later.

At first i hide the for my partner but I confess what happened and i week later i’ve packed my bags and gone to the hospital.

It’s a mess, they ignore me, constantly forget my name, and take my medication away until they can confirm with my psychiatrist that i’m telling the truth. At first all I do is sleep

I don’t realised it but this stress triggers another hypomanic episode, and as I am clearly no longer depressed... they let me go. They don’t notice I’m on a power trip and intentionally making them uncomfortable by mentioning their mistakes in front of my family and laughing about it to my partner.

The goes on for another two week i’m increasingly annoyed by people telling me to pace myself “can’t they see i’m fine?”

Until I experience my first mixed episode. I have never been so scared of myself in my entire life

I’m completely unhinged. Even my partner with all the patience in world sits beside me as body is wracked by sobbing and says “maybe your right. maybe you’re not going to get better” a little part of me dies.

But I’m determined, I’ve spent to last few months actually taking care of myself for the first time in years. I’ve gotten back in contact with my psychiatrist and see hm once a week.

We had concluded I have some degree of Bipolarity and c-PTSD in addition to the ADHD and anxiety.

My mirtazipine has been increased again and Yesterday I’ve started taking Limotrigine and a mood stabilisers

I’ve begun a DBT course (which is part of a university trail to verify the affectivity).

I’ve started learning to embrace slow routine, monitoring my moods and have been drinking in all the possible information I can on my condition

This bring us to now.

I’m still a work in progress but I’ve come a long way and I’m already doing so much better than just 3 months ago. I have decided I will study Psychology like I’ve alway wanted. But I’m not rushing myself to be ready and I will do limit myself to three subjects at a time instead of the typical 4.

Until then my goal everyday is to do 4 simple things:

Ride my exercise bike for 30mins a day

Water my plants as I’ve started a small garden to ground me

Shower once a day

Always to my meds

So that’s an overly long overly intamate look at me... so how are you?

#intoduction #bipolar #bipolar II #cyclothymia #cyclothymic #mental health #biography #tw:suicidal ideation #recovery #mental health recovery #hope #i want to get better #baby steps #death or decaf #me #personal

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wsmith215 · 4 years

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Mental health challenges during the coronavirus pandemic – 60 Minutes

Hundreds of millions of Americans are at home. Most of them don’t want to be. Simple choices about what to touch, where to walk and what to wear are fraught. More than 100,000 people have died worldwide, and fears of how much more those numbers could grow have stopped much of daily life. But the bills have not stopped coming, though the paychecks in some cases have. We don’t know when it will end. It’s a recipe for anxiety, stress, and grief which puts more of us than ever before in a struggle to stay well. The regimen of physical hygiene is well-established: wash your hands; stay six feet away, cover your face. But the rules for good mental hygiene are not as clear. Psychologists told us that after Americans get past the worst of it, the worst of it may not be over. There may be mental health aftershocks. It’s hard to predict, and living with that unpredictability is part of the challenge.

John Dickerson: What does it feel like when that phone rings?

Francesca Santacroce: We run and we pick it up right away. And we’re just waiting. Just we don’t know what to expect. We don’t know if they’re going to tell us good news or bad news. We’re just really anxious about it.

Francesca Santacroce

Francesca Santacroce is describing the daily update from the hospital treating her father Joseph, a COVID-19 patient on a ventilator. Before the coronavirus hit her home in the close residential neighborhood of Staten Island, New York, her father took care of the family while Francesca worked in a doctor’s office, saving money for medical school. A 23-year-old biomolecular sciences major, she is the first in her family to graduate college. But when we first interviewed her, at the approved distance, in her driveway two weeks ago, Francesca was shouldering her father’s duties, cooking, cleaning and caring for her 16-year-old sister, and mother, who needs five days a week of home dialysis. This video was shot by Francesca’s sister on a cellphone, after their mother was also diagnosed with COVID-19.

Francesca Santacroce: I literally feel like I’m about to shatter in a million pieces right now. I feel like one wrong move and I’m going to break. And I’m going to fall apart. But I know that I can’t. I can’t do that. Because I need to take care of my family right now.

John Dickerson: You’ve been doing this now for a week…

Francesca Santacroce: Yeah.

John Dickerson: How long do you think it’s going to last?

Francesca Santacroce: We don’t know. The doctors don’t. We don’t know. And I don’t care how long it takes, as long as he comes home.

Uncertainty. Anguish and hope. In the age of coronavirus, it’s not just Francesca who is straining. The pandemic that has rocked her family has touched nearly every American life.

Daniel Kaplin: In the last few weeks, I think, COVID has dominated all my sessions.

Daniel Kaplin

Daniel Kaplin is president of the New York State Psychological Association and Francesca’s therapist. He spoke to us with her permission.

John Dickerson: Everybody’s racing to get back to their previous lives. But once that moment comes, what psychological effects of this do you think will linger?

Daniel Kaplin: I don’t think the world’s going to be the same. I think the loss of jobs– even after the virus is gone, people are still going to struggle. They’re going to struggle with, “How am I going to pay my rent, my mortgage? How am I going to feed my family?” So, it’s going to be an ongoing stressor for many people in this country.

John Dickerson: And there’s also a psychological benefit to doing productive work–

Daniel Kaplin: Sure. Right. What do you do when a person had their identity taken away from them because they no longer can work?

John Dickerson: Their identity taken away from them and then they can’t move about to replace that identity with any other useful, purposeful activity.

Daniel Kaplin: Absolutely. Yeah.

John Dickerson: It’s a double whammy.

Daniel Kaplin: Yeah. It is.

Days blend together when so much of what used to distinguish them has been paused. Bridge club is on hold. Graduation ceremonies are cancelled. This week’s religious services have been virtual. Those who live alone are vulnerable, particularly the elderly. But Kaplin says we must all fight against the blurring of the days by establishing a routine.

John Dickerson: What happens if you don’t have routine?

Daniel Kaplin: When you don’t have that structure, that routine– can, for some people, reduce their motivation to do the activities that they still need to do, but from home. And long term, they can become overwhelmed, “Oh, I’m not accomplishing my goals.” And then they could spiral into a depression.

Many of us look for connection in social media and the news, but too much of that can be harmful. A preliminary study done in China after the outbreak found that high social media exposure nearly doubled one’s chances of depression and anxiety.

Dr. Yuval Neria: We know already from previous disasters that ongoing anxiety during trauma is a huge risk factor for PTSD and depression in the long term.

Yuval Neria is the director of trauma and post traumatic stress disorder at the New York State Psychiatric Institute. He’s a former Israeli tank commander whose own traumatic experiences in the 1973 Yom Kippur War informed his career studying the brains of veterans with PTSD.

Dr. Yuval Neria

Dr. Yuval Neria: The brain is really obsessed about identification of fear, you know, of what is safe and what is dangerous.

John Dickerson: And what I wonder about though, there is the part of the brain that is always alive to fear. Part of the brain that says, “It’s okay, don’t be fearful, you’ve been through this before.” But we’ve never been through this before so…

Dr. Yuval Neria: Oh, that’s so true what you just said, because most of us don’t have a comparable memory or set of memories that can serve our understanding of what’s going on right now.

Neria led research and training efforts in New York in the aftermath of the 9/11 attacks, which has led him to be particularly concerned about the health care workers on the front lines of this pandemic.

Dr. Yuval Neria: I mean we saw that after 9/11. We saw how many first responders really left out without sufficient medical care and psychiatric care.

John Dickerson: In New York City, at 7 o’clock, people open their windows, they applaud. But then what happens when the clapping stops?

Dr. Yuval Neria: Right.

Neria estimates that after 9/11, 1% to 5% of New Yorkers suffered from PTSD four years after the attack. He worries there will not be a plan or enough money this time to treat a similar share of a vastly greater population.

Dr. Yuval Neria: There is kind of almost like a honeymoon phase right now. There is consensus, high adrenaline, adrenaline, and let’s do it together. I think once this is ended, and we face the reality of the aftermath, coupled with financial difficulties and shortage of services– all of those things can rapidly elevate the risk for a second pandemic, which will be a mental health pandemic.

The cascading challenges were already falling on Francesca Santacroce, who was managing them through therapy. But the day after we first talked to her, the hospital called. Her father Joseph Santacroce passed away. He was 50 years old.

John Dickerson: Francesca, I’m very, very sorry about your father.

Francesa told us she had been unable to see or speak to her father in the hospital, but after he died, she was given permission to enter the intensive care unit. Francesca Santacroce: And they walked me through the ICU to see him. And just to see all those people on ventilators, it was really sad. As I walked in, the nursing staff, all the physicians, everyone who was on his case, they were– they were crying too. They were so upset and he looked like he was sleeping honestly. And I said to him, “I’m here. I’m going to take care of everyone. You know, and everyone’s in good hands. You know, I got this.” And I told him I loved him. And that he can, you know, that he can go to heaven and I’ll take care of everyone down here.

Francesca’s first task was taking care of her father’s belongings and his car which he had driven to the hospital.

John Dickerson: And what was going through your head, Francesca, as you were driving home?

Francesca Santacroce: I apologized to him.

John Dickerson: Apologized why?

Francesca Santacroce: I was so sad that he had to, you know, go through that alone. He had to spend his last– last week in quarantine, you know. He didn’t get to talk to us or see us. I wish that I was able to hug him one last time and tell him I loved him one last time and, you know, have him play a joke on me one last time. If I would’ve known that this was coming, I would’ve used that time more wisely.

Daniel Kaplin: One of the areas of guilt and regret is not being able to say good-bye.

John Dickerson: What do you think are the challenges that Francesca now faces?

Daniel Kaplin: She’s in her early 20s. She is not financially secure. Mom is medically fragile. Just the anxiety around, “How do you float the household,” and then long term– how does she take care of the family while truly pursuing her dreams?

Wynton Marsalis honors father on 60 Minutes

The day Francesca learned of her father’s death, jazz great Wynton Marsalis’ father checked into a hospital.

Wynton Marsalis: He was in New Orleans. John Dickerson: And you were in New York?

Wynton Marsalis: I was in New York. I was kind of torn between, if I go down there, he doesn’t have it, and I bring it to him, it’s going to be worse.

Four days later, Ellis Marsalis, a respected jazz musician and teacher, passed away from complications of COVID-19. He was 85 years old.

Wynton Marsalis: He just didn’t complain. He had a world view. He said, “Man, I don’t determine my time.” He said, “The fact that you lose a loved one is no more significant than all the other people who are losing loved ones.” And that was always his philosophy.

John Dickerson: We’re all part of the same human family.

Wynton Marsalis: He felt that. He believed it. He played it. He taught it. And– you know, and he accepted death in that way, also.

While Marsalis grieves, he is also responsible for Jazz at Lincoln Center, where he is managing and artistic director. The nonprofit has had to close its performance space and has lost millions of dollars. And Marsalis says things are even harder for freelance musicians.

Wynton Marsalis: My father was a freelance musician. If this had happened when we were growing up, we would literally just have to go from house to house on our street and– just to eat. This is a very serious time– for the survival of a lot of our musicians.

A man used to juggling projects, he once contributed to this broadcast, Marsalis has been touching base with musicians around the world and trying to raise money for Jazz at Lincoln Center and also for struggling artists. All of this returns him to the lessons of his father.

John Dickerson: So if he taught you about philosophy as much as about music– what would his advice be for this moment we are in, where we’re sitting in an empty theater, we don’t know when this is going to end, people are suffering.

Wynton Marsalis: You know, he would say, you know– “Where you at, man? What are you gonna do?” He said, “You talkin’ about doin’? You doin’? Do sumpin’. Let’s go.”

Wynton Marsalis with correspondent John Dickerson.

John Dickerson: So how does that work when you’re talking to all the people who are involved at Jazz at Lincoln Center, and you’re–

Wynton Marsalis: I say almost the same mantra. You know, we– we’re in a bad position. And we’re not going to get out of this overnight. But everybody is in our position. So let’s embrace this space. Let’s work on the trust that we’ve built up all of these years. Let’s go out and make stuff happen that we want to see happen, we have to move very fast, but we have to be even more process-oriented and more deliberate. And that’s how you master a moment of chaos. And that is also the strength of jazz.

John Dickerson: I was just going to say, jazz – all of that practice, and then in the moment, you have to be ready–

Wynton Marsalis: That’s right. You marshal all your forces.

John Dickerson: And be ready to improvise.

