#i would have to wait weeks to see ''my'' primary care doctor in person and i'm out of my antidepressants now | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

dopaminergicaddictions · 3 months

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3/12/24

11:13 p.m Updated

So I made it to my testosterone shot thankfully, as yesterday I was 10 minutes late to my doctor appt and they made me reschedule. If I lose my primary care I'm going to have so many issues between my insomnia script and my biweekly testosterone shot. I'm really thankful I got there with 5 minutes to spare.

I also lost track of time yesterday bc I've been running around like a chicken with my head cut off and I was 20 minutes late to my appt with Mike... he texted me and offered me 6:30 after I didn't show up for 6. I showed up at 6:27 and he didn't show up... I waited 27 minutes... either way today I made my obligations. I met with Mike too for the first time in like a month. After yesterday him leaving me hanging and pretending not to get my texts. I prob shouldn't see him but what am I supposed to do? Danielle was all about countertransference.... and finding a therapist as a transguy is tough. I write it in my emails and I can send 10 and only one person responds to me so whatever, it is what it is.

I called Eye Doctors around town and 2 out of 3 said they measure each eye individually. The other said both at the sametime. I called my eye doctor, I lied and said I got their script from an online eye wear place and I got headaches... I said it could either be the script or that the glasses were made incorrectly. Luckily my insurnace will cover a retest within 30 days of getting your script. I'm scheduled for the 19th and I will make sure they do both eyes separately before I take my ray bans off hold. And I'll update the script with the accurate test results. For now I'll just wear my distance glasses. I'm going to keep them bc of the shape and style for gaming and driving... if I got them updated as progressives they would be 304$ cause they won't let you pick clear lenses in this frame, you got to pick transitions and the most expensive one... it's ridiculous cause I love these frames... so my ray bans will be progressive pending my new test on Tuesday....

I worked on a few things I've been putting off, I called my capture card place and gamestop. The capture card place will replace it refurbished but only give me a month warranty as I am officially out of warranty but I called in December and it saved my ass. I called game stop and my warranty for the same capture card ended March 9th. Psychosis and my circadian rhythm make accomplishing things very difficult.... The manager at gamestop sent an email to try to remedy the situation as I went in store in December and tried to replace it or get a refund. I have a 2 year warranty that just expired. I explained that I have psychosis and I've been having issues getting stuff done. He is going to try to replace it or give me my 79$ back.. it would be more ideal... as a refurbished with a month warranty isn't ideal... but I have one of two options. I have to wait until Monday to hear back from Gamestop before I make the decision to either send it back to EVGA or accept whatever gamestop will give me.

I had months to call and I couldn't cause I'm always overwhelmed and stressed because I have to simulate my auditory cortex with pod casts or mindless TV like The Simpsons with heavy dialogue just to not hear the voice. I used to work in silence... like to focus I would sit in complete silence and do my stuff. Now I must always have constant chatter on in the background to avoid hearing the voice... hearing how repetitive it is drives me crazy. However listening to mindless chatter in the background even as I write this drives me crazy cause I can't focus the way I want to.

Not to mention I have constant doctor appts and a fucked circadian rhythm. I generally have 1 hours and 30 minutes a day with the time I wake up... and if a doctors appt is during that time which i have therapy 3 days a week. It gives me like 20 minutes to call a place.

I really want to kill myself after reading about recovery rates. I'm considered in remission... "Remission" is defined as symptomatic but functioning in a social/occupational/taking care of yourself type of way. Basically it's someone who hallucinates, but is firmly gripped in reality. You can't be delusional... and you have to be able to take care of yourself, shower, eat, cook, shop, drive, make appts, have fulfilling social relationships, have a job etc...

I don't have a job and likely never will. If I could stop having ocd I'd work with kids. I'd be able to do it with the voice. I can't with my ocd and psychosis. Either way I am in remission as I meet all criteria.

Remission is depressing and when you look at graphs, a lot of people are in Remission...

Recovery is a different beast.. it's having no symptoms. When you look at these charts, my percentage of actually not hallucinating one day is about 24% in 6 months, 26% in 12 months, 39% in 24 months. It doesn't seem promising.

I have "fulfilling" relationships. It's funny. When you have friends and you're single, you feel more alone. Hanging out with Charlotte Saturday, Marcy after Charlotte left (cause I didn't get a real birthday party), hanging out with John Monday over mic playing FC4 was not fulfilling. I hallucinated much less but I felt alone. They all have partners. I'm lacking companionship. I'm lacking someone to hug, hold hands with, share all my most intimate secrets with, someone to trust to have always be there for me.

I've been in support groups for voice hearers and everyone is more crazy than me. Everyone has schizophrenia and schizoaffective, etc. They see more, hear more and are all on antipsychotics.. most have tardive dsykinesia. No one is like me. I'm the odd one out who has to be sensitive about antipsychotics bc everyone is on them. Everyone is eccentric. I feel like I don't belong.

I feel like I don't belong anywhere. I feel like my chance to recover could take anywhere from 3 years to 10 years and I may never not hallucinate.... it may be that I am in remission for the rest of my life... I will never take antipsychotics I don't want negative symptoms, movement disorders, seizures, and I don't want to have 30% of my life shortened....

So here I stand, in remission. Wondering if full recovery is possible when I feel so fucking unfulfilled with everything I have in my life. No one likes my face enough on these dating apps to even get to know me..

As i talked to John. Marcy. Charlotte I felt this hollowing aloneness. I'm not like you. You have fulfillment. You don't have secrets that will make sure no one ever loves you or stays. You're not like me.

Until I find a partner I'm going to feel this way. Which I likely won't.

Until I actually recover I will never feel at peace. If Kristen keeps her license I'm actually going to commit suicide.

If Kristen does lose her license if my life doesn't get more fulfilling I'm going to kill myself.

I don't think there is any point in fighting. Yet I keep doing it and idk why.

All I know is I have to report Kristen before I end my life. She doesn't get to take mine without at least having a red mark on her perfect record.

Antipsychotics aren't even considered on this chart cause 99.99% take them... and I won't. But yea it's pretty disappointing. I'm depressed and I don't see much of a point in trying. I got to at least submit my paperwork before I do it.

I don't believe in soulmates. I don't believe there is someone out there for me. I don't believe I'll be anything or even have a somewhat satisfying relationship with anyone.

Once I get news of kristen license I'm ending my life. Especially if she gets to keep it. But idk how many more disappointing months I can live like this. I've talked to 2 people who had thc induced psychosis who didn't take antipsychotics they heard a voice the whole time and recovered within 1 year and 6 months that's all I got for research from people like me.

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requiemforarainbow · 7 months

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Trying to write with chronic pain flares is...interesting. Under a cut for talk of unknown illness/pain and personal shit.

Follow my NaNo 2023 journey: https://nanowrimo.org/participants/jordan-a-wruck

So the last week of September, I started to have a small pain in my lower right abdomen. It started at about a 2/10 - just a tiny little "oh, that feels weird. Huh." I originally chalked it up to muscle pain because I'm a side sleeper, and my right side is the normal side I get comfy on.

October 2nd. Pain was still there and increased to about a 6-7/10. Immediately got me in to my doctor's Internal Medicine side to see a doc. She ordered bloodwork and an ultrasound. Promised me results in 24 hours.

October 3rd. Doc hadn't called with results by close of business. Meanwhile, the pain spiked to a 9/10. ER TIME! (I HATE the hospital, so for me to say "let's go to the hospital" it has to HURT LIKE A MOTHERFUCKER. Last time that happened it turned out to be my gallbladder.)

ER visit took.... 7 hours. 7 FUCKING HOURS. 2 of those hours were in the WAITING ROOM. 5 was spent in a bed in the HALLWAY in between 2 CLEARLY MARKED ISOLATION ROOMS WITH THE DOORS OPEN AND NO MASKS IN SIGHT. (In retrospect, I forgot my mask too with the pain, and 5 days later ended up with a minor viral infection myself.)

ER doc ordered more bloodwork, urinalysis, an ultrasound, and a CT scan. By the time I got back from the CT scan I was starting to get a migraine, and the pain in my abdomen hadn't subsided either. (Also I learned I'm not actually allergic to CT contrast, but that's another story.) At this point I was betting either my appendix was acting up, my pancreas was being more of a bitch than usual (diabetes is fun!), or something with my liver.

So, total time spent in the ER: 7 hours.

Results from the tests: "Nothing actionable."

Total pain medication given: Z E R O mg.

That's right. NO PAIN MEDICATION. They gave me anti-nausea meds and PEPCID FOR FUCKING HEARTBURN.

Because as we all know, heartburn starts over near the FUCKING APPENDIX.

...Yes, I was and am P I S S E D.

They literally treated me like a drug addict looking for a fix. Even after I mentioned I had a migraine. All because my 9/10 pain wasn't making me scream constantly. My normal pain level is about a 6/10, which is a level that would have most people without chronic pain bedridden and screaming. For me, anything LESS than that is literally background noise.

Oh, did I mention I had my PARENTS WITH ME?! My parents - who are also chronic pain sufferers. My parents who have NARCOTIC PAIN MEDICATION.

Naturally I brought them to the ER to help me "get a fix", right?!

What does my doc give me for this chronic pain, you ask? 800 mg ibuprofen. Which - surprise - doesn't usually do jack shit.

I mean, I get it. The narcotic stuff can be addictive. And with the opioid crisis, they're careful who they give it to. In my state, you have to be under the care of a long-term pain management doc.

Who won't see me because - surprise - I'm a "kid."

I'm 36 and use a cane because of the pain. My primary doc helped me get a disabled parking placard. She knows how bad my pain gets. She knows - but she legally can't give me anything stronger than the ibuprofen. (Which sucks. But I like her.)

But you'd think the ER could have at least given me an ibuprofen!!

Anyway. Went back to the Internal Med doc a week later. The Internal Med doc set me up with a GI consult. (Gastric doc. I'm starting to think it might be warranted because it's starting to hurt every time I eat.) The date of my initial consult?

November 30th.

Yep. That would make the appointment TWO BLOODY MONTHS after the initial pain started.

Luckily they have a priority cancellation list. And I guess someone cancelled because my appointment is now this Friday (November 10).

I already know how it's going to go. They're going to prod my abdomen a little, not find shit, and say "Okay, so we're going to have to scope you."

I've had an endoscopy before, both upper and lower. The prep is a NIGHTMARE. (Note: do not drink the ginger flavor prep with Pepsi. You will want to barf for weeks.)

Fingers crossed the endoscopy will find what the fuck is causing my entire abdomen to feel like someone is jabbing me with a cattle prod every time I eat now.

And that I can get to 50,000 words this NaNo.

