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dzpenumbra · 1 year

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2/8/23

There's this unfortunate theme going on in my life that's rearing its head lately. "I thought I was doing really well, then I started noticing that I'm really not doing well." And I want to say I'm inflating it a bit? Like... okay... let me find a way to put this into words. That I'm doing much better and doing a lot worse at the same time? In different respects, you know? So, some stats went up and others went down? I hope that makes sense.

I think it's part of getting older, and fixating on specific things. Today's challenge has been... as with yesterday... overwhelm. And identifying what the overwhelm really is. And what specifically it is about. And what to do about it. You know, no big. It's just completely crippling my ability to accomplish tasks on a day-to-day basis. So... figured I'd get around to addressing it. <shrug>

On a quick side-note, my hip flexors are being absolute bitches. I am realizing, as I said earlier with the whole... losing stats thing... I have no idea how to fucking sit properly, and I think it completely ruined my body. I don't think it's irreversible, obviously, but like... the damage is pretty severe. I think it's gonna take some time. And I did an intense core workout today and I'm afraid I intuitively used my hip flexors when I shouldn't have. And it doesn't feel good at all. So... that would of course be another reason to go to yoga with a teacher. To get corrections on shit like that, so I can learn what it feels like to use neglected muscle groups. Because I'm just flat-out guessing right now, and I might be guessing wrong.

Okay, back to overwhelm. So... what happened today was... after yoga and all that, I started to do the one big life thing I really wanted to get done today. Email my old therapist and see if he would be willing to help me (at least consult) with the screening and managing ADHD thing. He and I have a history, he knows me very well. But ADHD never came up. So, I'm sure he'd have a unique perspective. I wrote like 4 paragraphs summing up the situation (and if you follow this blog, you know that 4 paragraphs for me is fuckin short) and then remembered that my current social worker dude messaged me back. I went over to read his message and... something in there... something just fucking overwhelmed the hell out of me. My brain just turned to noise and I couldn't fucking understand the words I was reading. Like it just switched to another language or something, and I just was getting really frustrated and like... repelled? Like I just really did not want to be reading it. I gathered very little from the message, like the first few sentences, then it was just like... another language or something.

Here's the fucked up part. I was on Reddit before all of this, reading posts on how peoples' experience with the non-stimulant ADHD meds I was told I could be prescribed went for people. And on my way off of reddit, I saw someone's post, a random one in some general subreddit about their salary in France and how they are upset that their salary is so low compared to equivalent American salaries with the same degree. And a French citizen working in America responded to them, in French. The first paragraph was entirely in French. I took like 3 years of French in high school, I actually really liked it. I was never fluent, I never had opportunity to practice it conversationally (despite my mom being a former French major with a degree, but, yeah...) so I never really got comfortable expressing my thoughts in French, but I got really damn good at reading it and understanding it when it was spoken. I tried my hand at reading it now, 20 years later. I couldn't just get it fluidly, I was very slow at reading, but there were only like one or two words that I couldn't really logically parse in the whole first paragraph. That was a really cool feeling, I felt like I still had it, you know? Then I go and read the message that my social worker sent to me in my goddamn native tongue and my brain scrambles and I can't understand it!

I think the juxtaposition of those two events helped me start to understand that something else was at play here. My big question is what? While talking with my mom later about it, my first conjecture was emotional overwhelm, but like... what was the emotion? Was there even emotion present? Stress, I guess? She seemed to immediately reject emotion being the reason that happened, from the data I presented. My next theory was a trauma response, which can manifest in similar ways. A blindsiding force that just... hits me with a wall of overwhelm to push me away from "dangerous" things and situations. This could be it, because the point where I started getting overwhelmed was around where he was talking about all the screening for controlled substances and all that shit, and that's a big vortex of past traumatic experiences for me. But I didn't feel the trauma response. So... there's a running theory that I was kinda brainstorming.