Wynton Marsalis: And be ready to meet the demands of that moment. Another thing that we say to each other is, “Let’s see if we are who we said we were before we had to deal with this.” When…

John Dickerson: And what does that mean?

Wynton Marsalis: When everything is normal, it’s easy for us to be full. Full of arrogance and commentary. Now we have to be for real. Our morality, our concept, our integrity, All these things are coming to bear in this moment.

John Dickerson: Because it’s a test.

Wynton Marsalis: Yeah, let’s see, man.

Wynton Marsalis: We have a tendency to hear all the negative. Everybody’s dying, this and that, skull and crossbones. There’s also this reaffirmation of what makes us great, not just as– people in a country, as human beings.

Recognizing the good amidst the sorrow is at the heart of the second-line funeral celebrations of Marsalis’ native Louisiana. When his mother died three years ago the jazz community took up their instruments. For Ellis Marsalis that celebration will be delayed.

John Dickerson: Since we’re here in this beautiful space, would you– like to play anything for your father?

Wynton Marsalis: Oh yeah, definitely.

John Dickerson: Yeah.

Wynton Marsalis: I’ll play something for him. I wanna– wanna lay down my burden down by the riverside.

Produced by Andy Court. Associate producer, Evie Salomon. Broadcast associate, Claire Fahy. Edited by April Wilson.

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#Coronavirus News

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tinselt-blog · 6 years

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The Letter I Wrote That I Should Never Have Written

This is what you need to know about me, I am the best friend of a suicide victim.

I wanted to make this post in a couple of months, but after the Logan Paul controversy, now felt like the right time. I lost someone very important to me on 8/15/2015, nearly two and a half years ago. As a result of this lost I developed something called Post Traumatic Stress Disorder or PTSD. Basically, I couldn’t cope with her loss and felt responsible for not speaking up on her behalf and being a better friend. She had once or twice briefly mentioned suicide, but me being ignorant thought that possibility was out of the question. If your best friend told you something like that in passing conversation, you wouldn’t necessarily want to believe it. After all, the joke I want to die, or I want to kill myself is so commonly used, the line between figuratively and reality mesh. I found out the news the following evening. I noticed she had been silent all day and that was very unlike her. I spent everyday with her leading up to this moment. The last night I had seen her she begged me to take random items home with me and I just kept saying next time, next time. My final words to her were, “bye bitch, see you tomorrow” and when tomorrow had come, an unexpected work event had come too. Going back to the day I had found out, I decided I was bored and went out for a walk with my dog. Something didn’t feel right and I had mentioned this to a mutual friend of ours who had agreed. As I was walking out the door, I could hear the house phone ringing and I didn’t really expect it to be anyone. As I turned into my driveway while coming home from the walk, I saw my parents standing by the front door and I just knew. I began to scream, and my dad had to pick me up and pull me into the house where he laid me on the couch. The night became so dark, everything became blurry. I don’t know how I made it to bed, I just knew I didn’t want to shut the light off. The moments leading up to her death were rocky. She had run away from home a couple months prior right before she turned 18. My uncle being state police, was able to issue an immediate amber alert and if you aren’t from the U.S., it’s an alert that goes out to all police in the area, sends out a text, basically for people to start looking. The issue with amber alerts is that you have to wait 72 hours for one to be issued, that’s just in case it was the child went over a friend’s house and didn’t call mom or dad, that sort of thing. I managed to get one out for her in less than 24 hours. It was apparent she had run away, she had left a suicide note at an old friend’s house, she had thrown out some of her artwork. My friend was not well, and I don’t talk about it because I know my part in the story could have been better.

Now to my PTSD. I first want to address that PTSD is a totally normal reaction, something I cannot help. It doesn’t not make me any less like you, it does not make me crazy, it does make me a bad person. I want anyone reading this to remember that if a solider came back with PTSD, you wouldn’t think it was out of the ordinary. So, with what I am about to openly talk about, I want you to know that I couldn’t prevent any of this from happening. When everything first happened, I became instantly afraid of the dark. I was never afraid of the dark as a child, never had a fear of dying in the middle of the night. For four months, I was so afraid something evil was out to get me and that by shutting off the light, I would see revenge facing me. This worried my family and I went to see someone and I was diagnosed with Acute Stress Disorder, the pre-PTSD. I, an ignorant soul once again, thought I was fine, but it kept spiraling and spiraling. I would have dreams where I would meet my friend in the waiting room of heaven and she wouldn’t speak, but she would hand me her suicide note and it would have my name scribbled all over it as the cause. I had dreams where her soul became a kraken and I was the ship she pulled underwater to drown. I would begin seeing things, a white rat running, a handkerchief falling, her as a child huddling. I couldn’t sleep, I was consumed. I would stay awake obsessing over why she did it, why she had to leave. I would search for news clippings, morgue documents, anything and I never found one single thing. My life wasn’t my life anymore.

It’s been two and a half years later, and that part of my life is over. I have the occasional nightmare, but beyond that I am doing well. So, to Logan Paul, I will give you some benefit of the doubt, maybe you were nervously laughing, maybe you were thinking you were helping, but know this, when you showed that body, I crumbled. I can go everyday and be fine, I can collect myself a lot faster than I could once, but I still get triggered. When you zoom in on the blue hands, I knew it was just that day, because my friend was found over 24 hours later and her fingers were black, and her lips were blue. When you make jokes about the man, you clearly have never held the hand of a dead girl, cold, lifeless, because her mom wants you to hold it. You have never seen someone’s mom jump in the casket as they tried to close it, because she knew she would never see her daughters face again. You have never had to put a handful of soil on your best friend’s coffin. You have never once, never once had to feel responsible. I see those memories enough, I don’t need to repeat them. Go fuck yourself.

#blog #jake paul #suicide awareness #story #ptsd #mental health

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finsterhunde · 4 years

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Explaining what happened

So I figured I would explain what pushed me to how low I got in a traumatic spiral these couple months, more so for future reference than anything.

I wanted photos and memories about my first childhood dog Spot. In the process my mother dug up a ton of traumatic repressed memories that I’m not yet strong enough to face. It also turns out that she had been lying about the death of my last childhood dog, causing additional pain when I found her out.

Having old memories dug back up is extremely damaging to my mental state. I wanted cute little facts about my puppy that I would have been too young to remember. Instead what she told me brought back flashes of abuse.

This escalated and what finally pushed me over the edge was that I started going back to my old compulsive rituals; the worst one being the need to check up on my birth father online, seeing where he was in the country, what he was doing, if he was alive, etc.

Now this originally was something that had a purpose. The divorce was extremely messy. And when he was kicked out of the house and we were in the process of changing the locks we were living in terror that he could come back at any time with a firearm and mow us down. He was threatening us, threatening to abduct us kids, and he had made severe violent threats in the past. As of 4 years ago he actually assaulted an RCMP officer. So he definitely was still capable of violence at the time. He used to have an extensive gun collection.

Checking up on him was a safeguard. If he didn’t know where I was, if he wasn’t where we were, we were safe. But gradually I stopped needing to do this. I ran away and lived with a friend. My mom and brother moved. He wouldn’t know where any of us lived.

But of course, that’s not how trauma is. Trauma is complicated and that was one of my safety rituals. To compulsively check his social media. Just in case.

He got old and obese and pathetic. He has a heart attack pretty much every year. He’s nothing short of a reanimated corpse at that point.

But in my traumatized brain I’m still that tiny malnourished boy and he’s still that hulking behemoth of a man. Just like in a nightmare where you can’t fly and no matter how fast you run you move at a snail’s pace. My rational mind knows I could easily overpower him, but my instincts tell me he’s as dangerous as he was 10 years ago.

Gradually though I began to heal as I lived with my friend. And I didn’t feel the compulsive need to make sure he wasn’t an immediate threat.

Until now. When my mother started opening old wounds.

A couple days ago I had an uncontrollable compulsive need to check his social media again.

And found some horrible stuff.

He’d been making creepy threatening status updates every year on my birthday, discussing how he wanted to find me “wherever I was...”

and he wrote “music” with lyrics about enacting the vengeance of god, thunder and brimstone and all that.

He threatened to kill any of the RCMP officers he is convinced are “hunting” him.

And in my desire to document evidence like I did with Wannabe, still not waking up from this maladaptive safety ritual of “knowing your enemy” I went through his four different facebook pages screenshotting things.

And it just got worse.

He posted photos of himself at my age, and I realized that I don’t take after Mark Hamill like I say I do. I take after him.

I mean, I figured. But it was very upsetting to see photos of him as an older teen and pretty much see a non-sickly version of myself staring back at me. He was actually handsome. Could I have looked like that if I wouldn’t have been neglected and abused the way I was? Not to mention the disgust I feel at resembling such an evil man.

He had photos of him as a child and he bragged in the comment section about how he abused his dog and “made them crazy” and knowing he was like that even at a young age sickens me.

He idolizes his horrifically abusive dead father. I’d even argue there’s evidence that his dad was a straight up war criminal. There’s photos of the two together where he’s a toddler and his dad is holding him while smoking. It was disgusting.

He’s racist, a trump supporter (in Canada for some reason???) threatened violence against members of a political party here and again, the rampant “vengeance of my god” lunacy.

He was making posts about how the RCMP “attacked him” for being Christian.

For reference the RCMP had a warrant for his arrest and he assaulted an officer so they took defensive action. They had a warrant for his arrest because he threatened them when they earlier that week seized some of his electronics. (they had a warrant for that too)

The official statement for why they were arresting him was because they considered him mentally unwell and a threat to the safety of others.

So knowing that it’s much easier to tell why the RCMP were after him. Having the context paints and entirely different picture doesn’t it?

The case against him is still confidential but apparently he also had the police called on him numerous times for his behavior where he lived at the time. He frequently complained about how the community was “bullying him” for being an outsider.

He also says that they considered him mentally ill for “being Christian.”

And, because when I get into one of my traumatic mental states I have no off switch I started going back deeper. In the past he was seriously harassing politicians and posting stuff that I’m pretty sure is illegal. Unlike Wannabe he never posted anything overtly “I abuse kids” but he did make posts about how he supported physically abusing children and claimed that photos of children being pepper sprayed were “fake” and that they were “spoiled brats.”

I eventually went too far and found something super bad that shook me to my absolute core.

He made a status back when I was in middle school about how pedophiles don’t deserve longer prison sentences than illegal cannabis growers because their crimes “aren’t as bad” and that they “aren’t as dangerous.”

Ironically, he justified this by saying that pedophiles “kill far less RCMP officers”

This is ironic in the fact that he himself would attempt to kill, and afterwards repeatedly threaten to kill, RCMP officers less than a decade later.

So I guess he decided to prove himself wrong?

But yeah. I shut down after that. It was a dogwhistle looking back on it and it frightened me.

The lyrics for another one of his “songs” are basically “laws can mean different things if you know how to pull some strings” which is also terrifying in context.

Other things that made my heart hurt was that the woman he’s with now loves dogs.They had three. One passed away. I fear for those dogs. In an account that’s shared by both of them posts made in support of dogs with “adopt don’t shop” messages and similar are uploaded. It enrages me because he was a backyard breeder and he also killed my puppy. He’s a lying snake pretending to be a good person.

He’s pretending he cares about us kids, painting my mom out to be “the abuser” and saying about how he wished he could take us to games and stuff. He HATED us. He beat us senseless. He was a torturous monster. Seeing him pretend to be a good father broke me. I want a dad. I wanted someone to play catch with me and take me to see the Penguins and teach me how to shave. I didn’t get that. I got a sexual predator instead.

Look at this: I’ve censored as little as I can and that’s largely for personal reasons. Everything he said is wrong.

I was diagnosed with PTSD because of what HE DID TO ME. My brother’s mental health diagnosis (it’s personal and not my place to share) is also because of him. My mom definitely wasn’t a perfect parent but compared to him she’s a saint.

She didn’t work because she had to stay home to ensure he wouldn’t KILL US. And that only started after the Spot incident. She was working extremely long hours before but stopped after I got beaten super bad.

He’s playing the victim and it’s so upsetting. The nerve he has to say “there was nothing wrong with you while I was there” NO. You refused to let us get mental health treatment. I didn’t get diagnosed until you were gone because I wasn’t allowed to see a psychiatrist.

Him wanting us to take our dogs to him is horrific too.

Also I feel bad about the penguins hat. I guess that means that the grooming still works.