#nanowrimo #nanowrimo 2023 #chronic pain #chronic illness #unknown illness

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dlnj · 10 months

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Hey fellow diaper lovers , so I don’t know how many people have seen my posts here and know what I’m trying to do. So I’ll give ya the run down really quick, I’m trying to get my doctor or another doctor to put in in my medical charts that I am diaper dependent which then will get insurance to cover it. I’ve been becoming more and more brave about my diapered life and am working up the courage to start talking to my doctor about having accidents and becoming a bed wetter. I fully intend to tell her that I’ve been back in diaper full time bed use for 8 years now and if I go without a diaper I will wet the bed. My doctor is pretty understanding and will most likely just put it in my chart and not get to crazy about trying to run tests and what not. Anyway so I know that doctor which makes it a little uncomfortable (and I actually to leak daily and think I have the begging of urge incontinence and stress incontinence as well. That being said I thought I would start being open about it with total strangers and I was also curious if somehow I could find an adult diaper bank but wasn’t able to locate one near me or anywhere in this area at all, so I thought maybe call a hospital cause they might know better than I do and a lot of the time people donate left over diapers from someone who passed or for what ever reason. So I spoke with This lady over the phone (young probably around my age or younger I’m 38) and explained to her that I have been back in diapers full time at night for 8 years and that I’m not a rich man as I support my family in my check alone we are able to do and buy what ever we want or need but we are on a budget and diapers are part of that budget , I have an order of my typical diapers tranquility ATN which are the best by far my favorite that should have been here already but they have not yet arrived and it could be 2-3 more days without my diapers , that’s a whole lot of laundry and bedding changes instead of just throwing out my diaper which normally lasts all night and I’m not waking up in a soaking wet bed . I told her all of that asked her if she know what I could do and she said to hang on a minute and quickly came back asking me my size and if just a couple would get me through . I then asked her if maybe 4 or 5 would be possible but I would take what ever , I also told her I prefer tap style diapers rather than pull-ups thinking the hospital is bound to have real diapers . Anyway she came back on the line and told me that all they had was pull-ups but they would be more than willing to give me some to hold me over. I thought that was really nice of them. It wasn’t really about getting the diapers it was more about being brave enough to tell my story to someone in the medical field so that I feel more comfortable talking to me doctor and convincing her I am diaper dependent at night and some times during the day too. I am well on my way to being able to get my diapers through my insurance and having it down on paper so there is never a question about it again. Can’t wait til Wednesday when I see my doctor again. I see her once a month normally for my medication but she is also my primary care doctor and easy to convince , so fingers crossed that on Wednesday next week as far as anyone else is concerned I will be incontinent/diaper dependent and hopefully I’ll be able to get my diapers on an automatic delivery and the ones I want and need , free would be nice too. The best part though would be it being a medical thing which means no one should be saying anything g at all about it . I’ve been looking for a discrete pull-up for work cause I already know if I’m in a diaper of some kind I will end up using it completely by accident . I’m sure I would soon ditch the pull-ups in favor of diapers at work too, but baby steps . I’m actually proud of myself , putting myself into an embarrassing situation and it being no big deal, I even went into the hospital to get my pull-ups personally . Was actually fun . Pretty soon it’ll be a perm at 24/7 thing and I cannot wait . It’s more authentic for sure.

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clawdee049 · 1 year

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Personal health update/quick lore:

Lore: had COVID February 2022. Didn't know it. Health started to decline - it always takes me forever to heal, I thought it was that. It wasn't. Finally after months of bullshit I had to go to the doctors for leg swelling. Also had a co-worker be like "hey all your symptoms sound like congestive heart failure" 🥴

October 2022 went to the ER bc I didn't have a primary care doctor. After tests and listening to my concerns, I was admitted for 12 days. They probably would have kept me longer if I didn't insist on going home.

My white blood cell count was funky, still is. Had a heart echo, multiple ct scans of my whole body, sonograms of my legs and neck, and a brain MRI.

Turns out I've been having mini strokes. I didn't remember any of them. I had a stroke in the hospital my 3rd day there and semi lost the use of my legs.

Basically:

During those 12 days they had me on lasix, which is a super diaretic, and I peed out 80lbs. I've since gained back 20 and the number is slowly going up, which is rude.

They made sure I could walk before leaving, so I had mobility, but it was hard. My back was in so much pain I spent most of the next few months in bed; I couldn't even sit in a chair. Had to have a portable toilet in my room at the end of my bed bc that's as far as I could go, cane in hand. Mom had to bring me all my meals, which was fine I was barely eating. At this point pigging out for me was now having 2 whole packages of Easy Mac.

I missed Halloween, a cousins funeral, Thanksgiving, most of Christmas. I was well enough at Christmas to sit up a whole 10 minutes for present unwrapping.

Then the apartment flooding on Jan 1st, me hobbling up our front steps, mom helping me, no shoes on, skimpy ass shorts and tank top.

After that I was able to move a little more. Sit up properly in bed. Walk to an actual toilet. We went to a hotel for a week. Was starting to get an appetite back.

Then to my brother's house, where we are still at.

Had to shave my head, it was just too much upkeep and kept getting matted.

February. I'm walking a bit more, sitting up more. Eating more. Can go into town with mom once a week to grocery shop. Slowly. Still using the portable toilet bc I need the arms to leverage myself up and down.

March. Can sit in a chair in the living room for extended periods of time. Practicing using the actual toilet. Took my first real shower since the hospital. Have done sponge baths until then.

Update: And I'm just improving a little more each day. Stairs are still iffy, but I can do them as long as there's a rail or something to hold onto, going down is easier of course. Curbs if I'm careful. Trying to walk a mile a day.

I've been reading a lot, got no internet and no computer lmao. Got myself a little Bluetooth keyboard to use with my phone for writing. Been doing puzzles. Working those brain muscles to make sure the strokes didn't do too much damage to my brain.

Went to Lindsey's apartment yesterday with mom to watch the babies and used her laptop for writing and was able to sit in the computer chair for 4 hours with minimal pain.

Been out of work since October, had to quit bc I didn't know when I'd be well enough to go back.

But I think when we move back into our apartment (July!) I'm gonna see if my work will take me back with short shifts and adjusted duties. I applied for disability but they're being shits and I'm waiting to hear back about a hearing.

#personal #health & wellness #weight talk cw #hospital talk cw #long post

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charlottelerose · 1 year

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The Weight Of It All

“It would have been more humane to just take me out to the back paddock and put a bullet in my head, if it is that much of a crime to be different!”— Hannah Gadsby.

There's not much I can write here that won't be very familiar to anyone living in the United States, or any trans person living in the United Kingdom.

No sense burying the lede. A surgery I consider life-saving and necessary for my mental and physical well-being has been denied by my insurance. Again. For the third time. I can't tell you how frustrating it is to exist in this liminal waiting room.

My anxiety is crippling. The dysphoria is crushing. Through it all, I haven't been able to even sleep anymore.

I can always try to appeal the decision, of course. But since the insurance company, once again, denied the claim at the last possible second, I have no recourse but to go through an appeals process. The process takes over a month to be reviewed, and by the time anyone gets around with giving me the a-ok to start living my life, the date of my surgery would have come and past. This will require me getting two more letters of “yes, she actually does need this” recommendations from two doctors, one of whom must be a psychiatrist. Then I will need to schedule a new surgery date sometime in the future, which has never been less than nine months out, and start a brand-new claim with the insurance where they can say “yes, this is approved” and then deny it again at the finish line once more.

It does not take a Ph.D. candidate to recognize that this malicious contrivance on the part of the insurance company is on purpose. After all, if I don't get healthcare, they don't have to pay anything. I won't even bother talking about how they have to practice medicine and decide that they know better than two doctors who have known me for the better part of a half a decade to deny me this surgery. It is very explicit that this is a necessity in all available literature.

As Abigail Thorne put it, “That's what a lot of this comes down to, waiting for somebody else's permission to live the rest of your life.”

Apart from a small, one-week, vacation, I have not left my house for leisure in over three years.

Every time someone looks at me, they immediately clock me as trans. This isn't self deprecation (I put all of that away for this), I really do not pass when scrutinized face-to-face. This surgery would fix a major point of anxiety and pain in my life.

I don't even have the strength to be angry anymore. I'm completely spent. All this time I've been waiting to start living my life and there's always some apparatchik who long ago lost the spark of humanity telling me “no”.

When I started transitioning, I had to first tell my doctor. Well, first I was recommended a therapist for major depressive disorder. I sat with that therapist for a few sessions before I felt safe enough to come out as transgender and ask for a referral for hormones.

The first thing I had to do was wait. See, while both my primary care and therapist were supportive and agreed that the best thing for me was HRT, I had to go see a specialist to get it. And while both were great at advocating for me on my behalf, they were up against a large bureaucracy that, in hindsight, is really freaking transmisic. Not phobic, no one had an irrational fear or anger reaction upon learning I was trans. No. This was a much more quiet, silent kind of hateful. A simmering kind that only comes from pushing papers for so many years you forget to think of people as humans first, and that trans people are people.

You see. Despite both my doctors saying it's required for my mental health, no one in the hospital system or my insurance would budge one iota for me. Every request for referral was denied. Every doctor visit for insurance was held up, denied, or revoked.

When I finally did see an endocrinologist, it was almost two years later. February 2018–October 2019. Those years went by slowly as my poor therapist watched my mental state slowly decline to the point where she had, on more than one occasion, put me on a watch. I cannot describe to you the pain of that initial death march. Knowing exactly what's wrong with me and having everyone who should be involved in my health tell me to wait, or turn me away at every door.

Finally, much to my relief, I received an OK from both my insurance and from the hospital I was with at the time that I was allowed to see an endocrinologist. I can only guess as to why. Unfortunately for me, the only one available who would take trans patients and my insurance was two full hours away in another state. This meant that every time I needed to see him (and it had to be in person, even labs were required to be done in his office only) I had to take a full day off work and spend an entire tank of gas going in one direction for two hours only to go two hours back in another direction an hour later.

The staff seemed friendly enough, so I had hopes I'd finally get somewhere with my transition. Know that, at this time, I was still presenting as my assigned gender, and had not had even one drop of HRT in my blood yet. The nurse on call that day talked to me and took some blood samples and told me to wait.

I waited. For a full hour, I waited. Finally, when I saw the man who was the last person in the world between me and my medicine, he took one look at me and said, “no”.

Apparently, I wasn't “trans” enough. He knew full well that someone who tried to be “trans enough” in the Midwest at that time had a very real risk to their life. So, he told me to go home and come back in three months, and if I were still trans, he would try to help me.

This man loved “three months”.

Three months later I went back. Surprise! I'm still trans. Can I have my medicine now? I sat in that waiting room for another hour for this boomer of a doctor to come back into the room I was sitting in to tell me one thing:

“No”

Dearest reader. Lovely reader. I want you to know that I am not an angry person. I have been thrown into lockers, punched, beaten. I have had things thrown at me and more curses hurled at my person than any person rightfully should have. But at that moment, in that waiting room, I could have lept from the window.

See, what this doctor of medicine in a trans-specific wing of a hospital wanted from me was more proof that I was actually trans. He wanted for me to take only spironolactone for three months “just to get a baseline” for my blood tests. Couldn't you see? He just had my best interest in mind. What a guy. Depriving me of all hormones and turning me into a lethargic, useless heap of flesh for three months, just to satisfy his curiosity.

So I did.

I have since been in contact with another transgender patient of this hospital, long after all of this transpired. That poor girl had been on nothing but spironolactone for a full year at this doctors' behest when I had talked to her. I can no longer reach her online. I hope she's okay.

You see, I had already had all fight taken out of me. I lost my will to live at twelve, and this waiting turned me into the Dalai Lama for torture. I could endure three more months.

So, on a cold day in February (a full two years after I started this venture), I left the office and began my two-hour drive home with a script for the very beginnings of ½ of my HRT, the medicine I need to live.

The cold sweats, sleepless nights, and lethargy were ugly. No one apart from very particular kinds of cancer patients know what it's like to live without an ounce of hormone flowing through your body. You lose all energy. Your nails and hair turn frail. Your skin flakes. Cold and dryness follow you everywhere.

But I waited. For three months I waited. Goddess, grant my wife some form of blessing for being with me through those months and the years that followed.

And three months later I walk into the office, more tired than I've ever been from a two-hour drive, and sat down. I don't know if my therapist or my doctor pressured the hospital or what, but I was finally able to leave that place with a script.

A script for 0.5 mg of estradiol.

For the non-endocrinologists and non-transfemme folk in the audience, that dosage is just enough to start your transition, but do nothing whatsoever. It stalls you right out at the beginning of puberty. This is not an inconsequential thing, either. You don't get an unlimited amount of time to stave off the beginnings of puberty while also trying to go through it like that.

For those who haven't gotten it yet, that man crippled any kind of progress I could theoretically make in my transition. It is with no delusion or derision when I say I do not pass. I don't, and I never will. Not without surgical intervention.

In all of this time, I was barely making my way through work, my mental state deteriorating to the point of suicide. No. I am not exaggerating for effect. I moved states and got a new doctor with a new endocrinologist and a new therapist. They were all too happy to increase my dosage and start me on my second puberty. The results left a lot to be desired, and I began to seek changes through surgery.