Maybe trauma and ADHD overwhelm are working hand-in-hand, which is making them a bit... indiscernible? So, like... if I go in to do the dishes and I get hit by this gigantic wave of overwhelm... it's not because I have a trauma response to dishes... I really don't, I've done them enough times to feel confident on that. But that inhibiting force that I have to brute-force or finesse through is right there, blockading me and incapacitating me. If I get a trauma response? I feel like that same overwhelm might be on the very front-lines of that experience. Meh, I'm second-guessing myself. I don't fucking know, honestly. Maybe this was just an example where both were present, and the traumatic response was more manageable, but the executive functioning overwhelm part was not.

The reason I connected those dots was because there's a big common thread there - emotions. My massive emotional responses. So the thing that really confused me today was like... I thought I was having a trauma response - because in the doctor's office I think it was definitely a major factor - but... I didn't feel the anxiety, the caution, the alertness, the lack of safety... like I just got dropped into the woods at night and I hear sticks cracking around me, but... in a more subtle way. Like that same feeling, but the volume on it turned down to like... a 4. I didn't get that when my social worker messaged me, I got... just like... frustration and ugghhh, like nails on a chalkboard or something. Which is definitely an emotion, right? But like... I don't know, is tedium an emotion or just... a thing? Like I felt like a toddler about to have a meltdown because they have to wait 5 minutes before their TV show comes on or something, and I was just like bouncing in my seat like... "ughhh come onnnn, why doesn't this make sense? Why is this stressful?"

So, that's been the big musing of the evening. I would say the dishes example is like... clear-cut ADHD overwhelm. The doctor's office, where I straight up drew a blank when the doctor asked me what my primary fucking medium was as an artist, was much more PTSD/anxiety dominant. And today... was probably a blend of a light PTSD trigger, but mostly ADHD overwhelm. So, what I'm getting at, is that the mix might be a major factor in why things are so goddamn difficult for me right now. Like... the solutions for PTSD and depression have been right in front of me, and I've had people getting deeply frustrated and even giving up because I was too overwhelmed by them to even try. I just kept insisting someone come with me to make that process easier to manage, which ADHD people call body-doubling. So, and this is really a hail mary at this point, I am guessing the reason that I get super overwhelmed by the prospect of going to do things alone (on most days) is an ADHD thing. Trauma reinforces the overwhelm and confirms it, depression drains me of the confidence to brute-force through the overwhelm. So, while I focused so damn hard on doing trauma work and managing all that, this underlying inner chaos has been pushing back against it the entire time. And, for some reason, I kept getting side-eyes from people as though I was like... rejecting easy solutions to fix my life. Like I was being picky, or being needy, or dramatic, or I wanted to be alone or unsuccessful. But really, the idea of going to the skatepark felt that overwhelming. The idea of going to a coffee shop and just sitting there felt that overwhelming.

The worst part, as I said earlier, I had a strategy to overcome that overwhelm. Companionship. A... side-quest, essentially. So... no matter what, whether it's overwhelming or hard or not, I came out of it with something.

It's so weird, to me this entire narrative makes perfect sense and yet to so many people I talk to it's like I'm speaking another language. If someone came up to me and invited me to go shopping with them, and I didn't even need anything, I would say yes. Even if they weren't good friends. Because the act of doing that is already a success. But if I were to just go shopping by myself? The stars have to fucking align. The right amount of confidence, right time of day, I have to know exactly what I'm getting, why I'm going, I need a plan, I need a timeframe. Already the brain tornado is going full-tilt and I haven't even decided whether I'm fucking going yet. I've been dealing with this for like... 15 years, at least. At this level of severity, at least.

So... what the fuck is that? Is that ADHD? From my understanding, it very likely is. So... picture this. Do you think I would be a shut-in if I didn't have so much trouble leaving my house for stuff like that? Do you think it'd be easier to work on social anxiety stuff if I didn't have that barrier? Do you think my depression would be as bad? Like... I have this running theory that the underlying overwhelm, focus and organization problem causes all the other problems to completely snowball out of control, it feeds them. But, if the underlying problems can be addressed... I feel like that could snowball the other mental health shit in the opposite direction, in a positive direction.