Despite denying my mother’s desire for me to be a “wish kid” (make a wish foundation) because “kids don’t deserve handouts” he would donate profits from his failed pub (a story for another day perhaps) at one point to the make a wish foundation. Seeing the photos of him looming over the kid the money helped made me queasy. I don’t know if he thinks he’s covering his tracks or if he just likes being around disabled kids. Both would make sense honestly. I wonder if that had something to do with the confidential reason the RCMP were after him. I really hope it wasn’t. I really really really hope it wasn’t.

But yeah. All that happened and I was unable to sleep. I was terrified. I was crying. I felt guilt for not being brave enough to report him. For being too much of a coward to come forward about what he had done to me.

My friend saw me talking about what was going on on twitter and told me that this was caused by my mom retraumatizing me and I had to cut her out and not engage for my own sake. That I wasn’t ready to face things yet.

That I had gotten worse because mom was ripping open old wounds and that for my health I needed to back off.

So yeah. I agreed with my friend. I am backing off. I am going to be trying to shut that down. As I said on my main blog, my old abusive childhood is dead. I am making a new one. I will use my imagination to keep myself sane and I will retreat into my passions again. Until I am strong enough.

But I know I need to be strong enough. I will confront him someday. I’m just not ready.

#text post #negative #CSA mention #long post #abuse mention

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utsus · 7 years

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SasuHina Day 11: Kimono (AO3)

Uchiha Sasuke had a secret.

It wasn’t anything groundbreaking or shocking, really, but it was private and it was his and as such, he coveted it closely. The only people who knew about it were his teammates and his sensei, of which he had grown up with and spent many, many early mornings training with.

He liked to watch the sun rise over the mountains.

He wasn’t sure if he’d call it a hobby, per say, but he enjoyed it. Years ago he’d gone out into the forest outside of Konoha’s gates, found the highest and most secure network of branches as high in the Konoha canopies that he could trust, and it was there that he built himself a home. He’d spent two summers getting it right—using his hands to build, for once, rather than to destroy.

Naruto liked to make fun of him, ask him frequently if he thought he was a monkey. Sakura would laugh, too, and say instead, “Not a monkey, but a bird.”

He wouldn’t mind the ability to fly—he was fast enough that he nearly could—and birds had beautiful voices. They were surefire and carefree; they wanted to sing, so they did. He admired that.

So he spent as many mornings as he could there, up in the trees, where the sunlight first touched his world. He watched the molten waves of gold and rose rise over the sky and transform the air into something light and tranquil.

The first summer after he built himself a space into the canopies was the first summer he assented to attend the summer festival with his girlfriend. He didn’t care much for the show of it—something about the sheer number of families packed so close made him uneasy.

But, like every year before, Hinata had asked him if he’d like to join her. She did so gently, as was her way; she didn’t pester or push or judge. She came to him in the morning with fruits and vegetables freshly plucked from her garden and washed them in his kitchen. The dirt on their skins ran down the edges of his unblemished sink. Hinata’s hair had been tied back.

“Sasuke-san,” she said, with that infuriating courtesy of hers. Her nape had been exposed. “As you know, the summer festival begins tomorrow. If you’d like to join me this year, I will be leaving early tomorrow evening.”

Sasuke had said nothing, only watched the way she worked, comfortable in his home. It had taken her some time to gain that comfort, here so far behind the Uchiha gates, in the skeleton remains of his clan’s compound. The corner of his lips twisted, amusement playing in the corners of his eyes.

As if she’d senses his humor, she glanced over her shoulder and mirrored his expression with an added air of wariness.

“Why are you laughing?”

He loved her. It was simple, and effortless, and he loved her.

“Memories,” he’d said vaguely, charmed when her cheeks flushed even as she rolled her eyes and turned back to the produce she’d brought him. Even after years of courting her, he found her personality and reactions refreshing and so very easy to love. “Are you meeting up with your team?”

Hinata shook her head. “Not this year. I’m giving them privacy.”

Sasuke nodded slowly, contemplating. He had been mildly surprised to hear that Hinata’s two strange teammates had recently become an item themselves. The bug user was endlessly silent and contemplative, the complete opposite to the dog-loving tracker. From what Hinata told him, though, they made an oddly beautiful kind of sense.

He watched Hinata scrub and set aside various fruits, and all the while he considered her wording. Privacy. She was a good friend, thoughtful and kind. There was no meaning hidden beneath her words—she wasn’t attempting to persuade him in any way.

But the word privacy festered in his mind. He wasn’t one to ignore a chance to have alone time with Hinata, regardless of the circumstances, and she had come to know it. Still, her wording did not seem manipulative and he knew her well enough to know it dependably.

He thought about the atmosphere of a festival, especially one as lively as one during summer, and his lip nearly curled. Despite his efforts to remain calm and his proclivity for privacy, he had shared his discomfort with the topic of families with Hinata early on in their relationship. He’d wanted her to know what she was agreeing to—who she was agreeing to.

He was a patchwork of jagged glasswork still slowly being put back together, his hands scarred but still reaching for the pieces. When he thought of family, he thought of loss, of blood, of betrayal. It took him noticeable time to think, instead, of teammates. Of Hinata loving him so gently, so kindly, despite all of his misgivings.

He stood silently and went to her. His hands slid around her, his chin resting in the dip of her neck. He watched with heavy eyes and an equally heavy heart as her hands worked, the slight rigidity of her surprise seeping out of her in moments. She rested back against him and together they watched the water pour over her scarred fingers, over the red skins of strawberries.

Sasuke turned his head until his lips ghosted over her skin, her nervous pulse.

He said, “I will think about it.”

And Hinata turned to him, pressing her forehead to his temple. He could feel her eyelashes on his skin, ghosting over his cheekbones.

“Thank you,” she whispered, and her unfailing gentleness overwhelmed him, just as it had the very first time he realized she loved him. She had a way of making him feel spiritual, as though the way she loved him so tenderly could rekindle in him a kind of faith he’d long since lost.

Sometimes, when she looked at him, he felt the urge to drop to his knees.

It had been years since she confessed to him—and years longer even than that, that he had been confessing to her. Three years he had spent courting her in his own way, culminating in a moment of utmost intimacy: Hinata willing and kind in his arms, and his lips at her ear.

I am yours, he had whispered, body and soul.

He thought of what it meant to build a home, thought of the one he had built in the canopies, and he thought of this: Hinata in his arms, pressing back against him, welcoming everything that he was.

And this, too, he could call home.

✧

He did not sleep that night.

Discomfort had always been too mild a word for what he felt about family. The medic in Sakura had diagnosed him immediately and carefully with post-traumatic stress disorder, and he had only nodded. He had known all along.

The thing about PTSD was that it came and went at its own leisure. There were no walls that his trauma could not break down and break through. It showed up constantly in his dreams, turned them to nightmares in just the same way that fire turns everything to ash.

He still struggled to sleep at night, even with Hinata at his side. For a while, she was a cure; her warmth and her curves became a familiar swatch of comfort and peace that somehow settled the chaos of his mind, the racing of his heart. But his trauma broke through that slight protection, too, and Sasuke began to live in fear.

Sometimes he woke swinging; sometimes he woke breathing fire. He struggled with keeping blades in his room for protection or removing them for her protection, and subsided only when she comforted him. She told him to keep the blades. She told him she would stay, it was okay, she would stay.

She stayed. Despite the frequency of his episodes waking both of them throughout the night. Despite his icy stoicism after he fully woke from his nightmares, uncomfortable showing that kind of vulnerability to anyone, even the woman he loved. She stayed through it all, her hands a constant on his skin, in his hair, soothing everywhere they touched.

He didn’t deserve her.

She wanted to go to the summer festival. He knew, despite her never once pressuring him, that she wanted to go as a couple. Their relationship was no secret in the village, but this was the kind of thing that couples did. They had fun together in the nightlife of the land they protect, with the people they protect. They played games together and won each other prizes. They held hands and suffered the catcalls of their friends. They watched fireworks light up the evening sky.

The last festival he’d been to had been with—

He did not sleep that night. His thoughts raced and by the time he got dressed and headed out into the forest to climb into the canopy, there were lines of exhaustion over his face. They made him look like—

He watched the sun rise over the mountains. The birds called out, trilling. Sometimes, when Sasuke was feeling especially hopeful, he thought the birds were singing to him.

The sun rose over the mountains in slow-inching waves of liquefied gold. Sasuke felt the morning air, slightly chilly, slide over his nape and collarbones. He leaned against the bark and let his leg dangle in the air, kicking slightly. His heart was a drum complementing the singsong of wildlife around him.

Tonight was the summer festival’s opening evening. Hinata would be wearing a kimono, ornaments in her hair. She would be glowing, he thought, shining brighter than any other. The gentleness that came despite the violence of their world, it shone from within, bright and immeasurable.

Sasuke inhaled deeply, exhaled deeper. His heart began to change, to race as his thoughts finally began to settle. He had come to a decision, and though he might fear the unknown of the future, he would go through with it.

After all, he thought with affection, Hinata would be there with him.

The birds chirped, flashes of crimson and cobalt flashing in his periphery. His heartbeat plateaued, settled, began to fall back to normalcy. He reminded himself of Hinata’s patience, of the way she had opened up to him gradually, beautifully, a strangely astonishing flower that opened to moonlight despite knowing sunlight would be healthier.

The sun rose slowly over the mountains, reaching, reaching. The birds continued to sing around him; symphony of the evergreens. Somewhere in the safety of the village, Hinata slept peacefully.

Sasuke closed his eyes and let the sunlight bathe his face in morning gold, kissing each of his features with the gentlest warmth.

And then, quietly, he began to whistle.

✧

Sasuke’s secret was that he loved to watch the sun rise over the mountains. There was nothing so peaceful, so stunning, as the slow rise of dawn; the graceful spill of spring colors, every shade of lavender and rosen pastel; the way the sun turned every skyward-facing leaf a breathtaking shade of gold.

The memory of the morning sunrise was lost to him the moment she walked through the gates; she outshone it all.

Sasuke shifted, surprisingly self-conscious in his pristine navy hakama. Hinata didn’t show any expression of surprise—the moment she saw him her eyes became alight with excitement, with wonder. Her smile could’ve brought him to his knees.

“Sasuke,” she breathed, a reward and a marvel. She swept across the street to him with silent steps, the most striking wraith he’d ever encountered. Her kimono was the softest shade of rose, nearly pearl, with beautifully lined flowers sewn silken into the fabric. Her obi was a stark burgundy, with golden leaves the exact shade of his favorite sunrise etched in.

Her hair was pulled back in an elegant, twisted chignon. A single ornament clinked from her hair; a moon.

Sasuke went to her unconsciously, meeting her halfway.

You’re beautiful, he thought, pressing his lips to her temple. He felt her quiet laughter, a bubble of joy that escaped her at his presence, and his heart thudded heavily against his ribs. Regardless of what happened tonight, he had made the right choice. To have heard his name and only his name in her voice, to have felt her candid joy in this moment as his arms wound around her—it was all worth it.

She pulled back to look up at him through her eyelashes, blatantly affectionate, and Sasuke couldn’t help but to move even closer. He dipped low and pressed their lips together, tasting the fruity gloss she had there with a smile. He tasted her gasp of surprise and pulled her in closer by the dip of her back, feeling for all of her curves, the wide flare of her hips hidden under heavy fabric. He traced the edges of her teeth with his tongue and pulled playfully at her bottom lip before pulling back to see the damage he’d caused.

He caught it in her eyes, unfocused and heavy-lidded; her cheeks overturned palettes of rose.

“Hello, Hinata,” he greeted her cheekily, despite the fear that still sat below the surface.

“Hello,” she returned breathily, which only managed to embarrass her further. She pushed at him playfully, her hands against his chest. When he didn’t budge, he savored the chime of her laughter, the breathless sincerity of it. And then, because he was feeling especially self-indulgent, he bent to taste it.

This time, however, Hinata successfully pulled back from him, though not before allowing and encouraging another passionate kiss. She blinked up at him, laughter still playing over her features, and lifted her thumb to carefully wipe at his lower lip.

“Strawberry,” he said, smirking. Amusement wound around her as she took two measured steps back, clearing her throat as she noticed they had a passing audience. An elderly couple eyed them and Hinata bowed for them respectfully, gesturing for Sasuke to do the same.

Hinata turned back to him with blatant exasperation, reaching out carefully to grasp his elbow in her hand. She guided him to her side, but before moving towards the festival she glanced up at him and the falling sun managed to get caught in her eyelashes.