See, with my mental state in the place that it was, I wasn't able to do much in the way of voice training. I still sounded the same I always did. It was at this point where I was forced into a psych ward. I had been on the verge of suicide watch pretty consistently since 2015, and the doctors weren't going to wait to see if my fifth dosage of a new kind of medicine was going to help stave off the depression while the only viable treatment was held just out of reach.

So, I turned in everything with laces and was given a pair of scrubs a day and waited. For a full week, I waited. I actually don't have many memories of my time there; occasionally, I'll awake at night from a nightmare and my poor wife will have to sit and comfort me and let me know I'm at home and not going anywhere.

After I got out, I tried to take some time off my work, a crime for which I was duly fired for. Not their fault, really. It's actually my fault that the insurance company they provided me with at the time slowly tortured me in a holding cell for a week and demolished whatever was left of my sanity. Although seriously, I don't hold any grudge against my previous employer. They're a fair place to work for, and I was (at that point) incapable of performing my regular work duties.

For over a month, I sat and wallowed on a couch. Unable to pay rent, unable to eat, unable to sleep, and still recovering from a major surgery months prior.

It was only thanks to my childhood friend that I was saved from a life of homelessness or couch-surfing. He recommended me for a position that I was qualified for and got it through my own merits. I am under no delusions when I say I improved for the better from this point on thanks solely to that friend.

Kyle, if you're reading this, please tell me your favorite whiskey or drink of choice.

Over the next year, I worked hard on my mental health. Trying to live with a host of new and interesting medical and mental issues. My ADHD got so bad, no medicine could help me. My insomnia got so bad I was approved by my shitty insurance for an expensive sleep therapy test. I started hearing and seeing things. Eating disorders that I haven't had for decades resurfaced. Agoraphobia became something to contend with, which brought along with it anxiety, which would hole me up in my living room for years.

Thankfully, COVID-19 was in full swing so no one noticed. I could keep my nice new job and the insurance that came with it, while I still managed to do my job to the satisfaction of my team members and team lead.

So now the date is January 2023. You're all almost caught up with present day, and I'm just about to get ready for a considerable surgery in February. One of the big ones. FFS, facial feminization surgery. I had been needing this for a decade, and needed it now more than ever. I calmly try to prepare for my surgery while my seasonal affective disorder begins to rear its head, coupled with the anniversary of my grandmother's murder and my incarceration. I was not doing well.

But I had something to move forward for. The surgery. I know, deep in my bones and soul, that if I had this, my anxiety would lessen to a manageable level. My dysphoria too.

But here, at the midnight hour, I got a phone call. And, dear reader. It's not what you think.

This particular phone call was from the doctor's office that was going to be doing my surgery. They had just gotten a call from my previous insurance. Turns out, whoopsy-daisy! They okay-ed my surgery when they didn't mean to, and they were going to need all that money back. Two full years after I had gotten it in the first place. The money was already paid. The hospital still sent them the full refund, and I was left on the hook for the entire cost.

I cried. My anxiety is now so bad I can't pick up the phone to call anyone about it. Debtors are calling my phone at every hour, wanting their money.

I'm not sleeping again.

But I still have the FFS coming up. I double-check that it's still on (it is) and that it was still covered (it was).

And then!

Do you want to know what happened next, dear reader?

I got another call. From the same office of the same surgery team for my FFS that did my previous surgery.

The insurance, at the midnight hour, reneged on their promise to pay for the surgery. They inform me that the best I can do is call. Call and ask, “Why, when two doctors, one a psychiatrist, tell you this is a medical necessity, you think you know better and say it's not?” A pointless call. They'll lie and tell me everything but the truth. The truth being that if they give me healthcare, they won't make whatever bonus they have coming at the end of the month.

I will be honest with you, dear reader. It has taken every ounce of my willpower to not turn this into a suicide note. Because at this point I cannot go on. I can either come up with a staggering $24,000 USD by Friday this week, or I can go pound sand.

Despite my history, I am not a suicidal person. I don't have a driving passion to die. In fact, I want to avoid doing so at all possible. Dying hurts, and I have so much to live for. In fact, I love my life. It's perfect in every way now, save for my relationship with my mother and the shell I'm trapped in. But this has ended all my kindness, and snuffed out all life left in me.

I no longer write. I no longer eat. I don't even want to live anymore.

This is emphatically NOT a suicide note. God-damn it all, it was hard not to make it one, though.

edit: i have just been informed that i have been denied healthcare for the third year in a row and the fifth time. there is nothing i can do but start back at square one.

#trans rights #transgender #trans women #trans artist #content warning #personal struggles #mental health

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pastasofthecreepykind · 1 year

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No Point : Part Two

Jeff the Killer x Y/N

Warning: This chapter includes psychiatric facilities, medication, and mentions of trauma. Please read with caution.

The suicide and crisis prevention hotline is 988 and is available 24/7. I believe you can text the number as well but I am not 100% certain.

A/N: This chapter won’t have Jeff in it, but it’s important for building the storyline. I hope you can understand.

“It’s common for someone's brain to cover a traumatic event with something fabricated by their own brain. However, in order for that said person to heal it is imperative that they confront their delusions and face reality.”

“I know what I saw.” My tone is cold. The psychiatrist, Dr. Clayton, across from me behind his fancy wooden desk in his cramped office gives me a pitying expression and I remember why I made it a rule for myself to sit on my hands in his presence.

“And I believe that you believe you saw a deformed man trying to stab you.” He responds in what's supposed to be a reassuring tone. He rests back in his chair, looking at me down his nose with annoying blue eyes. “Your neighbor heard you screaming, y/n. When authorities arrived you were on your living room floor in the nude, talking to yourself, with many lacerations and the weapon, from your kitchen, in hand.”

“I know what it looks like, but he handed it to me, and-”

“And he just walked right out, right?” His caring expression makes my stomach churn. “Why would someone so intent on murdering you just hand you their weapon and leave?”

“He wouldn’t-” My throat feels tight. He’s not interested in charity work.

The doctor waits for me to finish, but the words never come. I felt frozen. “He wouldn’t… what, y/n? What wouldn’t he do?”

Desperately I clear my throat and try again. “He told me to do it myself.”

At this the doctor suddenly leans forward, resting his weight on his arms resting on the desk between us. “But why?” I stare at him feeling stuck, his eyes look sharp. Like he’s cutting past every wall I’ve put up and watching me from the inside out. He’s always been like this. The trembling of my arms reminds me I’m very much present in the moment. A frown begins to tug at his lips but his eyes suddenly light up with renewed hope and it vanishes without a trace. “Okay. Maybe you don’t know why and that’s okay. Let’s attack a new question, one of the first responders on the scene, Officer Fitz, reported approaching the resident and hearing you shouting, and I quote, ‘shut up, I can do this’, repeatedly. To their surprise, to an empty room, and you were holding the weapon to your own neck. Is that true?”

I feel my stomach clench and a cold chill runs down my spine, I know exactly what this looks like. “Yes, but-”

“Repetitiveness has always been a trait of yours, has it not?” He murmurs gently. All I can do is stare at him, I feel helpless. Like I always have in his office. “Where have we seen actions like these before?”

“That was a long time ago.” I don’t recognize my voice, has it always been so small?

“And yet, history is bound to repeat itself, is it not?”

Due to my silence, the doctor sighs and slouches his shoulders. “I see, I believe this facility is no longer beneficial in regards to the care you need.” At that, I perk up a bit. Am I finally going home? He reaches into a drawer on his desk and pulls out a file. He lays it out across the desk and examines the sheets within it. “Before we file for discharge we want to be sure you have a psychiatrist to see regularly, and you’ll need regular appointments with your primary care provider to monitor your prescriptions. I’m going to refer you to an intensive week-long outreach program.”

“I don’t think it’s necessary-”

“Considering we will be discharging you to your own will after the week with the program, it very well will be. I’m only even considering discharging you this soon because of your attendance to group therapy, participation in activities, and your anxiety about missing work,” He shoots me a sharp glance over his glasses as he begins filling out forms. “I will be marking that down in your notes for your next psychiatrist to discuss further with you.”

“All due respect, I’ve already been here three weeks.” I push gently. If I protest too much he won’t let me leave, I know from before. “I’m regulated on my meds, I’ll set up those doctors appointments, I don’t think I need the out-reach program. I-I don’t think I can even afford it.”

He pauses in his writing to cast me a perplexed look, “No one told you?” My brow furrows, now what? “The insurance holder called and put their billing information down for all of your necessary treatments. You’re fully covered.” Oh. He shifts in his seat, looking at me curiously. “How does that make you feel?”

I take a moment to respond, evaluating my answer and how it may affect the current situation. Opening my mouth to finally speak, there’s a knock on the door, it’s a nurse summoning the doctor due to a patient's meltdown in the group therapy room. He excuses me from his office, following me out into the hall. “I’ll speak with a nurse about getting your paperwork filled out for discharge, let's say...tomorrow afternoon. We can have a van here by then to take you to the outreach center. In the meantime start setting appointments with your primary caregiver.”

I watch as he abruptly turns and begins walking at a brisk pace toward the activity room where distressed yelling is now coming from. One more week. I turn the opposite way, in the direction of one of the old payphone-style phones hanging on the hallway wall for residents of the psychiatric ward to use at will. Most people move one of the rounded-edge block chairs underneath it to prevent having to stand painfully hunched forward, but my plan is to make these calls quickly then go to my room and sleep till tomorrow when I’ll be discharged into the care of another facility.

As I’m laying on an uncomfortably stiff mattress on a bolted-down bedframe looking out the forever-locked window to the barren trees across the small pond I mull over the question the psychiatrist asked me, “How does that make you feel?”

I suppose I should feel loved. Grateful even.

However, it’s as though a greater weight has been set on my shoulders. My path has been drawn out for me, lined with guilt and fear acting as guiding rails.

I guess dad has always been… particular about how he shows he cares.

“And we’re off!” The cheerful nurse cheers from the passenger seat of the medical transport car. I can’t help but eye the metal grate separating the back and front of the cab and the handleless backdoors. I shift my gaze to look out the window to watch the scenery go by. The outreach facility is close to a two-hour drive from the hospital I was staying at. “Once we get to the outreach center,” The nurse starts, angling herself in her seat so she can face me with a torso turn. “We’ll get your admission paperwork out of the way first thing and we’ll show you to your room so you can get settled.”

My replies are short and I try my best to keep them sounding respectful. I’m exhausted and would prefer to curl into a ball and sleep. My medication has made me so bogged and foggy that I feel lifeless. Truth be told, I’m a little excited about going to the outreach center. It’s been a long time since I’ve left town for anything. Everything I needed was practically a couple blocks from my home. When you’re in such a small town every day doing the same thing every day, it can get very boring. As I rest my head against the cold window I can’t help but wonder if a change of scenery would help boost my mood.

“Care for the radio?” The nurse peeps up again.

“Sure, you can put it on whatever you’d prefer. I’m not picky.” She smiles at my response before fiddling with the radio.

The rest of the ride is mostly silent other than the nurse and the driver conversing amongst themselves every now and again. After we left town we’ve been following windy roads surrounded by trees. This place is going to be secluded. The late afternoon autumn scenery with the background chatter was almost soothing. I watched the sunset the longer we drove. Eventually, we entered a town, cookie-cutter houses decorated for the passing Thanksgiving holiday, one home already set up its Christmas lights. The reminder of the holidays was like a twisted blade to the gut. Pushing it to the back of my mind I focus on the roads.

We pull up to a building on the outskirts of town. It’s not a very tall building, two stories, and by the looks of it, there is an East and a West wing that shoots out in opposite directions from the main building. The nurse, Jannette, leads me through the front automatic doors then takes a left at the front desk down a long hallway to an elevator. A sign was plastered to the front of the elevator doors saying ‘OUT OF ORDER’. Jannette scoffs, annoyed at the predicament. Tapping her foot she looks around the corridors. “This way,” She instructs, leading me down a hallway to the right. We stop outside of a stairwell and she slides her keycard. “Don’t tell anyone I took you here. Stairs are the fastest way up to the East end instead of using the West elevator.” I stop at the bottom of the stairs, assessing how I was going to accomplish going upstairs with my crutches. Janette however ascends the stairs quickly and waits for me at the top making sure to eye me the entire time. It takes me longer than I would like to admit and by the time I reach the top my thigh is throbbing.