I don't know how to sum this up succinctly - obviously, I just wrote a fucking book here trying to make sense of it. But I think it makes a lot of sense why the help I was being offered in the past wasn't working. It's not a fault of the help at all, it's good advice. But I have to jump 15 hurdles before I even get to the help... and I could use some help with the hurdles, you know? Instead of like... judgement... that those hurdles even exist for me...

I have a splinter in my finger I keep poking at. I want it out! :(

Oh yeah, so last thing. So... I was looking at the medications that the doctor said she could prescribe. I have given this like 45 minutes total research, so please don't take this as gospel and correct me if I'm wrong... but the non-stimulant meds for ADHD seem to be... targeting different symptoms than the stimulant ones. It seems like the stimulant ones are --- you know what, after wikipedia-rabbit-holing a bit.... I'm just not going to weigh in on this. I'm skeptical. Because stimulant medications have been proven effective for fucking decades and these other new ones are literally labeled as "alternative treatments" and shit, off-label effects and all that, and I'm frankly really fucking tired of taking medications for the "side-effects" when god knows what else it's doing to my body. For fuck's sake, this psychiatrist had me on an anti-psychotic, Seroquel, for well over 2 years because the side-effect was... it made me super fucking sleepy. And I took it to help me sleep. Like... there's nothing else I could've taken? Do we know what else that medication could've been doing? I don't know, it's weird to me. It feels like how Coca Cola can be used as a cleaning fluid because it's corrosive or something, so just use Coke to clean your house! I don't know. I just... I have an aversion. I want to go with the tried and true medications, at least try them, and apparently I just don't get access to them because they think I'm going to sell them to college kids so they can study real hard and have stupid parties where they giggle and stay up all night. Totally. Totally going to get rid of my meds that are like... possibly the key to turning my entire life around... for like $5 a pop, so I can... spend that money on fucking what? Or what, I'm gonna take a double dose and feel really cool for a bit? Then not get a dose the next day because of that and have to deal with all the burdening shit I'm dealing with right now again? Like... I swear... people just don't understand this shit.

But if I want to even try the stimulants to see if they work, and I go to a doctor to procure them legally, rather than try them on the street... I will be piss tested. Not piss tested to monitor my usage of the medication, mind you. Piss tested to check for other drugs. None of which would be legal drugs. Well, one would be... the only one that would actually show up for me at any point, in fact the only substance I have in my life that even remotely works for me (and we have a very messy relationship) besides caffeine. THC. So if I get the stimulants, and I decide I want to try smoking before bed again, because it was the best sleep I had gotten in years... when I didn't freak out... And to see if the meds help with my racing thoughts and panic attacks and all that... If I smoke, I lose my meds. I go back to this. Even though it has been legal for recreational use since 2017. The logic here? I'm guessing by their logic... THC indicates drug abuse (somehow) and drug abuse means... more drug abuse. And more drug abuse means the stimulants. Right? So... um... wait, no... what? XD Here's the best part: cannabis isn't even biologically addictive. And I guarantee this piss test doesn't check for alcohol, which is like the most fucking abused substance since the dawn of time. So yeah, I'm still really pissed about that. It's like a handful of self-absorbed hedonists decided to binge on anesthesia, so now if you want to get put under for surgery, everyone needs to be screened for deviant behavior. Even grandma. It's fucking lazy, it's draconian, it punishes everyone for the wrongdoings of the few.

I met with my former friend from high school (don't even wanna call her former best friend anymore) last summer. She was homeless, she was getting high by the river the day before her court hearing for a case where she was caught as an accomplice smuggling fentanyl across state lines. She was in rehab, and was getting high by a river in a beautiful park. She has 5 kids. She told me about how she was making money by selling her Suboxone (a drug used to help with opiate withdrawal) to her ex boyfriend, likely so he could get high, maybe so he could sell it himself, I don't fucking know. She wasn't even trying to detox, and she had fucking kids she lost custody of because of the shit. And me? I detoxed off of benzos alone, unsupervised, three fucking times. And I was prescribed them every time. I had to check myself into a rehabilitation retreat to be safe in getting myself off of medications that doctors fucking put me on and wouldn't help me get off of. I quit cigarettes cold turkey after smoking for 18 years. I have used substances recreationally less than any person that I know who uses recreational substances. At the peak of my smoking weed this summer, I was smoking like... 2 hits before I went to bed. Like, I can't remember the last time I smoked an entire bowl, let alone a joint. These motherfuckers smoke 2g joints for breakfast. And I get lumped in with them. And I get lumped in with them.