“I’m glad that you came,” she told him, ever gentle. Her expression shifted, protective and concerned. She reached up to his face, slow enough that he could stop her if he wanted—he didn’t. She traced the new lines on his face, carved there from fatigue, and worried her lower lip between her teeth.

“You look exhausted,” she said, eyebrows dipping uneasily.

Sasuke studied her for a long moment, memorizing her features again and again just because he could.

“I did not sleep well,” he said, deciding on a half-truth. He didn’t want her to worry. He should’ve known she’d see right through him.

“You mean at all,” she scolded, her tone too gentle to do any damage. Sasuke leaned down and pressed his forehead to her temple, needing her closeness, the fresh smell of something soothing on her skin.

“I mean at all,” he conceded, his voice barely audible. He closed his eyes, heard her sigh against him. One hand came up to trail her fingers through his hair from his ear to his nape. She gripped him there, just enough to ground him, and allowed him to stay pressed against her for a moment longer. When she carefully urged him away again, she lifted onto her toes and kissed the backs of his eyelids, feather light against his skin.

“Tonight,” she began cautiously, knowing this topic was at times a field of landmines, “May I come over?”

If Sasuke’s eyes had been open, he would’ve rolled them. Instead, his expression merely dropped, his lips frowning. “Of course,” he said, as if it was the silliest thing he’d ever heard, and he couldn’t believe he had to verbally sanction it. He opened his eyes and caught her smile, a ghost of the true depths of her compassion, all for him.

“Thank you,” she said, and that was frustrating, too. It was a sentiment he revisited often: he did not deserve her. “Let me know if it gets to be too much, okay?”

Sasuke nodded, studying the way Hinata’s gaze hardened, steadfast.

“Promise?” She demanded, very nearly putting her hands on her hips. Sasuke reached for her wrist, slid his fingers over the skin there, and intertwined their fingers together. When Hinata’s eyes dropped to follow the movement, he said, “I promise.”

Her eyes leapt back to his, studying his sincerity. After a moment she nodded, softening under his unwavering gaze once more. She began to guide them towards the festival, which was already loud enough that they could hear it through the streets and over the rooftops. Music played and laughter joined it, and Sasuke’s heart clenched in his chest. He could do this.

“You look very handsome,” Hinata whispered when they were only a few turns away from the festival, not looking at him. There was something about her tone that sounded wary; it had Sasuke glancing at her profile with veiled amusement, squeezing her fingers.

“Are you worried?”

She pursed her lips, still not looking at him.

“A little,” she finally admitted, turning up to him with a shy smile. “I’m going to be busy tonight, trying to convince everyone caught by your beauty that you’re already taken.”

Sasuke frowned at her wording, even as he silently found it charming. He had a reputation to uphold, however, so instead of leaning down and kissing her cheek for the compliment as he wished to, he playfully chided her.

“I’m not beautiful,” he grunted quietly, as the street ahead of them came into view. The sky was dark enough that the multitude of lights throughout the streets were already blazing bright, nearly neon. The atmosphere was alive with joy and celebration, so much so that even the buildings and vendors seemed to become sentient.

“You are,” Hinata argued, as she smiled at the front vendors who welcomed them. “Tonight especially.”

“Whatever,” Sasuke griped, before his eyes suddenly gleamed. He watched Hinata for her reaction as he said, “Good thing I chose a companion to whom I pale in comparison, then.”

Just as he’d intended and expected, her cheeks flared with heat. She didn’t look up at him, only huffed a quiet, “Oh, please.”

Feeling light and happier than he had ever expected in such an atmosphere, he continued with that same playful air. His words were still staccato, his normal tone with barely any change, his expression apathetic to the untrained eye. But Hinata could read him like an open book, and when she glanced up to him she immediately saw the amusement in his eyes, and the way it made them shine.

“I don’t like to share,” he warned her sternly. “I won’t tolerate intrusions.”

Hinata could hear the truth of the sentiment under the humor, but even still she rolled her eyes.

“No one is going to intrude upon anything,” she responded. “Naruto-kun cannot attend due to Hokage business, and Sakura-chan is on a mission.”

Sasuke couldn’t contradict her on that—if anyone would be brave enough or daft enough to intrude upon their space, it would be one of his teammates. However, his mind caught on Hinata’s knowledge of Naruto’s whereabouts suspiciously. It was no secret that she had loved Naruto when they were kids and Sasuke had betrayed the village. It was also no secret that she had given up on the whiskered hero, serving only as a good friend of his and one of his closest advisors as Hyuuga Clan head.

Still, it stung that she had ever loved someone else—and someone so completely different from himself.

He felt a muscle in his cheek twitch, his lips dropping into a frown. There were still lines of exhaustion on his face, probably extenuated with this expression, but he couldn’t help his mild irritation.

Hinata, however, nipped his suspicion in the bud before he could even let it grow.

“As the head of the Clan,” she began calmly, glancing up at him with something of her own kind of humor in her eyes. “It is my duty to meet with the Hokage regularly. A business relationship.”

Sasuke grunted, his pride forbidding him from pestering further, since she clearly knew what he was on about. He gripped her hand tighter and pulled gently in the direction of the street, his eyes trailing from vendor to vendor. He silently mapped all of their potential exits, the quickest and safest ways to secure Hinata’s protection. He studied the body language of everyone they passed, watched their expressions for any signs of hostility. This was something he could do; as a soldier, a warrior, one of the very best.

It didn’t hurt that it distracted him from the children that ran by with their parents in tow; the pair of brothers at the vendor to their right trying to win a goldfish by throwing tiny balls into tiny pots. Hinata’s thumb trailed over his hand in soothing lines.

Sasuke ignored the racing of his heart, which pumped with equal parts fear and resolve, and with Hinata at his side he tried to keep himself together.

He was stronger than his trauma.

And stronger still, with Hinata’s support.

✧

All things considered, the night went well. Sasuke’s demons stayed hushed but remained present in his mind, in the heaviness of his heart, but he enjoyed himself. He was naturally good at the vendor games and won Hinata several items she didn’t need, just to show that he could—and she won him several, too, though he was actually quite fond of the ceramic cat she’d won him by shooting a bow and arrow into five consecutive moving targets.

Perfect bullseyes, with her kimono sleeves pushed up.

He’d taken her for a detour into a back alley afterwards to properly show his appreciation, and by the time they made it back onto the street the moon was overhead and Hinata’s hair was a little more tousled than it had been prior. Hidden under the collar of her kimono was a mark on her collarbone, new and still slightly swollen; deliberately out of view.

Even though he had planned it perfectly and it was, in fact, out of view, Hinata self-consciously adjusted her kimono all throughout the night. Sasuke was amused by this and received a gentle reprimanding smack to the bicep when he allowed his smirk to grow wide enough to show teeth.

“Barbarian,” Hinata teased him, and Sasuke couldn’t help but to stare. She was so beautiful, and she was his. There wasn’t a day that passed that he did not marvel over this fact. He had spent years of uncertainty attempting to win her heart, to prove that he would love her tenderly. And amazingly, she had believed him—trusted him. He wanted to show her every day that she had made the right choice, that he was good for her, better for her than anyone else.

Possessiveness came naturally to him, and though Hinata sometimes reined him in, he had discovered her embarrassed partiality to the trait about a year into their relationship.

“Sasuke,” she called quietly, regaining his attention. He’d been staring blankly at a dango vendor, sidetracked with memories—first bad, so bad, because he had always loved dango and then overcome with good when he shook them off and thought of the time when he and Sakura had pinned Kakashi after he’d refused to share his dango with them after a mission.

Sasuke turned to Hinata with residual feelings of joy caught in his chest, thanks to surprisingly fond memories.

Hinata was smiling, unreservedly content. Even hours into the festival, she still appeared as radiant as the first moment he’d seen her walk through the gates of her compound, putting the sunrise to shame. He knew her secret—the gentleness of her affection coupled with her kindhearted nature, the perfect recipe for her specific kind of glow.

Sasuke reached out to her and she folded into him immediately, encompassed in his hold.

Against his chest she asked, “Where should we go to watch the fireworks?”

Sasuke considered that, for a moment.

“Where do they usually fire them?”

Hinata pointed in a general direction, then up into the night sky. Sasuke considered the trajectory for only a moment, before he reached for Hinata’s hand.

“How much time do we have?”

Hinata pursed her lips, curious and suspicious. “Not much.”

“Is there anything else you’d like to do here?” He asked, gesturing towards the festival street, which had begun to gradually clear as people headed for the best spots to see the fireworks. Hinata adjusted her bag of spoils against her hip and shook her head even as she gazed up at him wonderingly.

Sasuke smiled. He reached down and lifted her into his arms, uncaring of the way she quietly sputtered or the glances they received. He was quicker than she was, and they didn’t have much time.

“Hold tight,” he warned her, and only after he felt her grasp on him strengthen did he move.

One moment they were standing there in the middle of the well-light street, surrounded by families and couples celebrating the coming of summer. And then, they were gone.

Sasuke headed for the trees.

✧

Hinata did not question his course, not even when it led them outside of Konoha’s gates, or into the thick of the forest. She held tight, as he’d asked her to, and he felt the way she laid her head against him contentedly. She hummed curiously when he began to climb the trees, leaping from branch to branch until he landed on familiar space.

He allowed Hinata’s feet to drop down, find purchase on the bark. He had never brought her here before, though he knew that she knew he spent his mornings in the forest, alone. It had always been a place just for him, peaceful in its total solitude.

But she had helped him to conquer his fears during the festival, loosened him up enough that he’d even played games. He had not had a single panic attack. She had been there for him through it all.

So he brought her to this special place, allowed her to share it with him, and when he turned to her he could see in her eyes that she understood. She didn’t voice it, this time, but he could hear the words clearly in the softness of her grateful expression.

Thank you.

He sat in his usual spot and gently tugged at her hand until she sat beside him, but that wasn’t close enough. He lifted her easily, pulled her into his lap, and ignored the way she made excuses about her weight, about making him uncomfortable. He wrapped his arm around her and gently ran his fingers through her hair, guiding her to rest against his neck.

They looked out over the seemingly endless expanse of canopies before them, through the gap Sasuke always watched the sun rise through. In seconds, the first whistling trail of a far off firework sounded, and together they watched the night sky come alive with colored flames in various intricate shapes.

Hinata settled in against him eventually, wrapping her right arm around the back of his neck, and Sasuke hugged her as close as he could. He didn’t care if he was clinging. Most of the time in this life he felt like he was clinging to something—just barely holding on.

There was nothing in the world so grounding as being loved unconditionally, and loving just so in return.

“Thank you,” Sasuke whispered amongst the explosions of light, pressing his lips to the hinge of Hinata’s jaw, her neck. She turned to him and Sasuke paid no attention to the fireworks going off behind her.

Instead, he watched the way her eyes caught the light and held it with honest affection, and bridled desire. He gazed up at her and hoped she understood the many facets of his graciousness, that it was meant for so much more than just this single night.

When she leaned forward and kissed him, gentle enough to shake his heart, he knew that she understood completely.

She said, “I love you, now and forever,” pressing the words against his lips, making him tremble. “You are mine, as I am yours.”

This time, he voiced it: “I do not deserve you.”

Hinata pulled back enough to let him see her expression, the certainty of her love carved into the kindness of her features. She gripped his face in her hands, her gaze unwavering.

“You deserve to be loved, and you are,” she promised, and it was a return welcoming, the same feeling all over again, a blessing and a rescue. “You are.”

She pressed her forehead to his, and both of them closed their eyes. They sat there, high above the rest of the world in the safe haven he’d built for himself and chosen to share with her, as close as two bodies and hearts could get, as the night sky came alive in front of them.

With Hinata there, loving him and being loved by him, everything in his past seemed to fall to the wayside; ever present, but muted. The shadows in him, extinguished by the light in her.

And maybe it was true, what she said about loving and deserving love.

Maybe they just had to do that part together.

And that, he thought, was something to look forward to.

#naruto #sasuhina #sasuhina month #uchiha sasuke #hyuuga hinata #sasuke uchiha #hinata hyuuga #naruto fic #not to sound like a broken record but this got away from me lmao uhhh all that ptsd stuff has been on my mind lately??#it's a really important subject to discuss and learn about and understand and i don't ever want to trivialize it #i didn't want to make this story any longer than it already is so i didnt go super in depth but please know i respect it!#and i hope i wrote it ok without going further into exploring it/explaining it

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illnessandinjury · 6 years

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GUYS ASK ME STUFF ABOUT MY OC’S PLZ

Okay, so I mentioned it in a couple posts ago, but AGAIN I’m closing with that coworker who makes me uncomfortable/I get in fights with lmao (long story short: he’s borderline homophobic and HELLO I'm gay sooooooo)

Anyway, I’ve been working on my OC’s a lot lately, and I would really appreciate it if you could ask me questions about them so I can work on their little details and mold them into more pronounced characters.