Through the door and down another corridor, passing the broken elevator, we reach a set of double doors in a waiting area. A woman sits at the reception desk. Jannette waves at her cheerfully before a buzzer sounds, she then reaches out and holds open the door for me. Directly to the right is a dip in the wall leading to a room that Jannette ushers me to.

Admission was quick. Afterward, she had me change into scrubs, a purple top, green pants, and bright yellow grippy socks before leading me back out of the admissions office. The uniform color combination reminded me very much of Barney the dinosaur and seeing the other occupants of the floor dressed in similar purple and green fashion eased a bit of my worry. There were some walking into the first room on the right past the admissions office, a glance inside shows it’s an activity room. Across from the room stood two doors with a symbol for a shower. After the activity room is a big open area with four tables, presumably where residents eat and spend their free time. The nurses’ station is to the left, with a perfect view of the room and the hallway. Passing the common room Jannette takes me to the continuation of the hallway straight ahead. My room is the second from the common room.

It’s small. Another bolted-down bed with a window view of the surrounding trees. It has its own bathroom, a toilet, and a sink with a foam door hung up with velcro with an image of a waterfall.

“Looks like you were lucky enough to score a room without a roommate.” Jannette beams at me. She hands me a thin composition notebook and a thick Crayola marker. “This is your personal journal. Put whatever you want in there, you don’t have to share it with anyone if you don’t want to. Dinner has already been served for today but we can see about getting you a snack to tide you over till breakfast. There’s a whiteboard in the hall, by the nurses' station. Each day the schedule will be written out there. There are no phone calls allowed. We feel as though it’s a better, safer, environment for everyone when the outside world is cut out due to the toxicity it may bring.” In her hand is a small bag. She moves to one of the small shelves next to the bed. She pulls out a small shampoo and conditioner set, a hairbrush, and a small bottle of mouthwash. “These are for you to use. If you run out or have any questions feel free to ask. I think I’ve covered everything. You’ll meet with the doctor tomorrow and we’ll go over a plan of action then. Any questions?” With a shake of my head, she continues. “Excellent. They’re playing a movie in the activity room. You are more than welcome to join us.”

With that, she leaves me in the barren room. I take the moment to take it in, moving to the window to look outside. One more week. The trees are slowly becoming as bare as the room I’m in. One more week. I set the notebook and marker on the shelf with the toiletries.

The quiet of my room, both visual and sound, leaves me with time to think. Something I can’t afford to do for long.

I decide to join them for the movie the nurses have set up in the activity room. The more interactions I make and the effort put into ‘healing’ the faster they’ll agree to let me go home. The crutch I’m using digs into my armpit painfully as I limp my way down the hall. Going up those stairs was a pain and I’m sure I’ll be stuck feeling it for a while. I wonder if they have anything to cushion the area.

I keep my head down as I pass the nurses’ station, focusing on getting to the room in the least painful manner possible. I make it to the activity room and stop in the doorway to assess the room. There are seven people in there in total. Two nurses and five patients. One nurse, Jannette, is standing near the front of the room next to the tv and VCR stand on wheels, and the other is going about the room collecting vitals. Janette smiles at me brightly and I muster enough energy to return it.

“Y/n! I’m so glad you’ve decided to join us.” She steps away from her post and moves further into the room to retrieve a plastic chair from one of the activity tables. She sets it about a foot away from a man with dark hair and impressive sideburns. Not needing to be beckoned I make my way to the seat and sit. “Jasmine, the other nurse, will come by and get your vitals when it's your turn. Then she’ll pass out medication to everyone once she’s complete.” At my nod, she smiles at me one more time before moving toward the front room again.

I move to set my crutch down on the floor and accidentally hit the leg of the chair of the man sitting to my right. “Oh- I’m sorry.” I keep my tone quiet to be respectful of the others in the room even if three of them are enthralled in conversation over the movie.

“S’all good.” He assures me. Suddenly his hand is stretched out toward me, “Name’s Tim.”

“Y/n.” His hand is cold in my grasp as I shake it once. Pulling his hand back he shifts to put his hands in the pocket of the uniform's pants. We both turn out attention to the movie which I now realize is ELF. Jasmine comes over and does Tim’s vitals before she moves on to me. The blood pressure cuff squeezes my left arm tight as she places the pulse oximeter on the pointer finger of my right hand. I can’t help but cringe from the tightness, I’ve never had it this tight before. I open my mouth to express my concerns to the nurse but I make eye contact with Tim first who sharply shakes his head no. What?

The pressure cuff releases and I can’t help the sigh of relief that leaves me. Jasmine smiles at me as she removes both the cuff and the pulse ox before wheeling her small cart out of the room. I hear a chair gently scooting on the floor and when I look over I see Tim has scooted closer. “Don’t complain, about anything. Ever.” His voice is low, even if someone saw us talking they wouldn’t have been able to hear him without being as close as I am.

“Why?”

“If you complain they’ll mark it down as you being defiant.” He informs me and my brow furrows. “The more marks you have, the longer they’ll keep you here.”

“I’m just here for the week-long intensive outreach program.” His silence bothers me and I turn my attention from Buddy the Elf back to him. He’s looking at me with a pitying expression and my stomach knots. Why is he looking at me like this? “What?”

“My doctor told me I would be here for that as well. Yet here we are, a month later and they’re still pushing me back another week.”

My stomach drops and my voice is barely a whisper, “A month? I can’t be here a month.”

“Every case is different,” He quickly backtracks leaning back in his chair. “Who knows? Maybe you’ll be the first.”

“The first? The first what?” My brow is furrowed but he doesn’t respond to me again. “The first to leave in a week's time?” Jasmine is back, this time passing out medications. The little dixie cup in my hand has three pills in it, two of which I’m familiar with. I watch Tim throw his meds back without a second thought, but I can’t bring myself to do it yet. “Excuse me,” Jasmine hums at me with a smile. “I’m… I’m just not familiar with the green pill.”

“Oh! It’s nothing to worry about, I thought someone would have told you. The first few nights we give our patients something to help them sleep, it helps them adjust.” She smiles at me. This doesn’t feel right. Taking Tim’s warning about asking questions with a grain of salt I knock them back. It’s only for a week.

Just one week.

#jeff the killer #jtk x reader #x reader #x y/n #slenderman #eyeless jack #go to sleep #laughing jack

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sab-cat · 2 years

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In an earlier video posted on Twitter, Busch Valentine struggled over an answer about healthcare for transgender youth.

“A woman is a woman, but in this transgender thing, that’s a different issue,” she said. “And that’s an issue that people have to come to on their own. They need the guidance of parents. They need doctors’ intervention. I don’t think anything should be done until they’re adults that lasts forever....”

She also struggled with an answer about transgender rights at a Democratic meeting for St. Louis’ 8th Ward, according to a video posted July 23 by the ward’s committeewoman.

“I only would say, wait until 18, when a person is an adult, to do everything that wouldn’t allow going back to maybe being the sex that you were, but I totally, totally support transgenders without a doubt,” she said....

“As a queer man in politics, it’s always upsetting to see Democrats who don’t even try to understand our community,” said Connor Lounsbury, Kunce’s deputy campaign manager. “Trudy’s answers on gender affirming care for trans youth aren’t just uneducated, they’re dangerous.”

Yikes. Guess that seals my vote for Kunce. Just absolutely unacceptable from a candidate, especially now.

#politics #lgbtq+#transphobia #missouri

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wonlouvre · 3 years

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pairing: doctor!wonwoo x lawyer!female oc genre: modern royalty, arranged marriage, fluff and future angst word count: 1,787 warnings: mentions of food, skipping a meal, fainting

author’s note: part 2 is here and i am excited! i received the support that some of you have given by liking and reblogging and i appreciate it so much! please do share some of your thoughts. i’d love to hear from you. for some reference on what our Prince Wonwoo wore on this chapter during the first few bits: here.

two: what could have been | masterlist

“What?”

One of these days you’re going to start blaming Wonwoo for the unusual accidents that happen whenever he is around or whenever his name is brought up. It’s a relief that you didn’t trip, again, because you were more than sure that making an abrupt stop while wearing heels can lead to several painful possibilities.

“You okay?” Jeongyeon was quick to hold on to your arm, helping you find your balance again. She’s definitely not risking anymore injuries especially now that there’s no Doctor Jeon around.

“What did you just say?” You repeat as you try to compose yourself and start walking across the hallway like how you were supposed to in the first place.

Jeongyeon blinks at you for a few seconds before gasping, “Oh, right! According to my sources, apparently the long term girlfriend was actually the one for Prince Wonwoo,” she says casually as if she’s just dropping the weather report for the day. “He had plans to propose.”

Propose?

“By sources you mean?” You ask. The lawyer in you is making sure that this is nothing but a baseless rumor and also the rational person in you is making sure your head doesn't get clouded by jealousy.

Me? Jealous? Your left eye twitches at the thought.

“Dr. Kwon also known as Hoshi,” she answers like they have been friends for ten years. “He’s the Prince’s friend from primary school up to medical school.”

“How do you even know this Dr. Kwon?” You ask while narrowing your eyes at her. You are nowhere near done verifying her sources.

Jeongyeon sheepishly smiles before giggling nervously. “Well…”

You sigh. Jeongyeon can be brilliant but she could go overboard at times. “Don’t tell me he works at the same hospital as Wonwoo and you yourself went there?”

“I had to!” She defends, stomping her feet. “You told me to go look up some info and I did. I just wanted to do a good job while I was at it.”

You close your eyes in defeat before pulling her close to whisper a reminder to her ear, “Next time, let’s tone down the enthusiasm, alright?”

She just grins. “No promises.”

Were you threatened by the recent information your assistant just shared to you?

No, of course not.

Were you bothered?

Yes. Absolutely. One hundred percent.

You’re bothered because you can’t help but think about what could have been.

What could have been for Wonwoo and this mystery girl. You suddenly feel terrible. All this time you were okay with this arrangement. In fact, you were beyond okay already. But, how about Wonwoo? Sure, maybe you thought he could be against this marriage. But, it didn’t cross your mind what he could have left behind back home. What he had to give up and what he had to let go.

“Hey.”

All your thoughts and worries flushed down the drain in an instant at the sound of the voice you’re starting to grow fond of.

Wonwoo arrived like a breath of fresh air with his light blue button down and jeans. The glasses are a bonus that you are lucky to see for the first time. You weren’t aware that he wore them. In fact, you have never seen him wear casual clothes until today. If you were frowning earlier, you are blushing now because of how good he looks.

“Sorry I’m late,” he sincerely apologizes as he walks towards you. “I’m not gonna lie. I overslept.”

Come to think of it, you have been standing outside this terrace for quite a while now. Thinking too much can be a good distraction to the point that you won’t even notice that you have been waiting.

You cleared the rest of the afternoon to sneak in some wedding planning. Meanwhile, Wonwoo decided to take the night shift yesterday and take today off to join you.

You shake your head and give him a small smile in understanding. “It’s okay. I just arrived too.”

That was a lie, but it doesn’t matter. Especially now, in spite of getting the right amount of sleep, you can tell that he is still tired and sleepy. And, adorable. But you would never let him know that.

“It didn’t look like it though,” he counters, making your brows raise. “You looked like you were already here for a while. A penny for your thoughts?”

Your eyes roll at his teasing tone while he just smirks.

But then, you figured since he already asked, this could be the right time. “Can I ask you something?”

Wonwoo crosses his arms, pretending to contemplate your request. “It depends. Am I in trouble?”

“No,” you deadpan. “You don’t have to answer though. That’s what I can guarantee.”

“Fine by me.” He relaxes his arms to his sides and stands close to the railing you were leaning your body weight against.