It hurts. Real bad. And, at the end of the day, I just wanna say this out loud. To any of you out there buying these prescriptions - pain pills, benzos, stimulants, etc. - prescriptions that people fucking need to function, because they have constant pain problems, they have acute crippling panic/anxiety issues, they have attention functioning issues... To those of you faking these conditions so you can get high for a few hours, or so you can make some petty cash selling these drugs to kids? Go fuck yourself with a rusty rake.

Okay, that's out of my system. Yay. That was well overdue. I'm late for bed, bye.

Um... good vibes first. Yeah, need a vibe reset! XD

I finished my bracelet, finally. The hemp cord weave that I was going to use for the necklace? Yeah, I committed to the bracelet design, I made custom findings for it out of paper clips that I reshaped into rings and a clasp. It fits pretty nicely and the clasp came out looking really cool, really legit. It's really cool when you finally make something by hand that looks like you could find it in a nice store, you know? It's far from perfect, but it's a first try that is designed for me, so I'm happy with it!

Alright, that's better! Bed time.

#diary #journal #online journal #stream of thoughts #stream of consciousness

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les-maisons-toutes-pareilles · 1 year

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9/11/2022 - First session with the new therapist

I read what I wrote for yesterday entry and I have more thoughts about it. The thing I'm scared of is that these thoughts are only informed by my current weird state of emotional blankness. Thing is, I'm trying to project myself a little and what I'm imagining is confusing me. I'm still holding onto my ex-friends, and I'd like to believe we'll talk to each other again though it's not looking good. As I see it, if I manage to learn how to...manage my feelings and deal with them in real time in a way that doesn't exhaust me like it has before, then how do I move on with the friendship ? Do I erase everything that happened, clean slate? I don't want the things that have hurt me to stay unresolved, it'll only rot and hurt more later. And what if the way I learn to communicate isn't right for them? How do I know if they'll accept this talk or close themselves up? What I'm truly scared of is that if I learn how to survive/live with my own company, then will I still feel like hanging out with them ? Will they, even ? I'm scared I'll be too removed from my friends. It's something I should tell my therapist I guess.

Talking about therapist, I had my first session with them today and it went pretty good. I mean it can hardly go worse than the last one I tried that's for sure. They seemed open, actively listening and discussing not just making me talk. I truly appreciate all the things they've said, from making connections between all the stuff I talked about to quickly grasping some of the weird ways I view social interactions, to reassuring me about having boundaries and asserting them but not with a big NO. Dude seems nice. The only one I saw for a while seemed nice too but they didn't help me do anything with the healing part so I hope he does. Only time can tell. But it's a good thing still.

Last thing for today; oh my gods I feel so stupid. I know they actively told me not to talk to any of them like 3 days ago but it's something I've been thinking about for weeks now and I finally looked it up. Hmm...so yeah there was this friend, it felt really nice to talk to them, like it clicked. In July they told me they broke up with their partner and asked me out. I freaked out because why would anyone, and also they hadn't exactly broke up when they confessed which felt all kinds of wrong. I was freaked out and panicking and couldn't accept their demand (also now I know I didn't have the emotional maturity for it), but I kept thinking about it, for so long (as in for hours everyday), and I tried to flirt a little to test the water and see how I felt about it. I learned very late that they actually got back with their ex soon after I rejected them. So I feel stupid because now I do realize the feelings I have for them are strong and might just be love but I couldn't recognize them as it the, and now they are back in a relationship with their ex and I've missed my chance. Maybe if it hadn't been so sudden and quick, maybe if I had had more time to think and not feel like I had to give an answer right away, maybe if I had been given more time to start seeing a therapist and get to work on my social and emotional skills, maybe then it could have worked. However now it's too late and though I love them the opportunity is gone, I'm not gonna go all Love Actually on them, that's just disrespectful. And we're not even friends at the moment.