I have four of them that I’m going to explain down below

WARNING for abuse, sexual abuse, mentions of self harm, and mental illness ♡ (I’m serious, a lot of them are very dark. Of course, I mean no disrespect by any of them, as I have gone through many of their issues myself, and use these characters as a coping mechanism tbh)

Elliot and Enoch

These are my twins, and I created them when I was dealing with a lot of backlash and mental strain due to my own emotional and slight physical abuse I sustained at my home/in relationships. I had two very different personality sides that seemed to stem from these past issues - anger and fear. So I decided to build further onto those and create two brothers.

These twins were abused by their parents until they were both around 13 years old. They both ended up running away from home and being found by a sweet older lady who runs a flower shop. Above the flower shop is an apartment that this lady rents to them basically free of charge (Elliot works in the shop with her on weekends). They’re both 17 years old.

Elliot is the fear side. He’s got terrible anxiety and PTSD that can trigger extreme panic attacks. If he’s around people with similar stature or body type of either of his parents, he can’t function. He also is very sensitive and fearful of people yelling, stomping, slamming doors, and fast movements towards him. Despite his past, he does have a general good outlook on life and people, even though he may be fearful and overwhelmed about it. He is in community college studying botany Physical Attributes - pale skin, dark circles under his hazel eyes, small mole under his right eye, a pale scar across his neck, brown under cut hair, tall, skinny and lanky, some past scars over his body. (Kink Property - he suffers terrible nightmares, and his anxiety usually makes it hard for him to work up an appetite most days, so he has a terrible immune system and get’s sick very often.)

Enoch is the angry side. He has very extreme manic depressive episodes, and diagnosed Borderline Personality Disorder. He likes to pretend and play it off that what happened to him as a kid doesn’t affect him, but that’s obviously not the case. He’s a very brash, and angry person - and he believes that the world is generally full of terrible people. He often gets into fights with people for fun, and has a kill count of around three people at the moment - the first one actually being an accident; he was drunk and fighting someone outside of a bar, when he suffered a terrible flashback of abuse from his father. He ended up blacking out, and when he came to, blood was covering him and the man was dead. This was how he met one of my other OC’s, Ashley. The other two murders were to protect his brother, Elliot. This brings me to the fact that Enoch’s sole purpose in life, to him, is to protect and keep his brother happy. He’s very defensive over Elliot, and cares more for him than anything or anybody in the world. N O T incest, jfc. He is a computer programmer and website coder. Physical Attributes - pale skin, dark circles under his hazel eyes, small mole under his right eye, curly long brown hair, not muscular but toned, tall, multiple injury scars over his body. (Kink Property - because of his fights, he has a tendency to come home battered and bruised a lot. Due to his crime record, he cannot go to the hospital because they will get his DNA.)

Ashley

Ohhh, Ashley. Sometimes goes by Ash. Ashley was made kind of in the same way as Enoch and Elliot. I suffered sexual abuse in one of my relationships, and I wanted to project that onto a character. This is where my dear boy, Ashley comes into play. Except I took my trauma and abuse and multiplied it by 10000x.

Ashley has a normal like until he was around 13-14 years old. His mother ended up dying from a terrible arrhythmia episode - which is a heart issue that Ashley was also born with. When his mother died, his father became extremely unconsolable and twisted. It just started with his father making him do “women’s work” around the house, such as dishes, cleaning, cooking, etc. in place of his late wife/Ashley’s mother. Then it progressed to making him dress like a girl - and in turn, his father ended up becoming attracted to him physically. The dad started to sexually assault Ashley, and this happened to go on for years, until one day, Ashley snapped and murdered him. He’s now 16 and lives in a run down motel room in the middle of downtown run by some scumbags for their illegal activities - prostitution and drug smuggling (basically if you don’t rat them out, you get cheap, moderately livable housing). Ashely deals with a ton of unresolved trauma and manic depressive episodes. He’s a self harmer. The major thing with Ashley is that he’s a murderer. He uses his feminine qualities, and feminine name to draw in scummy men who are attracted to younger girls with sex, and then he murders them and leaves (he’s honestly basically a trap) He stumbled upon Enoch after the latter’s first murder and helped him get rid of any evidence pointing towards him. After this interaction, Ashley became infatuated with Enoch, developing an obsession and deep love for him. Enoch mostly pushes this off and just keeps him around for the tips and help. Psychical Attributes - pale skin, white choppy hair, long eyelashes, looks androgynous but leaning towards female (despite being a cis male), pale blue eyes, short, very petite, self harm scars. (Kink Property - he has arrhythmia which results in heart problems, and also a weak immune system, and also sometimes his victims aren’t so “defenseless” and will injure him.

Amir

WELCOME TO MY ONE AND ONLY NOT TRAUMATIZED OC LMAO

Amir is a good boy, and nothing but a good boy lmao. He’s half Arabic, and he’s a 20 year old college student studying forensic science. People think that’s odd of him, considering he’s honestly kind of terrified by blood and dead bodies - but he has a secret which I will get into later. Amir has quite tan skin, but he has a defect called “vitiligo”, which created a stark, white spot of skin over the right side of his face due to lack of pigmentation. This also has effected his right eye - which is a very icy, light blue in contrast to his other brown eye. On top of this, he has a white streak of hair in his bangs. Now for his secret - out of his blue eye, he is able to see spirits and ghosts. Due to some of the spirits he met throughout his life, he wants no murder to go unsolved, which is why he’s going into forensic science. He wants nothing more than to talk with the ghosts of the victims and get the real answer to what happened, and help them get peace. Amir lives in a college dorm with a good friend who knows about his secret, and also the ghost of a previous student who hanged himself in their dorm about 30 years ago. Honestly Amir is one of the sweetest characters I have - he’s just generally a good boy hahaha. Physical Attributes - tan skin (white blotch over his right side, and other places randomly on his body), curly dark brown hair (white strip in his bangs), dark brown eye (one pale blue one), around 6 foot fall, skinny. (Kink Property - sometimes too many spirits, such as if he went into a hospital or graveyard, can cause an “overload” of some sort, and give him a terrible migraine)

#MY OCs #elliot and enoch #ashley #amir #abuse #abuse tw #self harm #self harm tw #ASK ME STUFF PLZ lmao

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kaiwrites · 7 years

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The Fics...

Everything I’ve posted on AO3 so far, in case you feel like a little bit of reading...

A Little Closer to Okay

When the Fun Vee hit a IED, Tony wasn’t the only one to end up captured in the cave. The other passengers, Steve, Sam, Bucky, Natasha and Clint, are held prisoner and tortured along with him.

This is the story of how they moved on after being rescued from Bucky’s POV.

T, warnings for PTSD and mentions of torture

Out of Place and Lost in Time (Part 1 of 4 in the With You I’m whole Series)

Steve is lost in the supermarket, talking to himself as he makes his way through the aisles. James thinks its adorable, and not so stealthily stalks him. And then Steve is in James' house, brought by a mutual friend, carrying pie.

A tale of rediscovery, reinvention, and transformations. Of an author and an artist. Of train rides to the beach in winter and pie like Ma used to make. And of course, a tale of idiots in love.

Transgender FtM Steve with reclusive paranoid Bucky, Background Nat/ Sam

Riding on Trains with Queers (Part 2 of With You I’m Whole)

With Clint's help, Steve comes up with a theme for his gallery showing, and remembers the people and events in his past that helped him through his coming out and transition. It seems that a lot of his memories involve riding on trains.

Transgender Steve, mostly his story in this fic. Warnings for deadnaming in flashbacks, dysphoria, anxiety and past Steve/ Peggy and Steve/ Dum Dum Dugan relationships.

(I have plans for parts 3 and 4, and I’ve even started writing the Bucky centric part 3, but I have no idea when I might get the inspiration to pudate on this one.)

The Robot Dick Olympics (Bopeep wrote chapter 1, I wrote chapter 2, it will probably be a WIP forever...)

This is some straight up crack that revolves around dick jokes, brought to you be the enablers in the Captain America RBB Slack Chat.

Bucky Has a Metal Dick to match his arm, Tony feels the need to compete and builds a robot dick for the Iron Man Suit, and Clint suggests his normal human dick as the controll. Natasha wants nothing to do with any of it.

First Kiss

Another one brought to you be the enablers in the Captain America RBB Slack Chat, exept its more of the sad and Angstly variety, and not Crack at all.

So, tell me Steve.” Natasha demanded, glancing over at him briefly, “If I wasn’t your first kiss since 1945, who was it?”

“Huh?” Steve asked, looking confused “First kiss?”

“Yeah, remember a couple of years ago when I kissed you to hide from Rumlow? You said I wasn’t your first.” Natasha reminded him.

“Oh yeah.” Steve answered, with a slight groan. He had been hoping Nat would have forgotten about that by now. “It’s a stupid story, you really don’t want to hear it.”

Warnings for unprotected anonymous sex, depression and possibly making you cry a little.

Taraksvasana My piece for the 2017 Captain America Reverse Big Bang with art by @starlingzinc.

It's been a year since the events of Civil War, and six months since Bucky was awoken from cryo-freeze in Wakanda and came back home to Steve and their house in the mountains. They were finally living their own lives, together and not having to hide.

They still had their demons to battle, but they couldn't control their futures. They had a quiet life now, with friends nearby, plans for a vegetable garden, and yoga. No one would have guessed the former winter soldier would end up obsessed with yoga.

A Life Near By

Bucky may have snuck away after saving Captain America from the Potomac, but he didn't go far. He needed answers, and this Steve guy seemed to have them, so he did the last thing anyone would have expected, hiding out in the middle of Washington, DC while working on answering the most important question.

Who the hell was Bucky, and why was he so important to this Captain America guy anyway?

Broken Soul Seeking Same (WIP, currently working on what will probably be the final chapter)

Roommates to Lovers after meeting through craigslist AU. Bucky lost his arm in an accident and works as a restraunt manager. Steve suffers from chronic pain due to physical disability. Thor is a Chef and Community service hero.

Everyone is stronger with help and support from others, and for those living with disabilty, it’s practically essential. The right partner through it all can make a world of difference.

Warnings for M/M sex, marijuana use and refereces to traumatic events.

Other things in the works.... (the comming soon/ preview section perhaps?)

Autistic Bucky- Bucky was sent away to the Hydra Acadamy to be ‘fixed’ after being diagnosed with autism at age 10. He comes out a different person, suffering from PTSD and Anxiety as a result of behaviorial therapy, and only Steve can put him back together. The daily life and routines of Bucky and his boyfriend Steve, and his job at the animal shelter he runs with Sam.

Ive got about 5K written, with ideas to make this one close to 20K. I think theres a Big Bang comming up .....

Bike messenger Steve- Fluffy AU ideas that have been floating around my head for a while. Steve is a bike messenger who is always getting hit by cars. Bucky is the security guard who always notices the new scrapes and bandages. Standard mutual pining between idiots. Probably 5k or so if I ever manage to write the thing.

“Meh,” Steve said with a shrug, “just a bit of roadrash.”

A Wreck among Kings (working title)

Character study on Jack from the Kings TV series. How do you mourn a lover you were unable to aknowledge?

Started for the Sebastian Stan Birthday that never actually happend. No idea if anything will actually happen with this, but i have lots of notes.

#long post #fic rec #my fics #steve rogers #buckybarnes #avengers #ao3 #tell me if you wanna read one of the ideas #comments are motivation

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tiredbiplantlady · 7 years

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I can’t diagnose myself and I’m not asking anyone else to either...

I just need to write. I haven’t much at all lately despite my motivation and planning to.

I love my therapist. He’s amazing. He’s helped me see so much and learn so much about myself and helped me learn to VERY effectively manage my constant hypervigilance, my constant anxiety, and a big portion of my shame on a day-to-day basis. I am LIGHTYEARS beyond where I was at last year and before. I attribute so much of my ability to heal myself to his guiding me. We connect on some real af levels and I am extremely grateful to him, though I know I did the work, he was just there to help facilitate it all.