Well, okay. Your palms suddenly started to sweat. Maybe it’s a bad idea to pry about his past. What’s the point of bringing it up? What do you need out of this anyway? Why the bother?

Yeah, let’s just not, you decided to drop it but Wonwoo already beat you to it.

“Let me guess,” the Prince noticed your silence and decided to take the matters in his hands. “Is it about my ex-girlfriend?”

Heat immediately rose to your cheeks, embarrassed by how could you let it get this far. “I’m sorry. Nevermind. Let’s just go inside. They’re probably ready for us.”

You were fast to lift your feet from the ground and honestly, if you could, you’d run away and never return. But, Wonwoo was faster. He was faster to grasp your hand and make you stop from taking another step in a heartbeat.

You’re not one to let your head hang low and avoid eye contact, but here you are doing everything in your power to not meet Wonwoo’s eyes. You’re also not one to grow flustered easily. You always know what and how to make the last say.

But again, here you are tight-lipped and wishing to be buried underground.

“Hey, it’s okay,” he promises while tilting his head to the side, searching for your eyes. “I’m not making fun of you and I understand that it’s inevitable for this to be not brought up.”

You relent by nodding and finally turning your body to face him. “Okay.”

Wonwoo smiles and caresses the top of your head. “This is not something you should be worrying about.”

His brazen touch made you feel small yet comforted.

“Do you really want to marry me Wonwoo?” You whisper between the two of you.

He blinks then furrows his brows. “What kind of question is that?”

You frown, you’re supposed to give me an answer. “I just thought that maybe it’s better to call it off already before we regret anything in the future.”

“Y/N,” he calls for your name for the first time. “My past relationship is already in the past. I am not dwelling from what happened and what could have been. I am here now and that’s all that matters.”

“Don’t play smart with me,” you scoff and pull yourself away from him.

But Wonwoo just laughs and tightens his hold. He now holds both of your hands and strangely enough, having his hands entwined with yours is nice.

“Why? Does the princess don’t want to marry me?”

“I don’t actually have much of a choice, do I?”

Now it’s Wonwoo’s turn to scoff. “Who’s playing smart now?”

You burst into a fit of giggles and Wonwoo does the same.

It’s kind of scary to feel this way. Feeling so reassured and secured with your relationship with Wonwoo like it was the two of you from the get go. It seems so easy. You are at ease and it terrifies you.

It’s time for work, you slap yourself back to reality. You can’t continue thinking about Wonwoo especially now when you have matters to take care of and clients to satisfy. You sigh and pick up your coffee mug to sip some only to see that it’s already empty.

You quickly reach for your telephone to request for a refill.

“Coffee? Again?” Jeongyeon reprimands before you could even speak. “Your Highness, this is your third cup and it’s only nine o’clock in the morning.”

You ignore her exasperated tone. “I know.”

“How about some bread instead? You’ve had enough caffeine to last the week.”

“Please just bring me one more,” you plead while resting your palm on your forehead, feeling a headache coming up that could actually last the week. “I promise that would be my last cup.”

You can hear Jeongyeon sigh in defeat before muttering a soft okay.

You should have chosen the bread instead of the third cup of coffee because not less than 15 minutes after drinking it, your stomach feels like it’s burning inside by how painful it is. You thought a glass of water can help minimize or dwindle down the pain but it’s of no help.

What’s worse is you suddenly feel hot in spite of the air condition inside your office being on full blast. Your hand brushes against your face and it is wet. Why am I sweating? You quietly groan as another pang of pain hits you. You think you might vomit.

Maybe you should go to the restroom or whatever. For now, you just want to move in the hopes that this uncomfortable and sickening feeling would go away. You push yourself up from your chair with a lot of effort because your body doesn’t seem to have any more intention to cooperate with your mind.

You decided you’d rest at your apartment for a while and just go back in the afternoon on the assumption that you’d be fine by then.

Slowly and painfully, you walk to the huge doors of your office and with every step you take, you’re catching your breath. You reach the door and clutch the knob tightly, desperate to grab some painkillers and just sleep this off.

However, before you could twist the knob and take further steps, you were falling to the ground. Your body doesn’t want to act on your decisions anymore and the pain on your stomach is just way too unbearable, you can’t even stand straight.

And just on time, Jeongyeon opens your door and enters, chirpy as usual, “Your Highness, you have a visi--- Your Highness!”

You were not sure if your eyes could still register what you saw before you blacked out. But, you were positive that you saw the one and only Prince Wonwoo, one moment smiling and the next rushing towards your limp body on the cold tiled floor.

#seventeen scenarios #wonwoo scenarios #seventeen scenario #wonwoo scenario #seventeen fluff #wonwoo fluff #seventeen #wonwoo #fic: ifliys

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daisybeewrites · 3 years

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Academy Blues

sometimes you punch the bag, sometimes to bag punches you

word count: 4.5k

warnings: none. heavy handed use of italics

ship: Dousy (Daniel Sousa/Daisy Johnson), background Fitzsimmons and Philinda

ahaha.. and the fun begins (the cryptic-ness is for a reason i promise)

“Ow!!” Daisy exclaimed. This was the second time today she had gotten distracted and let the punching bag swing into her. Sans Bobbi or Mack, her usual workout partners, there was no one to hold the bag still while she was pummeling it. Her side of the gym was entirely void of people, most opting to use the treadmills or other cardio machines lining the wall of large windows that faced the forest to the south, or stick to circuits on the resistance machines throughout the middle of the gym. The universe seemed to be telling her to get in some boxing, so she walked over to the bag with the intention of punching until her arms hurt.

Now her nose hurts, too.

“You need a spot?” May asked, silently crossing the padded floor to Daisy.

She nodded. Waiting for May to get into position, Daisy stretched out her arms over her head and across her body, twisting her torso to feel her abs stretch. When May gave her a thumbs up, Daisy started to punch the heavy bag again, this time with a little more force now that she knew it wouldn’t fly back and hit her in the face.

“Something on your mind?”

“No,” Daisy grunted. “Just slacked off the last few weeks. With everyone gone on break there wasn’t as much of... everything, I guess, to keep me in a routine.”

May nodded. “Breaks can be tough. No classes, schedule disrupted, more free time than you know what to do with. I get it. If you ever want a time-filler, text and I’ll be there.”

Daisy nodded, going back to silently punching. The breaks weren’t all bad. They only happened eight times a year, five two-week breaks and three three-week breaks. Enough time that those with families and lives outside of SHIELD could visit and vacation, but not fall behind. Plus, it gave Daisy the campus pretty much to herself. Only about forty students stayed at The Academy over breaks, and it seemed to decrease every time.

Another good thing about breaks was that Daisy got to know more people personally. Whether it was how the tall, fifth-year red head took her morning coffee or that the new group of first-years liked to run the same trails through the forest as she did. So, when an entirely new face had cropped up out of nowhere, Daisy was intrigued. He walked with a limp, had nice hair and kind eyes. She didn’t recognize him, and despite the fact that he had arrived the same day as the rest of the first-years, he was definitely the oldest of the pack. That was unusual, Daisy had thought, SHIELD almost always recruits directly out of high school or college. The last time anyone over the age of twenty-five had been accepted to the Academy was when Daisy herself had started. However, that was a bit of a… special situation.

Every morning, New Guy crossed through the computer lab and waved, smiling confidently at Daisy. His sudden appearance and amicable interactions confused her. Classes weren’t in session, but he always had a backpack with him. Maybe he had tutoring with one of the professors? A new student trying to catch up before the term even began — an enigma.

Once classes had started, he still came by everyday. Daisy liked to think it was because he wanted to see her. They had never spoken more than tired greetings to each other, and yet Daisy felt herself pulled towards him. She shook off the thought. It made her skin crawl, thinking about the last time she felt such a magnetic attraction to someone.

She realized May was studying her through the mirrors lining the wall next to the row of punching bags. She cleared her throat and asked, “Is my form okay?”

May gave her a long look that clearly said, ‘You know that your form is fine.’

Daisy pulled her eyes away from May’s stare, announcing, “I’m going to fill up my water, do you need any?”

May shook her head, pulling out her phone.

Daisy bent down to grab her water and headed to the back of the gym, towards the locker rooms. A couple of reusable bottle-filler stations were stuck into the wall, right next to the PT rooms. Daisy couldn’t help but peer into the closest one as she listened to the sound of water streaming into her bottle. It was filled with floor ladders, yoga balls, sports med supplies... New Guy. Huh.

Wondering why he would be sitting in a dark PT room by himself, Daisy took a swig of her water before continuing to fill it up. He hopped off the table as the lights came on, a young doctor-type walking in a smiling. She was reminded of his limp when he walked towards her, shaking her hand and flashing a large smile. Cute, Daisy noticed. Wait, no, what?

Daisy promptly turned and headed back to the wall of mirrors, choosing to ignore the smirk on May’s face.

“Ready?” Daisy asked.

“Actually,” May began, “Why don’t we get in some sparring? You’ve been at this for over an hour.”

Daisy caught the glance May threw at the half-assed wraps on her hands and nodded. With only a few jitters, Daisy quickly helped May unroll the sparring mats onto the floor. Daisy had only sparred with Yo-Yo since she got back from Columbia visiting her cousin. Sparring with May was an entirely different level.

After some warm-up drills, May silently took charge and got into a fighting stance. Daisy rose up on her tip-toes, then rocked backwards. The grey padding beneath her looked a lot softer than it felt while being slammed onto it. A quick lunge from Daisy and a swift deflection by May, and the two women were off.

Across the gym, Daniel Sousa and the doctor were chatting, watching Daisy and May.

“They look like they’re barely breaking a sweat,” Daniel commented after May leaped off Daisy’s leg, flipping forwards and attempting to grab Daisy around the shoulders. Daisy rolled backward, throwing May over her and getting to her feet as the shorter woman jumped up into a wide stance.

“You’ll get back to that level,” The physical therapist assured him.

Daniel shook his head. “Maybe. I hope so. If not, I’m a damn good shot, anyway.”

The doctor chuckled before motioning back to the PT room. “C’mon, you still have thirty minutes stuck with me before I release you from daily therapy.”

“It’s only been three weeks?” Daniel questioned, confused. They walked through a black door to a small room. Grey cabinets on one side, a black table on the other, physical therapy tools lined up in organized sections.

“Most of which was just assessing you. You already know the exercises and stretches, and you completed the physical therapy recommended by your primary care physician before you came to us. You have the strength mostly back in your residual limb, at least to the point where sparring shouldn’t do any damage. I still expect you to show up at least twice a week. Especially since you’re starting field training with May.”

He smiled. “How do you know about that?”

“I have access to your file, Sousa,” She reminded him, “I also know you were late to her class on the first day. Not a smart move, in my opinion.”

Daniel cringed at the memory of heads turning his way, watching him limp to the only open seat in the very front. May’s comment— “Thoughtful of you to join us, Agent Sousa,” —still turned his face a slightly embarrassing shade of red when he thought about it.

Noticing his uncomfortable silence, the physical therapist put on a sympathetic face. “I’m sure you’ll be fine. I was late to my first class, too. Professor Martin, advanced physiology. Granted, I was seventeen...”

Daniel playfully glared at her.

“...but I suppose that’s no excuse. Let’s get started.”

The rest of the day went by without Daisy or Daniel seeing much of each other besides a fleeting glimpse while changing classes. Not that they were looking for the other, or anything.

A few hours later, before dinner, Daisy was sitting on the counter in the girls’ dorm bathroom, watching Jemma curl her hair.

Jemma Simmons was one of the only people she immediately loved at SHIELD, and the first person she had trusted on Coulson’s team. Over the course of a couple months, they became closer than Daisy had ever been with anyone, spending almost every waking moment together. Over time, Daisy had grown to love the rest of the team, too, learning that they had also been hand picked by Coulson. Though, technically, Daisy hadn’t been chosen for the team. She was picked up as a consultant. But it didn’t matter, as the ragtag team had quickly been disbanded.