Listening to : Mon chum Rémi by Les Cowboys Fringants

#depression #diary #everyday depression #text entry

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alostlittleriverlotus · 2 years

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tw/cw for negative experiences with doctors, specifically therapists/psychiatrists. Ableism as well. Minor mention of physical abuse with a small mention of a specific instance of choking. Minor mention of transphobia. Also mention of suicidal thoughts/killing myself (vague) and self harm (vague) and a small mention of an eating disorder (vague.)

I gotta rant because oh my god, I have problems.

So when I was 12, I was forced into therapy because I got into trouble for "threatening a student." Basically I had a manipulative friend and she brought up jokingly to do this thing and autistic me thought it was funny since it was obviously a joke. We ended up getting in trouble and all that. It doesn't matter the actual context, it's hard for me to talk about it. I've literally only told one person I'm currently close to because it's such a shame and humiliating experience so I don't wish to go into detail. Anyway, along with some drama between me and a former friend, I was forced to go to therapy cause of her mother.

Well I was in therapy, not really sure why. I had assumed my parents made me go, I didn't learn until years later they HAD to have me go. My parents had called me psychotic and said what I did resembled someone with serious mental problems and I was dark and depressing. So I saw this therapist. And I give people the benefit of the doubt because I want to be nice. So I thought I liked this therapist.

Well I ended up opening up about how my brothers treat me. I couldn't find the right words or examples, it was like everything was suddenly gone. I had the emotions, but not the scenarios. I struggled so hard not to cry, but tears fell anyway as I told her about one basic scenario.

She provided her own example similar with her brothers then let me know it was just boys being boys and sibling rivalry. I was sitting there crying, opening up FINALLY about the pain I felt, but I failed to make it right and now I was being told how I felt wasn't right. And along with that boys being boys, my parents used that excuse. If my older, bigger brothers hit me, they'd get away with it. If I even THREATENED to hit back, I'd get treated like I was a monster and told that's not how we deal with problems. One of my brothers flat out ended up choking me because I had "annoyed him" too much (me just being autistic and ADHD basically.) I talked to my mother recently and she didn't even remember the event. And I got into more trouble because I made him mad and annoyed him, causing him to hurt me.

This is just one instance of how my own therapists have denied my experiences.

My psychiatrist said my anxiety was genetic/biology based even though he never really fully investigated. He never really fully paid attention to me. He's also the one that dismissed me being autistic cause my mom didn't pick up on traits (despite me CLEARLY BEING VERY AUTISTIC, OMG ITS SO OBVIOUS, EVERY THOUGHT I THINK IS AUTISTIC!!!) I was 18/19.

My therapist that recommended me the psychiatrist ultimately decided I wasn't "willing" to get better. She told the therapist we wanted to see next that and the practice told us to go elsewhere. That therapist also would act VERY passive aggressive if I didn't want to open up about my trauma which she only knew about because I had told my mom I was planning to open up about something and my mom told her. I was 18.

My second therapist? Oh she was fine for the most part. It was mostly just a difference in personality (she was VERY bubbly) and her being much older (it felt like explaining technology to a really old elderly person that never used a computer before. She wasn't that old, but it was a generational gap that made it feel more like I was having to explain rather than opening up) that lead me to not wanting to return to her. Oh and insurance no longer worked with her so we had no choice overall. But she helped me have some insight into my GAD (she's the one that gave me the diagnosis) and she was a very sweet lady that explained things well. My anxiety DID get better in ways without medication (didn't get medication for another 3 years with the third therapist and the psychiatrist) and I was actually able to deal with my night paranoia and get back to some normal sleep. I still use some of her advice and explanations to help my friend who can't get a therapist. So no complaints there, we just had some differences that made it a bit uncomfortable for me. Very nice lady though, I really do like her a lot.