But. He told me to stop thinking of myself as mentally ill because it isn’t productive. And no, maybe it isn’t. But something feels wrong. I know he’s all about “perception is reality” and honestly, so am I. But can I not manage my perception and create an productive and healthy realty AND consider myself mentally ill? He’s been working with me for over a year on my black-and-white thinking. I don’t think he’s like this with all of his clients, but I think with me, he sees potential in me and doesn’t want me to box myself in to “mentally ill” to use as an excuse for my everything. Like, I get it. But it still bothers me.

A year ago, I talked about borderline personality disorder. I made a case for myself and brought up the symptoms I identified with most and described several instances of each that served as evidence to me. He just listened for over an hour as I told him everything I needed to say, and he nodded. He said he agreed with my analysis, but labels aren’t everything. I was fine with this covert agreement that wouldn’t go on my insurance. That might one day prevent me from achieving anything as a psychologist. After all, he said so, my counseling graduate program told me so, and now my psychology graduate program says so: the diagnosis isn’t as important as just treating the symptoms that cause distress. “So what if you’re somewhat borderline?” He asked me. I nodded in agreement. “It doesn’t change who you are or what you’re capable of.”

I read about DBT. I found online workbooks. I recorded my moodswings for a few months. I was desperately trying to get better...because I’d just started to come out of the worst, THE WORST emotional period of my entire fucking life.

It was December 2015. Things had been on a downhill slope for months. It started back in June really. I began suffering anxiety again to a level beyond my average (but still very strong) anxiety. My environment served as a painful trigger for my symptoms with two manipulative, crazy-making, and alcoholic/abusive roommates. My PTSD (diagnosed) was on full-blast again. I was cautious, but not totally paranoid. Not yet. As I look back, I entered into a depressive phase for perhaps a week or two, where for a couple days it was bad enough that I couldn’t get out of my bed and stayed there isolated and unable to stop silently crying despite my other roommates trying to be comforting. I felt like self-harming. I felt hopeless. After those few days, I functioned better, but I still generally was quite depressed and unmotivated, hopeless feeling and empty. I was waking up in the middle of the night at times with nightmares and gasping, feeling as though I were being watched or someone was there.

I would come out of it, this depression, but the anxiety remained. As the months went on, the roommate situation got worse and worse and I began to become extremely paranoid. I was almost in a frenzy at times, just absolutely certain one of the awful roommates would come back to burn down the house and us alive in it. I triple checked locked doors, I slept with lights on at times. I wanted my roommate (now boyfriend) to sleep with me just in case anything happened. I hated sleeping alone. I’d rather stay sweating horribly together in my very hot small bedroom with the door locked and the windows tightly latched than chance anything. Sometimes we slept with the door cracked. One night I woke from a nightmare while he slept soundly, and I was frozen, just paralyzed in fear because I KNEW someone was in our house (no one was aside from the usual roommates). I forced myself to slide out of bed, pull the cat in, and lock my door. The cat cried, but I didn’t care. I didn’t want to die. I tried to fall back asleep and it felt impossible. I listened to every noise, believing any small disturbance was someone nearing my room to blast through the door. Maybe with a gun. Maybe someone was lurking around outside. My heart raced constantly. Sleeping started to become impossible, echoing a similar months-long episode I’d had about the same time the year before. I just wanted to die sometimes.

The final horrible roommate started drinking - black out drunk drinking - and calling his exes on the phone screaming gendered slurs and slamming things around in his room directly above mine. It sent me into a panic, hearing that. I’d had my trauma with plenty of alcoholics and misogynists. I was terrified of him. If I heard him come home I would always lock my door and be as quiet as possible, as though he were an abusive parent waiting to come home to beat me (even though he never hurt me). He’d started threatening my boyfriend and passing out fucked up on the couch. It made me extremely uncomfortable and my anxiety grew and grew. I became hypervigilant again, having flashbacks, using old coping mechanisms that weren’t good. One night he walked past me and slid his hand down my back, which was completely unnecessary and drawn out. I shuddered and told Kyle about it. It was hell. I’d just started grad school and everything that was happening was ruining everything. I was extremely depressed again. I burst out sobbing to my dad one day when I went home to my parent’s house because it was too hard to live in that house anymore. I was effectively retraumatized. I’d stumbled upon the term “transient paranoid ideation” and how having been traumatized once, you can start to become hypervigilant and almost have “flashback” like pop ups to events that never happened to you. Like maybe you were raped by someone, but start to have similar feelings and fears and obsessive thoughts about someone setting your house on fire. It transfers over to “what if”. That lead me to BPD, but I didn’t think a lot about it.

In October, It was too much. This guy started threatening to beat the shit out of him, hurt him, talked about being a drug lord and connections to people and he touched me. We got a restraining order and kicked him out. I still couldn’t sleep. The week after we did it, Kyle and I drove every single day an hour up to school and an hour back to stay at my mom’s because I felt I was in danger and I couldn’t stand being away from Kyle not knowing if something horrible might happen to him. We bonded over this traumatic incident. While all this was happening I told him I didn’t want to do relationships anymore. I just wanted to be with him, that’s it, no more of this rewording things and pretending like we hadn’t actually been together for months. The reality was that we’d essentially gotten back together in 2014 and denied it, mostly me, for over a year. I was terrified and realized I was terrified of losing him.

I told him I couldn’t stand to live there anymore. We went back and forth for a while about what to do and eventually decided to just pay off the landlord and move into a new apartment, just us. I thought it would solve everything. But even after we moved, I was still devastated from everything that’d happened. I coped alright for a month maybe, but in November, I stopped caring about my life and my future. I felt nothing and I wasted every day. I couldn’t get out of bed. I stayed there from sun up til sun down when I went to night class 2 days a week. I was miserable and it was a struggle to force myself to get out of bed even 2 days a week for school. I had nothing to say. I had no personality. I was empty and hollow and I had nothing to give.

I started to feel absolutely insane. I was DESPERATE for affection and attention. I wanted to kill myself not getting it. I wanted to cut and binge eat and sleep until it would all just go away. I couldn’t get out of bed and I would spend hours doing nothing with intervals of random crying I didn’t understand. Other times I’d cry with a cause. I just hurt and I felt hopeless. It wasn’t so much that I hurt actually. I was empty and didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t look into the future and see anything for myself. It was just dark and empty. I felt useless, stupid, boring, unlovable, ashamed, disgusting. I was passive aggressive and had horrible problems communicating. I wanted my mind read. I wanted people to WANT what I wanted. I didn’t want to have to ask, I just wanted someone who wanted the same thing as me. I became horribly frustrated and withdrawn and my relationship suffered terribly.

I started having furious mood swings that were mostly deep depression, followed by numbness, followed by anger, followed by somewhat normal, but still depressed around and around. Mostly I was depressed for weeks upon weeks. I fought constantly, I was frustrated and without words. I needed and had no idea how to articulate it. I felt like I was speaking a language no one around me understood and it was fucking pointless, hopeless. I still had nightmares and could barely sleep. Every little noise my neighbors made caused me to go on compulsive listening sprees where I sat with my ear to the wall trying to figure out what was going on because I wouldn’t settle or be okay until I did. My anxiety wouldn’t let me not do this. I was scrambling for anything to make it better. My relationship felt like it was falling apart and I felt insane every single day. He didn’t know what was wrong or how to help me and all I did was make things hard for him. I felt unlovable and made myself that way. I was terrified of abandonment and one big fight in the middle of winter gave me the impulse to drive away and sit in the WalMart parking lot fantasizing about going inside to buy all the things I needed to cut myself again. It would be so easy. I thought about killing myself, but didn’t really mean it. Part of me thought I’d be better off dead. That everyone around me would be better off if I was dead. The things said to me that night are still there and I feel shame and anger and terrible sadness. I still feel apologetic, while another part of me is enraged. Most of me knows it doesn’t matter anymore. I felt no good to anyone. I felt like a burden and vampire who couldn’t stop sucking the life out of anyone I loved .And I didn’t love anyone anymore but him. I had no friends. I isolated myself. He was my Favorite Person and other people didn’t matter. I hate myself for the manipulative things I’ve done, and the part of me that blames things on other people has enough to say of her own. Maybe the truth is somewhere in the middle. I don’t know. Even thinking back I still feel crazy.

I had to do something. This wasn’t right. There was something very, very wrong here. This shouldn’t be happening. I promised I would try to make myself better. I couldn’t be abandoned. I couldn’t cause more damage. I hated myself. I had no idea how I ended up here. When I started to come out of that frenzied hopelessness, I looked back at myself and wondered who the fuck did all this, what was I thinking? I genuinely believed my apartment manager was constantly watching me and trying to get me in trouble to kick me out. I hated her with a burning fucking fury and other times I just didn’t care. I was not rational and how I felt about other people was never stable or solid. People were out to get me at worst and didn’t care about me at best. Little things sent me into a rage I directed inward instead of throwing things around or fist fights. I seethed with just burning hatred until I burned it all up and was back to being fine. If I had been the type of person to get in fights or do bad things in the real would, I would have been doing them. I fantasized about things like that, but instead felt deep shame for even doing so and then hated myself along with them.

I started having periods of euphoria that lasted a few days where I felt like I could do anything. I felt social and outgoing and made a million plans for projects in my head. And then I’d be somewhat average again. And inevitably fall back into anxiety and depression. And of course, for years I’d had dissociative experiences like derealization/depersonalization and generally just feeling out of myself and having identity issues (though until 2015 I had no idea that’s what they were called). I started seeing connection in BPD and brought it to my therapist (who I’d kept a lot of this from anyway). I sat with the idea of potentially having it for a while and tried to explain to my boyfriend what it meant about my behavior. How now that I knew maybe things could get better.

In a couple of weeks I made the decision to drop out of grad school and go back for a second undergrad. It was all very fast and somehow I thought it made the most sense and was a great idea because I wanted to be a writer and it would help with my writing. I went into the grad counseling department and excitedly spewed my latest idea, words slurred together and hardly taking breaths, to my program director who said I sounded sure of what I wanted and sent me on my way. I pushed hard and fast for the second bachelor’s admission director to admit me and get it all set up before school was out for the semester. I still got furious with people and would be polite, at worst short with them, but never rude and then take it all out on myself.

It was done and I was set and this was turning over a new leaf, this was a new beginning. I was going to be great and I’d find my way and everything would be perfect!! Spring was coming! I had so much hope and certainty in my ability to do this. I started feeling like I was improving. Then February happened and one night around 11 pm, Kyle and I went to a gas station for snacks when suddenly I got very hot. I complained that my arm was sore. I started sweating and feeling nauseous. My heart raced. I got hotter. And hotter. My heart raced more. I could feel myself about to puke. My vision started fading, gray and fuzzy through a tunnel. My head felt light and I was so sure I was about to pass out. “I’m going outside” I said quickly, then turned and went out into the cold night air. I’M HAVING A HEART ATTACK, I thought to myself. I’m DYING, I’M ABOUT TO DIE OH MY GOD I NEED TO GO TO THE HOSPITAL. I was hyperventilating in my car. As soon as I got out in the cold and sat down, my vision came back, my head stopped tingling. I was covered in sweat that was freezing in the cold outside. I felt my heart still racing and I was in a panic wondered what happened. I could feel adrenaline just coursing through my veins and I wanted to puke again, not the same as before. This felt like I’d just gotten off a roller coaster and the rush was too much for my body to handle, so I needed to puke. Kyle came out to see if I was okay. I was trying to breathe and a part of me was freaking out going “that wasn’t normal. NEVER forget how abnormal this was, NEVER forget that this was BEYOND normal, no matter what any family member or doctor tells you. THIS. WAS. NOT. NORMAL.” He asked me if I wanted to go to the hospital and part of me was numb, emotionally, and said no. I tried to explain what happened and he asked if I thought I had a stroke. I went home and called my mom. I webMD’d it. I had a stroke, I told myself. I had a TIA. At any moment I’ll have another one and I’m dead. This is the end as I know it. I’m going to die!!!!

That sensation at least wasn’t uncommon to me. I’d had what you might classify as a paranoid delusion when I was about 15. I was CERTAIN I was dying of cancer (no real evidence of this). For weeks I genuinely and truly believed I was going to die and my body was deteriorating. I was depressed, hopeless and suicidal feeling. But I got past it. Only to have another health related genuine delusion a year later that also lasted for weeks, nothing could satisfy it or cause me to think differently. NOTHING.