Knives shoved into your back can have that effect.

After the end of the team, Code-named Bus Kids, Daisy, Fitzsimmons, Tripp, and May and Coulson had come to the Academy to continue working with SHIELD. Daisy and Tripp were assigned as partners in their ops training, Fitzsimmons were partners in the lab, and May and Coulson still checked on them as if nothing had changed.

But people get busy, and it had been awhile since Jemma and Daisy had properly talked to each other.

“Does the bruise on my nose look like it’ll go away any time soon?”

Jemma glanced up through the mirror, shrugging. “It should. What did you do to it?”

Daisy fiddled with her hands, only answering when Jemma turned to face her fully.

“I kinda, uhm, got punched...”

The stern look Jemma gave Daisy quickly melted into laughter as the brunette added, “...by a punching bag.”

Reaching up to turn Daisy’s face towards the fluorescent bathroom lighting, Jemma gently ran a finger along the angry red splotch on the top of Daisy’s nose. She jerked her head a bit, wincing at the contact.

“You should be fine, I’ll grab some of the good anti-inflammatory meds from the medical storage.”

Daisy thanked her, hopping off the counter to grab an eyeliner pen. “So, how is Fitz? Is this a real date night or are you guys ‘just hanging out’?”

Jemma smiled at his name and rubbed her neck. Daisy smiled back at the subconscious reaction.

“You two are so meant for each other,” She teased.

Jemma tilted her face up towards Daisy, allowing her to start applying eyeliner.

“He hasn’t really defined it. We’re ‘going out’, but we aren’t dating.”

Daisy finished the subtle cat eye, shaking her head. When would he learn that Jemma would only believe they were together if he said, ‘Hey, Jems, I’m completely and totally in love with you and I want you and I to live happily ever after!’

Daisy watched Jemma inspect herself in the mirror, touching up her mascara.

“You look amazing. He’s a fool if he doesn’t see it,” Daisy assured.

Jemma smiled. Her Sheffield accent had gotten thicker over break, Daisy noticed, as Jemma responded, “He does, I know he does. We both just have trouble, you know? Voicing our thoughts and feelings.”

Daisy definitely knew…

“Well, he could do with a good reminder sometimes. If y’all are going to keep going on these not-dates, you might as well show him what he’s missing by staying just friends!”

Jemma laughed, smiling gratefully. She took one final look in the mirror, swishing her knee-length royal blue dress and fluffing her hair. “Okay, well, off I go. Have a good night, Daisy.”

Daisy gave her a thumbs up and went to watch out her window as Fitz handed Jemma a hand-picked bouquet of (slightly squished) wildflowers and took her arm to lead her to the parking lot.

Daisy sighed and turned away from the gold and pink sunset. She opened her personal laptop, immediately bombarded by three windows running programs. One was running an innocent algorithm to clean all the useless, unused files from her computer, one was a simulation that could (hypothetically, no harm no foul) hack the Pentagon, and another was trying to find video and audio feed from Los Angeles, four months ago.

Daisy’s gaze lingered on the last one, not expecting anything new. She sighed and picked up her laptop, deciding to go visit Mack in the garage. It was only seven on a Friday, he’d probably be there working on the run-down, close to falling apart Harley he had bought off an old friend for $200. Mack had been working on it for months. Daisy wasn’t even sure it had half its original parts.

A short trip across the grounds and a trek over a winding path cut through a field of thick tallgrass later, Daisy arrived at the garage.

The monstrous steel and concrete building was like a plane hangar and mechanics lab forged into one. Workstations around the edge were strewn with tools, motors, and half-finished pieces of tech. Shining black SHIELD vehicles and even two quinjets sat in the middle, outlined by rectangular blocks of tape and paint. Catwalks crossed the upper level so that mechanics could reach the tops of planes when necessary, though SHIELD planes hardly ever came to The Academy unless they were being used for a lesson.

Daisy followed the sounds of tinkering and the quietly moving shadows to Mack’s workstation. She carefully leaned against a nearby SHIELD van, not wanting to interrupt his work.

Now, to say that Mack wasn’t easily frightened was an understatement. Daisy had hardly ever seen the muscled giant of a man so much as jump. Ever since discovering this, Daisy had taken every opportunity to try to scare Mack. It was not going great.

Daisy pulled out her phone, silently thumbing through emails and checking Instagram. She was about to walk over and tap him on the shoulder when Mack turned around and screamed.

Clutching his chest, Mack exclaimed, “Tremors, what the hell?!”

“I just wanted to come check in,” Daisy giggled, happy that she had finally snuck up on Mack.

Mack stood with his hands on his hips, smiling wide, before cocking one thick eyebrow and gesturing at her face.

“What happened to your nose?”

“Punching bag won this morning,” She shrugged.

Mack shook his head, laughing in a deep rumble. “You wanna help me with this?” He asked, pointing to the small device on his desk.

She didn’t answer, just reached out to take a small screwdriver from Mack’s very large hand. He showed her how to twist it to create leverage without it slipping while he messed with some wires, and eventually he seemed satisfied.

“Have you eaten dinner?” Mack asked casually.

Daisy nodded, her grumbling stomach betraying her.

Mack eyed her up and down. “Sure. Well, I’m hungry, so let's get something to eat and then we can take the bikes out.”

Daisy liked the feeling of being on a bike, the wind in her hair and steady vibrations from the engine soothing her ever-present headache. Ever since this revelation, if Mack went out on his motorcycle, he invited Daisy to ride with him.

At first, Daisy had been skeptical. What was so great about a two-wheel speeding death trap? One of her best friends had driven a gleaming 1969 Dodge Charger, and she had enjoyed riding with the windows down, but it still wasn’t the absolute best experience of her life, like most motorcyclists claimed a ride could be. However, once Daisy had finally taken Mack up on his offer, she was never hesitant to accept another invitation.

In the canteen, Mack piled a plate high with salad ingredients and baked spaghetti, scooping some off into a bowl for Daisy once he got back to the table. She took a fork and picked at it, chewing the crisp lettuce slowly.

Once they were both finished, Mack put his plate and utensils on the circling dish belt. He let Daisy lead the way back to the garage. She immediately grabbed two helmets and Mack’s gloves.

“That leather jacket gonna be enough to keep you warm? I have a couple old flannels in my bag if you want one.” Mack offered.

Daisy picked at a loose thread on the worn black jacket, nodding and throwing a ‘Thanks’ over her shoulder. She quickly rifled through his duffel bag, pulling out a faded black and blue flannel and shrugging it on under her jacket.

Mack mounted his black and silver bike, Daisy choosing a smaller SHIELD one. She kicked the kickstand back with her foot, finding her balance. She followed Mack as he revved the engine and took off out of the garage. Daisy heard him speak into the helmet’s mic.

“I upgraded the bikes, bigger tires and a better visor. It’s more efficient. Plus, when I’m out on the highway, cars don’t push me around.”

Daisy gave him a thumbs up, focusing on the feeling of air flowing around her. She sped up as she reached the road. She felt as if she was flying high into the air, fighting the laws of physics. On the back roads surrounding the Academy, as familiar as the back of her hand, Daisy relaxed and let herself fall into autopilot.

She heard Mack in her ear, still talking about the bike. She had heard it all before, but there was something centering about listening to Mack retell the evolution of his bike for the hundredth time, like a kid who begged to hear the same bedtime story every night.

It was freeing, speeding down a deserted road on the bike, stars above and pavement below. Pine trees reached for the sky on each side of her. Shrubbery and grass waved to Mack and Daisy as they raced forward.

A slight burn pricked her eyes that she knew wasn’t from the wind. Daisy needed this after a stressful first couple weeks back in class. To be honest, it was what she needed all the time. Daisy was exhausted. Her powers may not be visible, but they were always on, always bouncing around her body. Times like these, though, Daisy felt free. Releasing the constant grip she had on her self-control, she let the vibrations of the engine flow through her. Slowly, surely, Daisy let her guard down. A whispering warble crept into her ears over the wind. She could feel the way the pavement below and the humid late-August air around her absorbed the miniscule quakes, bouncing lightly off the tall trees like a quiet laugh reflecting off the walls of an echo-chamber.

About an hour later, Daisy and Mack were rolling back into the garage. Daisy couldn’t hide the slight redness in her eyes, but the smile on her face told Mack he didn’t need to worry. The pair silently did maintenance on the motorcycles, re-fueling them for later use and checking for any loose parts on Daisy’s.

Daisy headed back to campus, refusing Mack’s offer to walk her back to the dorms. She would be fine on her own. Besides, Jems might be back by now, she could ask about Fitzsimmons’ date. Or she could wait until breakfast tomorrow and tease them both.

Daisy stopped in her tracks. Out of the corner of her eye, a shadow slipped behind a building. Daisy felt her back tense, her hands curling into fists.

Any remainder of twilight light had faded while Mack and Daisy maintenanced the bikes. Daisy couldn’t imagine that any of the trainees that went to parties at the nearby universities were back yet, but no student in their right mind would want to simply walk around the dark campus of the Academy.

She kept walking, more alert. No sounds apart from her steady breathing and the rustle of grass beneath her feet reached her ears. She walked slowly toward where the shadow had disappeared. It looked as if it was headed to the biochem building. Daisy raised her hands, quietly running towards the white building, slightly crouched. She circled it once, twice, before deciding she had been imagining things, the shadow was only a trick of the light. It seemed so real though, so solid…

Daisy shook her head and crossed the courtyard, heading towards the dorms. It was late, and she had important things to do tomorrow. She was probably just tired from her ride with Mack.

Behind her, unnoticed by Daisy, the shadow quickly crossed the field behind the biochem building, slinking into the tallgrass.

The next day, Daisy woke to the sound of her alarm blaring 90’s RnB at six thirty AM, sharp. She quickly shut it off and stared at the ceiling for a moment before groaning and dragging herself out of bed. She hadn’t gotten much sleep last night after her encounter with the shadow.

The sun was slowly ascending in the sky, golden light filtering into her windows. It was early, but she didn’t have the energy to go workout. Instead, Daisy stretched on her bed and sent a quick text to Jemma asking to meet up later to gossip about her date.

She grabbed shorts and a cropped sweatshirt, quickly dressing and making her way to the bathroom. She clipped her hair back, brushed her teeth, washed her face and headed back to her room. Trying her best to cover the bruise that had turned from red-violet to a blue-ish tinted black, she did minimal makeup. It’s not like it could get any worse, she thought bitterly. The concealer wasn’t much use.

Deciding to ignore the bruise, Daisy stood up, grabbed her backpack with her personal laptop and journal and headed to the canteen.

There weren’t many students around campus this early in the morning. Most were either asleep or nursing a hangover in their dorms. A few dedicated trainees were scattered amongst the different buildings, either in the gym or studying on their favourite bench. Daisy made a beeline for the canteen, hoping that no one had drank all the fresh coffee yet.

She slipped through the doors, sending small smiles to the students she made eye-contact with, faltering when her roving gaze reached a set of twinkling eyes the color of coffee. Maybe, she thought, I should go over and talk to him. What’s the worst that can happen?

She quickly poured herself a cup of coffee and grabbed a cinnamon raisin bagel from the pastry cart. Checking to be sure he wasn’t sitting with anyone (she wouldn’t want to intrude), Daisy walked around to the back of the large room, sitting in a spot diagonal from him.

After a few minutes of silence where Daisy ate her bagel and pretended not to feel his eyes on her, she turned and faced him.

“Good morning,” she said.

He dipped his head and raised his paper cup of coffee at the same time in response.

Does he not want to talk to me? Daisy questioned herself. She tried again. “So, is the coffee good?” He glanced at her cup that she had been sipping. Daisy recovered, “You know, in your opinion. I love the coffee here, the slightly burned aftertaste goes well with cream and sugar.΅

To her relief, he smiled. “Yeah, it’s good. I don’t usually use cream or sugar.”

Daisy raised her eyebrows, impressed. “Ah, more of a bare necessities, no-nonsense guy?”