So, here we are, February 2016 after this “stroke” - I went to the doctor. Which used to scare me, but I’d become comforted by it at this point. Every doctor happily pointed out my anxiety as the cause of any health issue I brought up and every doctor happily tried to prescribe me antidepressants. They started looking at me as a hypochondriac. I hated it. And yet I did it to myself. She played along and did a bunch of bloodwork, finding only that my A1C was ever so slightly elevated, probably from PCOS and my diet, she said, so I asked for Metformin, but that’s a whole different story. I didn’t have a stroke, she said. There was no evidence. Everyone told me I had a panic attack and it made me break down crying. I lived in constant fear for some time that out of nowhere this could just happen all over again with no warning, just like before. I realized in that past I’d had “limited symptom panic attacks” or “anxiety attacks” before. I still couldn’t accept that’s what it was - I remember how I told myself how abnormal it was and to never forget it. I was on the brink of death! I had to worry because if I didn’t worry then it would happen. It was an obsessive compulsive thought and behavior. I could not help myself from acting it out. I truly believed worrying would prevent bad things from happening. If I was carefree, something was wrong. I read about how 30-somethings described TIAs because strokes aren’t just for older people. I was certain I was going to die. And I read people describing going to the ER to find out it was a panic attack and was eased momentarily before both telling myself I had to worry it was a TIA/stroke anyway, and also that if I was having panic attacks, who’s to say that isn’t the first of many to come?

After that day I worked out, ate FANTASTICALLY healthy, saw a nutritionist, took medication, went to therapy, lost 50 more pounds (after having lost and maintained about 30 for a year or so) in a few months, tried to go vegan, settled for vegetarian, went to therapy once a week, started meditating, and was desperate enough to start actually taking my ativan and tried buspar. That was a huge step. My anxiety was destroying my life. After that panic attack, I had heart palpatations out of nowhere at random times nearly every day. I had that sick, sinking, tingling feeling in the pit of my stomach and I held my breath only to breathe too much until I was dizzy. I wanted to cry and several times fell into an anxiety attack that felt like a downward spiral of hopelessness and irrational thinking. I felt helpless and crazier than ever.

Because on top of all that, the moodswings were still there. I went to the psychiatrist, got my buspar, some zoloft (I refused to take it) and intentionally left out the part about the moodswings for fear of a diagnosis that might ruin me, but mostly someone trying to put me on a mood stabilizer. I didn’t want anymore drugs. I’d struggled with 3 different anti-depressants in the past that did nothing, made things worse, or generally just failed in some way. I never felt well, just numb, no change, or terrible. I was desperate enough to try buspar, but that lasted for short weeks before I stopped entirely. When I did, my anxiety had lifted a bit and I did feel a little better. But it had given me painful headaches I couldn’t tolerate anymore and I just can’t deal with being on drugs. I hate it. One night in spring I went into another helpless, fearful tizzy and wanted to scream, cry, cut myself, fuck until everything stopped hurting. Oh, god, why did I hurt so much? Why did I hurt so fucking much. It hurt so bad, aching into my soul. I didn’t know what to do. I sat in warm bath water with the bathroom window open until the sun set and the wind blowing in was cold, along with the water that’d gone cold long before. I cried silent tears, lip shaking, cheeks chapped, coming from the core of me, some deep dark place. I didn’t wail, I felt so lost and empty, as though I’d realized some awful thing and felt totally out of control. I was just so fucking helpless. So fucking empty.

Months went on into summer and I was doing a lot better. I still had my ups and downs, but I was going to be okay. It hit me I could no longer sustain myself without a job (I was in NOOO position at the point to be working AND school) on the pitiful financial aid they offered. I decided right before the fall 2016 semester started I’d go back to grad school the semester after. I was ready and this whole thing, I’d needed the experience and the time, but it was over now. I’ve been lying to myself that I’m incapable. I can do this. I’m ready to be an adult. So I went into that semester (fall 2016) not taking shit seriously at all because I was just D O N E with it. At the end, I was leaving my second bachelor’s degree needing only 4 more classes to earn it, but I couldn’t live off another semester of that and it just felt useless. We moved again due to money stuff and it was going well. I had my rocky patches with the stress, trying to manage, but ultimately it was fine. I was doing so much better and therapy and meditation were making my life fucking great in comparison. I felt stable. Sometimes I little stressed or depressed, but no major episodes. Things were looking up!

It was around October 2016. I’d gone into this extremely positive, hopeful, centered, accepting place I’d never been. I was writing and A LOT. I was extremely productive, sleeping a bit less than usual. Making HUGE strides in therapy and my psychologist was thrilled by it, in awe of me. I was in a mild high and riding it happily. I felt powerful and strong and sure and more than anything I just trusted life. I trusted the process. I trusted the universe. I felt spiritually enlightened and wise and just so CENTERED. Like EVERYTHING just felt like it had a purpose and I was EXACTLY where I needed to be. I’d never felt anything to that level before. I started writing about an event from my past that was verrrry sexually arousing and satisfying. That day changed everything. I got higher than I had been already. Some time went by. I was feeling social and curious and really hungry to connect with other people. I missed having friends and learning new things, getting close to people, new experiences. I was growing so, so, so much personally. I wanted someone to understand and appreciate me. I felt misunderstood and detached. I didn’t know how to communicate through my fear of judgement, abandonment, and worst - invalidation or mocking.

I fiddled around talking to old acquaintances. I made up with some people, caught up with others. It felt really nice. And I was starting to accept all these parts of me that I’d shut off for a long time, fearing their contradicting nature. I am lots of things. I am everything. It doesn’t all have to make sense. I was tired of compartmentalizing around every person though. It was hard and sad and I was kind of lonely. And then it happened, and I met (or re-met) someone. The high I’d been riding flew to new heights. Every fucking atom of my body, every cell, every piece of me was vibrating so fast you couldn’t even tell. I was floating and walking in a cloud of love that touched every person I went near. I felt like an angel, a god. I was god. I was a healer, I was mercy, I was understanding, I was pure, I was the truest truth that ever was, I was love. I WAS LOVE. I wasn’t Kat, I was a being without a name whose purpose was to give love and receive love and live in only love. I deserved this ecstasy, being in love with myself. I didn’t think, I just KNEW. I just KNEW things and followed my intuition and I KNEW that’s what it was. I had never experienced this self-perception before, not like this. Things felt RIGHT and I did them. It went on for months, my self-perception, my world perception...

“you’re manic,” my therapist said with a slight smile. “no I’m not!!” I exclaimed defensively, ready and already going onto a sentence to continue denying”. This was just who I was now, what the fuck was he talking about??? he showed me the way to be, this body could channel love like this, the center of life, the purpose for living. Why would he say it was just being manic?? “don’t get defensive,” he said interrupting me, “I’m not criticizing you for it,” he said among other positive things I can’t remember in the haze. All I remember was his awe from a few weeks before this session, pure awe telling me “you’re not growing in a linear way, it’s exponential...it’s amazing to see someone grow like this.” Praising me for my progress and my rarity. I beamed, I hugged myself in it. “ the crash is going to hurt,” he said. I literally laughed in his face, unable to contain it. I genuinely believed this was me now and I was never going to crash. I’d never experienced that. When I was happy before most of the time, but not always, it was short lived and just before it ended, thoughts crept in that something awful must be about to happen, which ruined everything. Not this time. I was so fucking sure. No one could have convinced me it would end. No one could have convinced me I wasn’t channeling the core aspect of the universe and that was the height of my purpose in this life, my reason for living. That I wasn’t on the same wavelength as the universe itself because I WAS. I didn’t feel delusional, and I still don’t think I was even now... “I’m not going to crash,” I scoffed. He laughed and tested me with it again. And again I brushed him off, laughing.

At that point, I’d stopped sleeping almost entirely. I subsisted on endorphins. I managed 4 hours a night. I wrote and wrote and wrote and I made plans and I felt like I used to feel when they prescribed me adderall only better. I stopped giving ANY fucks about school and took my first F nonchalantly for the most part. I stopped going to the class, didn’t take the final, didn’t write the final paper. This was not like me, the life time good student, and to do so with hardly a care? What was school in the face of the future, in the face of my true purpose? None of this shit is real anyway - life isn’t real, I thought. What is reality? I laughed. I am going to die and be forgotten, why am I so concerned with all this bullshit? I can do anything and I can be happy in any situation no matter what happens because I have love, I AM love. I threw in the towel at school.

and then eventually I crashed some time after this, and it was unexpected still too. It never crossed my mind, even when my therapist put it there. Everything was all in the open now. I didn’t always do the right thing. It felt like I knew that I had wings, and no one could see them, but I flew anyway. And then something happened and my brain just decided to accept the social reality that I didn’t, so my wings only I could see shrunk into nothing and I fell thousands of feet to the ground. I realized in a speechless, horrified panic that was not the perfect, helpful, merciful, loving being I thought I’d been. I thought that I was god, but now I looked back and saw only the devil at the damage she’d caused without a second thought. What have I done? Who was I? How could I do this? I just wanted to die. What was wrong with me? Everything I’d ever done wrong in my life came back to haunt me. I didn’t know how to apologize enough. I felt miserable and like a disgusting excuse for a person. I felt like I deserved to die for my half-truths and redirected empathy. I was a werewolf. I was a normal human who turned into a selfish, hungry monster willing to do anything to fill the hole inside her that could never really be filled. I hated myself. I was no angel, no goddess. Who am I?

It took time, lots of talking, lots of conflict, lots of effort, lots of facing fears, lots of honesty, lots of risk, but I felt like things were getting better. Part of me was angry. Why were my mistakes the gravest sins while similar sins from others were things I’d forgotten not long after they happened? Why were things always worse and more evil when I did them in comparison to others? Did I just forgive too easily? I don’t know. I had to pick up the pieces. I was knocked so far down. I’d climbed a ladder and almost reached the top, but my mistakes caused me to slip and fall to the fucking ground, damaged and terrified and uncertain of how to even go about climbing back up again.

I started wondering if something more was going on? I’d given up on diagnosis a long time ago. It’s just the symptoms, not the label that mattered. But it felt like my symptoms weren’t even being addressed anymore. Isn’t being manic a symptom? Should I not look into this?

“I wish you wouldn’t think of yourself as mentally ill,” he said, “it’s not productive.”

I don’t know what to think anymore. I don’t fit the full criteria for borderline personality disorder, but I am 100% certain there was a long stretch of time in my past that I did. Several symptoms still apply frequently, some less so. I was diagnosed with PTSD and don’t fit the full criteria, but I cope with symptoms off and on, some daily, some not. It changes you and it doesn’t matter if you don’t fit the criteria on a daily basis, at one point you did and it still can wreck havoc on your life. I look at bipolar disorder and there are several other episodes of my past I have failed to mention here to lead me to believe that’s something to consider in terms of symptom management and treatment. But I have a psychologist who believes that mental illness is changeable, maybe not in everyone, but in me for sure. I believe him and I believe that too. I believe that regardless of what someone might label me (because diagnosis is highly subjective and 5 psychs could give me 5 different opinions), I can learn to cope with the symptoms and function, somehow someway. I am not damaged beyond repair, but I struggle and that’s what matters. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, and even my saying that would cause my therapist to be frustrated with me even thinking of myself that way. There’s a fucking problem when I’m hurting other people and not thinking about it. There’s a fucking problem when I feel indestructible and look back going “What the hell was I thinking”. There’s a problem when in the past I’ve struggled with mood regulation and had several “manic” type episodes where even if I wasn’t “happy” like I was this time, like most people stereotypically believe is all that manic means, I was agitated and motivated and hyped up in the same way directed into negative emotions, which can be part of hypomania/mania/mixed episodes. I’ve had delusional episodes related to my health. It hasn’t happened for a while, but its presence in my past matters.

I just want to be well. I beat myself up, thinking that even when I’m happy it’s not because I’m really happy, it’s because I’m mentally ill and he, my therapist, was disappointed in me saying that. Part of me still feels that way, while another part of me knows I truly was happy. I don’t know what to think. Maybe both can be true. I don’t know how to be. I just am, and I’m just trying to pick up my pieces and function and love and live and be a good person, the best I know how. Sometimes I fuck up, but I’m always sorry and I want to do better. I don’t have a label and I don’t know if I really want one. I just know the things I do aren’t always like normal people - my feelings, my interpretations, my assumptions, my thought patterns. I was traumatized and that changed me. But even before that I was never normal, and I knew it. I was anxious, depressed, and fucked up as a child while my other 8 year old friends didn’t have these problems. I am mentally ill but that doesn’t define me or make me hopeless. It doesn’t mean I can’t achieve and accomplish and manage it and grow. I am a capable, smart, strong, loving person, and sometimes I mess up, sometimes I feel worthless, sometimes I feel spiteful and hurt and sad and afraid, and I’m not perfect. I just do my best in the moment and that’s all I can do, even when sometimes I realize immediately I can do better in the next minute. I push myself and I try to grow. Deep down that’s the thing that motivates and drives me the most. It’s my greatest desire and biggest hope.

I am everything. I’m an angel and a goddess and a werewolf and the devil. I am courageous and cowardly. I am loving and also selfish. I am impulsive and hesitant and I think sometimes that I’m not good enough, while other times I’m too good. I am petty and apologetic and loyal and untrustworthy. I am self-conscious and helpful and kind and would do anything to help a friend. A stranger. I am also confused and knowing and lost and settled and I am every fucking contradiction. That doesn’t make me fake or wrong or cruel, it fucking makes me human. I’m aware of my contradictions, I don’t deny them. It means I have choices to make about the reality of who I am and who I want to be. I am not in denial about either side of me and every combination of my traits. It doesn’t absolve me of responsibility for the bad things I do. It doesn’t mean I am above criticism or that I’m saying I am perfect and always justified. I’m not. I love myself and criticize myself and sometimes I hate myself too.

I’m not perfect. But I do my best, and that’s all I or anyone can ever do.

#meandmine #suicide tw #self-harm tw #alcohol tw #abuse tw #rape tw #fuck it #just general tw for everything #mental illness tw #be careful not to get caught on all my Edge(tm)#im sorry i just am not good with myself 100% right now #i needed to write to get it out cause that's what I do

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a-greatfunbouquet · 5 years

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Five Essentials Things Learned from Cathy Jordan, Florida’s ‘Patron Saint’ of Medical Marijuana

In a tribute in the Herald-Tribune earlier this year, Floridians learned about one of the many heroes in the long struggle for medical marijuana in Florida, a brave woman named Cathy Jordan. Jordan spent 22 years leading the fight to bring medical marijuana to the people suffering from long-term and chronic conditions in the Sunshine State.

It was a personal fight for her as well, as, during that entire time, she was also suffering herself. Diagnosed some 24 years ago with ALS, or Lou Gehrig’s Disease, she found that medical cannabis was one of the only things that helped to treat her symptoms.

According to the Herald-Tribune, Jordan always knew that victory would be tight, but that it would always come.

“I always knew we were going to win,” she said in an interview.

Medical Marijuana in Florida

ALS can be devastating, but it’s only one of the illnesses for which Florida residents can now receive approval to begin medical marijuana treatment. In Florida, and here at Marijuana Doctor, the following list of qualifying conditions for medical cannabis include but are not limited to:

Cancer

Epilepsy

Glaucoma

HIV/AIDS

Post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD)

Amyotrophic lateral sclerosis (ALS)

Crohn’s disease

Parkinson’s disease

Multiple sclerosis (MS)

There are related conditions that may qualify patients also, and those need to be discussed with a physician or caregiver. And it took a long, hard fight in Florida for patients to have the right to use medical marijuana for these conditions. Which brings everything back to the main point here.

These are five things learned from Cathy Jordan, over the long course of her fight with ALS, and with the Florida authorities to find reasonable access to lifesaving medical marijuana.

Five Essential Things Learned from Cathy Jordan’s Activism

1. Even the weakest among us can make a big difference: Maybe this is just part of being human, but everyone who needs help can contribute to the good of all of us, by speaking up, being counted, and making their positions known. Jordan attended protests and actions in a wheelchair. It was the only way she could make her way there, but thousands have now benefitted and will suffer less, because of the extra effort she made.

2. “There’s no shame in sickness.”: Jordan’s husband Bob remarked the Herald-Tribune this past March. Bob spent the past 22 years, not just watching his wife suffer from what’s long been considered a fatal disease. He spent those years cultivating and perfecting a strain of perfect but still perfectly illegal Marijuana to treat her condition. It was the only thing that worked. When she was diagnosed, Jordan’s life expectancy was about five years. Rather than submit to the shame and despair of the illness, the couple fought back. They suffered police-raids, the confiscation of the plants growing in their garden, and the humiliation of being treated like criminals. And that’s all in addition to being ill in the first place.

3. Marijuana is medicine: It may be a lot of other things, too. But for Cathy Jordan, and others like her, outliving a five-year life expectancy takes courage, an outstanding will to live, and determination. But now outliving your life expectancy, in Florida anyway, doesn’t mean you’ve also got to fight to get the medicine keeping you alive. No black markets. No seedy illegal dealers. No risks to your name or your police record. And that’s a pretty big deal.

4. Florida is NOT the most screwed-up state in the Union: We’re sometimes just one hanging chad away from throwing in the towel. But Cathy Jordan showed us, too, that sticking with system and fighting within the courts and the legal channels that we’ve got can pay off. Sometimes it’s a slog, even a long, hard, miserable slog. But in the end, Cathy Jordan won, and so did thousands of others who will suffer less and enjoy far better quality in their lives.

5. The world is better when you decide for yourself: During the debate as to whether the 2016 amendment allowing medical marijuana could still let the state ban “the smoking” of medical marijuana, it looked like we’d lost. It looked like some law-and-order types would stop at absolutely nothing to prevent you from deciding what’s best for you. Cathy Jordan helped win that battle too.

So, you can decide.

You still need to talk to your doctor, but when is that a bad thing? Marijuana Doctor is here to help you navigate the process from beginning to end and supports all of our veterans who have served in the armed forces. We have board-certified physicians to evaluate your case and determine if you could benefit from medical marijuana.

After you’ve received a recommendation, we’ll help you with the registration process with the Florida Department of Health as well. Best of all, the process is risk-free with a 100 percent money-back guarantee. If you don’t qualify, you don’t pay.

You can check to see if you’re eligible for a medical marijuana card in Florida, or you can schedule an appointment online with us now.

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If you believe that you may qualify for a Florida medical marijuana card, don’t hesitate to ask for help! Call us at (844) 442-0362 or schedule your free consultation online.

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sahara-elizabeth-avery-blog · 6 years

Text

A piece of me.

*TRIGGER WARNING*

My innocence vanished faster than my mind could erase it. The others well, i cant speak for them but i know they are mentally stable, their mind must have subconsciously blocked it out. For me, i still live it everyday, a secret i kept for 16 years.

The first time i had sex was when i was thirteen the first time i was fucked i was raped behind a strip mall against a green garbage bin.

Hmm Fucked. The word fuck can be used to describe almost everything, there isn't just one definition that explains the word.

I was drunk for the first time. He was only 15. Did he know what he did? I didn't think he did. I still to this day don’t think he did anything wrong. But I remember yelling stop. I let it slip my mind but my mind doesn't allow things like that to escape. That’s when the drugs started and the drinking and filling myself with boys who didn't matter to try and feel whole again.

That never stopped i am still empty but left with scars. I was made to see a shrink little did my parents know what was really going on, he was an odd looking man from New York, i told him both now my biggest secrets that ate away at me, taking a piece of my life everyday, he told me to ball it up like paper and throw it out the window and to FORGET what sexual trauma i had been through since i was 3.

His diagnoses; clinical depression, general and social anxiety.

Hello Prozac. Shortly after i attempted suicide. My sister needed attention because telling my parents i was no longer a virgin but a whore with genital warts who does drugs who has rages wasn't enough so she told everyone in school i tried to kill her instead of how i overdosed. I wish i could say this story isn't all sad but i would be lying. There are happy parts but nothing ever lasts.

Hello Zoloft goodbye Prozac, welcome clonazepam and number two psychiatrist; and the diagnoses of Major depressive disorder. I wouldn't speak of the sexual abuse i had suffered i don’t think i needed to. She could tell i was holding back i told her some traumatic things that had happened in my life and that the Prozac did nothing for me although mixing cocaine, alcohol, and methamphetamine's with SSRI’s was never a good idea. I started getting drug tested so i became an alcoholic still allowing guys to enter my body to try and keep it full.

New psychiatrists came and left like the boys between my legs did as years went by the worst i became, in every way. Cipralex was next, shitty to meet you and nice to meet you razor blades my legs welcome you and were going to have some fun with you Clonazepam.

Im 17 now, i fell in love with an abusive son of a bitch but god was he a good fuck. I dropped out of school due to my addiction to drugs and addiction to him and then I left everything behind to follow him to the island, where he was going to trade school for the next 9 months. I was staying at my pops, 4 hours away, we seen each other every weekend. Piece of shit. I was young and gullible he was 23, dead beat father but my everything. It’s possible that if he didn't abuse me emotionally the way he did maybe my mental state wouldn't have changed so fast. Maybe i had years, good happy years left before it was my time to present as unstable. Fuck you. I thank my parents for knowing me so well and flying out when they did because i was ready to finish what i tried when i was 13. I was rushed to the hospital and studied by yet another psychiatrist for 14 days to determine if i was bipolar or if i had borderline personality disorder. Diagnoses; An extreme case of borderline personality disorder. (along with previous diagnoses)

Hello wellbutrin. Cool a NDRI. SSRI’s never seemed to work. Having norepinephrine in the mix was a game changer, could it help my rages? my black out cutting rages? Please help me.

Oh hello more drugs, Xanax i really like you, valium makes me tired i want to get high, lets be friends X.

Hello to the most memorizing hazel eyes and smile, my second crush of my entire life. No. The absolute love of my life. The still love of my life. I’m 18 now. We moved an ounce of cocaine a day and split an ounce, we spent 4 months side by side selling and doing drugs. We began a relationship it was beautiful for the most part. We fucked and fucked and fucked until we couldn't fuck anymore we finally made love, something both of us hadn’t felt in a long time, and me ever. He says i was his first love i was 19 now. I wont go into detail because all i have to say is that he is the true love of my life and im so so sorry i lost him a couple months ago.

Hello seroquel, im begging you to help me.

Words can hurt and if you use them correctly it could be a two bottles of antidepressants, benzos, and seroquel down my throat. Goodbye mom, goodbye dad, goodbye family. Goodbye hazel eyes. I loved you. Time to leave my body. I was stable all night with a breathing tube down my throat, i woke up and then slipped into a coma after suffering 18 seizures within two hours. It was time to say goodbye to me. My family said their goodbyes. its a lie you know. You cannot hear them or feel them around you. Im in trouble im no longer breathing on my own, the doctor was smart enough and being very cautious with me by putting me on a breathing machine before i stopped breathing, because i stopped. I was dying, i was put on life support and sent to a better hospital.

God dammit.

I woke up. unharmed. alive. well. but angry.

Effexor, valium and seroquel. I dont know how to greet you. Ill try you. Hazel eyes you’re still with me. I love you.

Hello rehab, i dont like you. 27 days of pure bullshit. Im home again now, when parents dont know what to do with their children they kick them out. I am homeless. Hazel eyes baby, move in with me. My heart is full. He is mine forever, we get engaged.

Friends? Where did you go i only left to better myself. its okay i understand it.

Hospital every two weeks, suicidal. constant overdosing. Stabbing. Abuse. Hazel eyes turned black sometimes when he was angry.

It’s September the 10th. Im being brutally raped and sexually assaulted by three 30 year old men who enjoy re-watching. That video disgusts me. Thank you for killing me inside and out my life if forver ruined because of you, you hold my life.

Extreme PTSD you are not wanted please go away please go away.

For my 20th birthday i moved into a homeless shelter. Happy Birthday lost cause. 22 days after my birthday my friend overdoses and dies. Hazel eyes has nothing in them, he hurts me. I hurt him back. We keep fighting its gotten physical, mental and emotional. We will never be the same and neither will my wrists. He leaves in march and i never see him again. My heart is broke. Im sorry.

It is now July. its been 10 months since i was raped, the case is still on going, i am 21 years old, alive, thriving, learning to live again.

**I haven't been in a hospital for 6 months, no self harm for 7 months. Diagnoses; Borderline personality disorder, Major depressive disorder, severe PTSD, general anxiety disorder, social anxiety disorder, panic attack disorder, major insomnia, anorexia nervosa, possible bipolar type 2.**

These are just some bad pieces of me i am sharing with you. There are more worse ones and there are better ones but these are for you.

So yeah this is another story on someones life you don’t even know but now you do, i am Sahara nice to meet you.

#life mentalhealth apieceofme living health love hurt

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