His nose scrunched a little in thought, as if he was assessing his entire personality to see if it aligned with Daisy’s coffee psychology. He nodded finally, elaborating, “I was in the army. Most of us drank it black while deployed. I never got out of the habit. But, to answer your question, I like to think of myself as low maintenance.”

He sent her a small smile that had her insides melting just a bit. Daisy hid behind the rim of her coffee cup, trying to think of a response. Luckily, New Guy saved her.

“How do you drink your coffee?”

Daisy lowered her own paper cup, clearing her throat. “One half and half, just a bit of sugar. If I’m super tired I’ll add more.”

“So you probably adapt easily and have a deep hunger for answers to all your questions?”

Daisy’s eyes quickly flicked down to her coffee, wondering if her coffee order really exposed that much about her. Daniel laughed, his shoulders shaking with mirth. “I’m kidding. I noticed how you’re always in the computer lab before class, and Yo-Yo told me that you use that time to research.”

Daisy felt a blush creep up her neck. Yo-Yo knew New Guy? And gave him information about her schedule?

Daniel quickly explained, “We see each other in the halls a lot. And we have a class together. She noticed me in the lab and thought I knew you.”

Daisy relaxed. Yo-Yo had become increasingly more friendly to strangers the longer she spent at the Academy.

“I remember the first time I met her. She was so angry that SHIELD had stopped her from exposing the police in her city as corrupt. Our team was sent in to help her finish what she had started, destroy weapons and take down the corrupt members of the department. It was fun,” She chuckled.

Daniel watched her through his thin clear-frame glasses. She winced a little as her nose scrunched with laughter, recalling another story about a mission gone awry that Yo-Yo saved.

“How did you get that bruise?”

“What?”

He pointed to the spot on his face that mirrored the position of the bruise on hers. “The bruise. It looks like it hurts.”

Daisy shrugged, “Not as badly as getting shot. But you know, sometimes you punch the bag, sometimes the bag punches you.”

Despite the playful nature of the statement, Daniel couldn’t help but hear alarm bells in the back of his mind. She had been shot?!

Daisy noticed the change in Daniel’s demeanor and switched tactics, “It’s just a bruise. I wasn’t paying attention and the punching bag flew back and hit me in the face.”

Daniel laughed, becoming more and more intrigued with the enigma sitting across from him. Well, at least this enigma was beautiful, even if she had lost a fight to a punching bag.

A look of pure confusion overtook Daisy’s features. “Excuse me?”

Daniel’s face flushed bright red. He said that out loud. Daisy was still smiling though, Daniel let out a nervous chuckle. The two lapsed into an awkward silence. Daisy was finishing her bagel when he spoke up again.

“It was good talking to you,” he said softly.

Daisy’s eyes wandered his face with an unreadable expression. “Yeah, it was.”

He resisted the urge to offer to walk Daisy to wherever she was going as she headed out of the doors of the canteen, coffee with one half and half and pinch of sugar in hand.

————————————————————————————

hi hellooo! whatd you think? comments and notes are appreciated! (will go back and edit this later, for now i sleep)

tag list: @jaanulore

#agents of sheild #aos #dousy #timequake #fic #angst #fluff #fitzsimmons #mackelena #philindaisy #jemma simmons #leo fitz #daniel sousa #daisy johnson #/#melinda may

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pi-cat000 · 3 years

Text

BNHA: Kakashi dimension hops crossover (4)

Summary: Kakashi gets dumbed into the My Hero Academia universe through random plot devise.

Characters: Kakashi Hatake

Fandoms: My Hero Academia and Naruto

WARNINGS: Mentions of violence/injury

START / PREV / NEXT

Doctor Wada makes an unscheduled appearance the same morning. Kakashi has the doctor’s schedule memorised and knows the man usually spends his first work hour in his office before checking in with various patients. The change is not unexpected.

“Ms Iori finished her rounds, marked everything as normal and handed the ward off without incident.” Wada and one of the floor’s morning shift nurses talk, voices lowered, too quiet for a regular person to pick up.

“It was called in around 4:15 am. We confirmed it as a burst blood vessel behind his quirked-eye, but we don’t know what triggered it. Without examining the eye itself it is hard to draw any definite conclusions. Since we don’t know what his quirk does, we didn’t want to risk staff safety without a specialist on hand.”

“Nothing else? No other symptoms?” Wada asks.

“No external bleeding. No signs of irritation around the eye socket. Clear, coherent verbal responses from the patient. Vitals are stable. The dressings on the eye were changed yesterday, and nothing was flagged then either.”

“I see. Thank you.”

Depressed at the thought of what amounted to a forced long-term infiltration mission, Kakashi’s attention drifts away from the hushed conversation. Kakashi has never been assigned to any extended infiltrations. Long, tedious things that they were. Jōnin were usually too valuable to waste on them. Even before he had made jōnin, his skillset lent itself to tracking, assassination, ambush and one on one combat not undercover assignments. It was just his luck -or maybe it was karma-that he had been shunted into one. Three years of ‘mingling’ amongst these soft-acting civilians, waiting to build enough chakra for an attempt at a technique he wasn’t even sure would work. It was enough to make even the most battle-hardened shinobi depressed.

Maybe he should run off and hide somewhere. He would skulk around for three years avoiding the locals. Less of a hassle that way. Kakashi lets out a weary breath.

“See if you can bump up that MRI. We need to make sure this isn’t anything serious,” Wada’s voice breaks through his musing as the doctor starts in the direction of Kakashi’s bed. The nurse he is talking with nods and leaves.

“Well, you have certainly had an eventful night,” Wada greats when he draws near, leaning in to visually scan Kakashi, “Let’s see what we have going on. Can you close your left eye for me so I can unwrap it?”

He habitually pushes down his natural discomfort at having a stranger close to his sharingan as the doctor reaches to tilt Kakashi’s head to the side for better access. If he was going to be stuck here then he should maintain his complacent, harmless persona. At least, until he leaves the hospital. Besides, if they had wanted to hurt him, they would have done it while he was unconscious.

“No swelling around your quirked-eye and the bleeding has stopped, that’s a good sign. We’ll run a few tests and get to bottom of this, not to worry.”

“Yeah. About that,” Kakashi rubs the back of his head to look sheepish and apologetic, “I might have tested out my, eh, quirk. You know…I wanted to see what it would do…”

There is a beat of silence, the older man drawing away, too surprised to respond.

“I think it lets me memorise things it sees?” Kakashi continues. Even if he wasn’t 100% sure about what he would do next, he is not about to abandon his shaky amnesia cover story.

“Of all the reckless, irresponsible decisions!” the doctor snaps out of his surprise moving straight into anger, “I expressly told you to wait and not to mess with it. You had no idea what sort of quirk it was! What if you had injured someone or yourself.” The concern seems pretty genuine and Kakashi almost feels bad for manipulating him.

“Young people these days…honestly. No patience.”

Young? It had been a while since anyone has called him that. Kakashi is practically ancient by shinobi standards. The response prompts a semi mournful, almost amused sigh from him, “I know, I know. I just wanted some sort of clue as to how I got here.”

The doctor takes a frustrated breath, calming “Yes. I know it’s frustrating, being restless and hold up in this bed for three straight weeks, but there is a procedure to these things. You got lucky that the only side effect was a burst blood vessel. Next time you want to test your quirk we’ll make sure it is in a controlled environment with an expert on hand. I don’t care if you have some sort of passive regeneration, quirks can be dangerous. The hospital has offsite testing facilities for a reason.”

“Yes. I understand. I won’t do it again,” he says dutifully and gets a huff of disbelief and a head shake.

“You better not.”

A pause.

“So.”

“So?” Kakashi raises a brow.

“So what did you discover? Explain it to me again.” Wada motions, impatient, repositioning a nearby chair so he can sit comfortably beside the bed.

“It lets me remember things…” Kakashi had given a lot of thought to what he wanted his fake ‘quirk’ to do without giving too much away, “I’m pretty sure I remember anything it looks at perfectly.”

A somewhat true explanation, in that recoding information and prefect recall was one facet of the sharingan; a side effect of its primary function which was to copy ninjustu and taijustu. The explanation also played into the diagnosis Wada had already written into his medical files, making it more believable.

“Then, lucky for you, something good came of your reckless behaviour.”

Kakashi just smiles which elicits the beginnings of another lecture. “Not that you should ever take quirk safety lightly. Quirk licenses exist for a reason. People can’t go about throwing their quirks around willynilly. A licence, I might add, that you don’t have.”

“Sorry. Sorry.”

After witnessing several televised reports on police arresting people for quirk misuse Kakashi knows the people here, for whatever reason, are leery when it comes to using their abilities. To the point where they actively outlaw it. He is banking on Wada being sympathetic enough not to push the matter.

Wada sighs again, “I’ll write it up as accidental use this time. Now. If your quirk lets you remember everything perfectly then what about your past memories. Any change on that front?”

“No. Still gone.”

“I see. That might mean the part of the brain linked to its memorisation function was damaged, disrupting the memories stored by the quirk,” Wada rubs his chin thoughtfully, “We’ll have to run a few more tests…a lot easier now that we know what it does I suppose.” Good. That was the conclusion he wanted Wada to come to.

“Alright, before we get to testing, were there any other side effects. Aches, pains, fatigue?”

Even as the man asks, he is pulling out a familiar penlight to shine in Kakashi’s regular eye.

“No. Nothing.”

What follows is his standard check-up routine. His vitals are recorded, his head checked over, the area around his sharingan examined thoroughly. Again. Well, as thoroughly as it could be examined without uncovering it. Next is an inspection of the chest wound he now knows is from Obito alongside a glance over his shoulder, arm and leg. Wada nods to himself as he goes, signalling that all is well.

“Your blood pressure is a little high for my liking. I’m guessing you didn’t sleep much last night what with how you were messing around with your quirk. Make sure you get a good night’s sleep tonight,” Wada instructs as he fits Kakashi with a padded eyepatch instead of the usual wrap of bandages. He pauses to wait for a nod of confirmation.

“I will,” he blatantly lies. Kakashi hasn’t had a proper night sleep since waking up the first time, dozing for shortened intervals only. With so many squishy doctors around he doesn’t want to accidently hurt one of them should he be woken from a nightmare. It did put additional strain on his body.

Doctor Wada peers at him, “We’ll give you another week of monitoring then get some authorised quirk testing done. A brain scan as well. Depending on what we find, we’ll see what we can do about getting you a diagnosis and then discharged.”

“Hmm,” he answers, noncommittally. Not like he has anywhere else to go until then. If this were Konoha, he would have taken off long before now and seen to his remaining injuries alone. This would be the first time in a long while that he is waiting for an official discharge.

Guess he would be finding out how the hospital dealt with amnesiac patients after they healed. In Konoha, a displaced citizen would be given a menial labour job as part of the village’s many reconstruction projects and sent on their way. But this wasn’t Konoha and he should really stop with the comparisons.

He needs to decide what he wants to do: Take off, find somewhere secluded and wait the years out. Or hang around to try and salvage the situation. This world did have a lot of interesting technology so there might be value in getting a better feel for the society here. Maybe he would find something useful to take back as an apology for abandoning everyone…

What a mess this all was.

...

The following week has Kakashi splitting his time between gathering supplies for a chakra storage seal and reading through Wada’s patient files to get a sense for his upcoming quirk tests and ‘brain-scan.’

He also takes the time to read through everything else Wada has in his office - mainly medical journals - to better understand the biological differences inherent in a place without chakra. Primarily, the people were physically weaker. However, there were a lot of mutations or ‘secondary quirk factors’ which reinforced the body to better deal with the stress of the primary quirk. All interesting and potentially relevant information to remember when he got into fights. Once he knew a person’s quirk he would be able to guess how their body was reinforced and act accordingly. A fire quirk would make someone naturally heat resistant but not impact resistant, is what Kakashi concludes as he re-reads the profile of current number two hero ‘Endeavour.’ The magazines gifted to him by Iori all contain a statistical breakdown of the top 10 heroes, their strengths, weaknesses, and their criminal apprehension and crime prevention rates. It is a list that rarely changes between issues. He commits it all to memory, idly planning out combat strategies that didn’t involve obvious ninjutsu or chakra use. It helps pass the time when he is not trying to make sense of what he sees on television or stalking various people around the hospital.

At the end of the week, he steals Wada’s fountain pen, adding it to his growing pen hoard which he stashes in a vent on the roof. The storage seal he wants to make is complex and would need ink to complete. A mix between a chakra-draining-seal-trap and a storage scroll, it is well on its way to completion.

The seal would drain his chakra at a consistent and manageable rate, store it efficiently, and give him a way to turn the chakra drain off and on at will. Also, as a precaution, he includes an emergency stop in case his chakra levels became dangerously low, so it didn’t accidentally kill him if he fell unconscious.

The seal would need to be positioned somewhere on his body in a spot where the doctors wouldn’t immediately notice. He doesn’t what to explain why he suddenly has a tattoo. If he had had access to properly made fūinjutsu ink, the seal would be invisible. Alas, he would have to make do with chakra-infused pen ink.

Kakashi manages to keep himself busy enough that he expertly avoids making any concrete decision on what he wants to do with the next three years.

Note: this is slowly turning into a medical drama

#bnha #naruto #CrossOver #my hero academia #hatake kakashi #kakashi headcanons #dimension travel AU #fanfiction #world building #culture shock

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riseofthecommonwoodpile · 3 years

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I’m listening to the first episode of Maintenance Phase (which is a great podcast btw, I listened to like every other ep first lol) and it’s just making me think about my experience with the first doctor i ever had who didn’t make me feel awful for being fat, so i’m going to vomit that out here to help any skinny people know a little of what it’s like to be fat in the healthcare system. Indulgent personal shit follows:

Every single doctor I’d had as an adult, every single one, would ask what I was doing to lose weight, would point to BMI and obesity charts telling me I was a.) fat and b.) going to die soon because I was so fat. It was something I just had to let happen to get healthcare, and the most frustrating part was that I fucking knew I was fat already. OBVIOUSLY I did. Every person I went on a date with, every coworker who side-eyed my lunch, even people at the supermarket looking like they were about to laugh when I grabbed carrots or broccoli to make myself. Knowing didn’t help. I’d tried constantly for over a decade, and nothing had changed my weight in the way they wanted it to.

So, when I went to find a primary care doc when I moved to Washington, I really assumed the same thing was going to happen. I specifically wore my “lightest” clothing and shoes so they wouldn’t impact my weight too badly, and getting on the scale was legit terrifying, because I didn’t own a scale for the specific reason it felt so bad to see the number come up, and the number ended up being 284, and I almost cried, and I just knew I was about to get yelled at. I’m tense the entire appointment (and my blood pressure reads worryingly high), but she doesn’t say anything about it. We just have a normal first appointment. She says she’s gonna have me get an at-home blood pressure cuff to see if maybe it’s just the office that made me nervous.

And at the end she asked if I have any questions, and I pretty timidly ask if I should be worried about my weight, if I should be losing weight, and she just said “Nope, all your other vitals are good, we’re gonna get bloodwork done today anyways so we’ll see if there’s any issues there, but everything else looks fine to me.” and i legit started crying, and I told her how I was expecting her to tell me I need to lose 20, 50, 100 pounds, because that’s what other doctors told me, and she just listened and asked me when I was done talking if losing weight was something I wanted to do. I told her yes, and then she asked me a question I hadn’t ever been asked before by a doctor: If we ignore you not being happy with how you look at your weight, and people being rude and shitty to you, is being fat causing you any physical problems?

What a wild question to hear as a fat person! I’d literally never been asked that before. It was just *assumed* it was giving me health problems, and I just assumed that was correct, even though as a 28 year old plenty of patient people had already told me those things aren’t related that directly and concretely, that plenty of fat people are perfectly healthy, and plenty of skinny people are unhealthy. And I took a few seconds to think about it, because I never had before, and I said that my knees hurt sometimes when I bend down, and that I get winded easily. And I said that I know exercise would help those things, but I can’t exercise around other people, I feel too embarrassed, and I’ve never found any at-home stuff that I could keep up with or didn’t make me miserable.

And she asked what kind of physical stuff I liked as a kid, and I mentioned gymnastics, and she asked if I’d tried yoga, since it has lots of similar stretching, focus on form, things like that, and it would likely help my knees if I started slow at first and worked my way up. and I hadn’t ever tried it, so we decided, together, for me to give it a shot before our follow up appointment to look at my bloodwork. and she emphasized that if I wanted to make it a habit, the most important thing was just to do a little bit each day, even if it’s just 5 minutes. If 30 minutes was too daunting (and let’s be honest, 30 minutes of exercise is daunting even on my days off, let alone after a 9 hour shift on my feet), just do a couple stretches, so that way your body gets used to the idea of doing it. trying to do 30 minutes 5 days a week would just mean i never did it at all.

And after we ended the appointment, suddenly I wasn’t afraid to go to the doctor anymore, imagine that! The next time I went, my blood pressure was perfect because I knew I wasn’t going to be insulted and made to feel awful, I wasn’t waiting to be told the thing I’d been told for years and tried to change, but just kept getting worse at. And, incidentally, I did end up losing weight- I’m at 225ish right now, in just like two years, which I don’t say as a “go me”, because it doesn’t matter, and for plenty of people, lifestyle changes wouldn’t have done that anyways, and there’s fucking nothing wrong with being 284 pounds, but just to point out that the only thing that actually *worked* to accomplish the goal of all the doctors I had before was not caring about that goal. None of their hectoring and shaming did the thing they wanted, and the thing so many people cautioned against- “glorifying obesity”, aka just not making fat people feel like dogshit all the time- was what gave me the mental energy to exercise regularly, to eat better.

because I wasn’t weighing myself, and I knew at the doctor, no matter what the number was, it would be ok, I felt ok asking questions, bringing up problems I had getting cooking into my schedule, asking for help on health-related things instead of just a number over and over and over again. I was less stressed, I felt better about myself and my body, which also gave me more mental energy to do the things I wanted to be healthier. not skinnier, healthier. It’s almost like...when doctors care more about their patients’ health than their weight, when they don’t make them feel ashamed and awful, the patient will actually go to the fucking doctor. The patient will listen and care more, will ask questions, will bring up when they’re having problems or something seems off with their body. when i moved to Colorado and had my last appointment with that doctor, I cried and told her she was the best doctor I ever had, and I still tear up thinking of how much she changed and improved my life by just being a good fucking doctor who cared about my health.

also usually i read over my longer posts before i post them to make sure grammar and spelling are ok, but this is long so i didn’t do that, so it’s probably fucked. oh well.

#fatphobia #weight loss

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bisadiemccarthy · 3 years

Text

Sick Day

So this drabble goes with a larger au, which is currently an in-progress multichap that will be up... at some point. Huge huge thank yous to @freetobegrace and @andreasbayden for the inspiration for this! We've all kinda been talking about a Ted Lasso au where Rebecca and Rupert had a kid, and I've finally gotten around to writing it. Could not be more honored to brainstorm with these lovely people ❤

Summary: Rebecca gets a call from her son's school that she needs to pick him up because he's gotten sick... but technically, it's Rupert's week for custody.

Monday morning sees Rebecca in an utterly foul mood that even biscuits from Ted hardly help. It’s storming outside, a torrential downpour, she has three more days until she sees her son again, and coming off a semi-relaxing weekend to a mountain of contract re-negotiations and relegation costs is enough to make anyone miserable.

The biscuits and her lunch plans with Higgins are the only bright spots in a day she already knows will be filled with paper cuts and ink stains, so she’s even slightly relieved when her phone rings. Talking to another person is almost always better than staring at a screen or signing documents until her hand is cramping. She picks up her cell phone quickly, frowning when she sees the contact name for James’ school scrolling across the screen.

“This is Rebecca Welton,” she answers.

”Ms. Welton, this is Lucy, the school nurse at Richmond Primary School, are you available to pick James up today?” the young woman sounds unreasonably chipper, and there’s the sound of a keyboard clacking, even through the phone. ”He threw up in class and is running a fairly high fever.”

“Yes, of course,” she answers immediately, swallowing bile in her throat as she realizes what she has to say. “But, ah… technically James should go home with his father. He has custody this week.”

”James specifically asked that we call you instead,” the nurse responds. ”He says he’s felt bad all day, but his dad told him he needed to go to school anyway.”

Rebecca mulls that over. James isn’t normally one for exaggeration, but Rupert won’t be at all forgiving just because she got the call and their son asked for her. “Would it be too much trouble for me to speak to him?”

”Not at all.” There’s shuffling on the other end, and then James speaks, sounding tired and puny even over the phone.

”Are you going to come pick me up, Mum? I don’t feel good.”

“I’m very sorry about that,” she says, her heart aching at the thought of not being there for her son. “But James, you technically are supposed to go home with your dad.”

”Dad doesn’t even believe I’m sick,” the nine-year-old protests. ”I told him I didn’t feel good this morning, and he said I should ‘buck up and walk it off’. Even Bex-who-I-don’t-like--” he always says her name like that, all together, as if the descriptor is a part of it-- ”Put her hand on my forehead and said I felt warm. But he just ignored her!”

At that, Rebecca’s last flake of charitability toward her ex-husband vanishes, washed down the storm sewer with the rain. “Alright, I’ll be right there. You don’t have to go back to your dad’s this week, not if he can’t even take care of you when you’re sick. I’m sorry you had to go to school feeling bad, James. I love you.”

”Thanks, Mum. I love you too.”

Not half an hour later, she’s in the back of the Rolls Royce with James dozing in her lap. She clicks on Higgins’ contact in her phone-- she really needs to change that name-- and waits as it rings.

”Hello? Why are you calling me from your office?”

“I’m not in my office,” she says, keeping her voice low and absentmindedly stroking James’ hair. His forehead is damp with sweat. “Sorry, but I’m going to have to cancel our lunch plans; James got sick at school so I’m taking him home. I assume he’ll sleep and I’ll be able to answer emails and whatnot as usual.”

”Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” Higgins says. She can practically hear his hesitation through the phone.

“I’d like you to call Rupert for me.”

All she gets for that is a sigh.

“He’s going to be spitting mad if he finds out at school pickup, you’d best call now,” she continues. “Quite frankly, I don’t care if I’m in violation of the custody agreement, James told him he was sick this morning-- and he was-- and Rupert blatantly ignored him.”

”I’ll do it, I’ll do it,” Higgins says, ”But I’m a director of football operations, Rebecca, not a divorce lawyer.”

“And you’re quite good at your job,” she says. “I’m just asking you to do me a favor, Leslie. Please and thank you.”

”Alright,” he agrees, ”but if he tries to press the issue, I’m telling him to call you.”

Higgins must offer some sort of suitable explanation, because Rebecca has a good hour of peace and quiet before her phone rings. She tucks James into bed, singing softly and rubbing his back until he fully drifts off. Once she’s positioned a trash can by the side of his bed, she heads to the kitchen, ignoring her work emails in favor of starting up a pot of chicken soup.

Even though the work she does ultimately have to do is the same as what she’d be doing at the club, it feels nicer at home, sitting in the large beanbag in the corner of her son’s room. Her back is going to complain to her about this later, but it’s worth it, to be able to watch over him. Rebecca occasionally unfolds herself from her cross-legged position to check on him closer, pressing her hand or her lips to his forehead. The fever doesn’t seem better, but she’s made an appointment with the doctor already, so that’s good.

When her phone rings, she heaves a sigh and steps from the room, crossing her fingers that the conversation stays civil, though she knows that’s unlikely.

“This is Rebecca Welton…”

#ted lasso #ted lasso fic #rebecca welton #leslie higgins #james au #oc: james mannion #oh yeah i hope y'all like his name #technically he's a junior #but he goes by his middle name #for obvious reasons #actually y'know what i just hope y'all like this au in general #my writing #my stuff

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