My final therapist was fine. She noticed I was autistic though it was too early to diagnose (I had like 3 or 4 sessions with her so we hadn't really gotten anywhere.) She was good at listening and nice overall, but the problem came when we talked about "should-ing" ourselves. Basically, we SHOULD do this or we SHOULD do that. I said mine was about how I SHOULD have a job. Mistake. She asked me more about that and I opened up, thinking I was safe. Then she was like "oh everyone feels like that, nobody really wants to work" and I ended up shaking and crying cause my psychiatrist had this whole issue with making me into this entitled brat that thought no one loved me or cared about me because of a fight with my parents over chore money. She was kind at least in stopping and backing off (which my psychiatrist didn't do) so it was nice, but by then, I was uncomfortable and any trust or ease I had was gone. Then I started having sleeping troubles (it's also cause I had VERY LOW vitamin D at the time so my sleep was bad. I've slept so much better since I got a new mattress and got my vitamin D up + my birth control I got on a month or so later which helped since I have PCOS) and I didn't wake up for appointments on time and I'd have bad anxiety if I did. The same dreadful feeling I get at the thought of work or school that makes me freeze and consider if dying is worth it. My mom ended up blaming me (it's always her first reaction even if she apologizes later) and getting upset at me for it. That's when we decided to quit because I wasn't going to be able to make the appointments. My avoidant personality disorder affects my therapy so much.

But after that, it was anxiety inducing, but fine. Oh another thought I don't know where to fit in. I brought up an anxiety based moment when my anxiety was really bad (it's always about my anxiety because that's all I go in for because I have to lie cause my parents won't really believe me otherwise) and I described it as humiliating. My final therapist just got this look and this *voice* and said "are there better words? Because it wasn't REALLY humiliating was it?" And I'm just there like "yes it was. I was humiliated. I don't care if in reality it was normal and nobody cared, but my emotions were humiliated and that is not going to change because of the reality around it" but I just played along for her sake because I do not like opposing strangers. I'll literally eat something I don't like just to avoid stuff like this. Anyway, it felt so much less like "oh let's rework our thoughts" and more like "oh this is how it really is so you don't need to feel that way." Like it wasn't even an issue that bothered me anymore. That was what I was being treated for with my second therapist! We were past that! But I never feel in control of the conversation and due to my autistic mind, I kind of just go along. Hell, even when I visited the obgyn for my issues which is the PCOS, I almost forgot to mention the weight issues I've had (serious weight gain, short time, no changes in diet or exercise) and my friend had to literally remind me of it. That is how like bad I am with medical stuff. So when my final therapist brought the topic in that direction, I followed. When she brought it in the direction of my gender, I followed even though it was just me describing the nonbinary community to her because she wasn't as well educated.

Also side note, I get therapists are trying to learn and listening to their LGBTQ+ patients can help, but I am not the person to educate on. I don't want to talk about what it's like to feel nonbinary or what it's like or any of the blah blah blah. I'm not here to help you, a straight cis person, understand. It's fine if people ask questions in online spaces, I don't mind it. But when I'm there for therapy and I have to educate on it, it's like "seriously. I'm not here for it." I am not tryna demonize her for being like that, it's valid. But I am at a point where I'm like "oh yeah, I'm nonbinary" and it doesn't matter. Plus she kinda got on my case about not wanting to come out to my parents. My parents are homophobic/transphobic. I'm out to the internet and to everyone close to me. I just want to cut contact or minimize it and leave. I don't want to have to explain myself to them when I know they think being nonbinary is dumb and not real. If I come out as gay, I'll just say bi to avoid having to explain pansexuality to them. But she basically had this tone about her that was like "LGBTQ+ folks are supposed to come out" and it made me feel so small.

But overall, my fourth therapist was nice enough and I can see her helping others, but it wasn't someone that would work for me or my situation. And she even agreed CBT/talk therapy doesn't work for me. Which FINALLY! I tell my mom that and she acts as if I haven't given it a real try. I just.

So this is my experience with therapy and my mental health. I am literally ONLY diagnosed with GAD back when I was 16. That is why I am self diagnosed. Most of my work to deal with my disorders has been on my own, acceptance of myself, and a bit of witchcraft/spirituality to help me feel more in control in my own life. I didn't like who I was. I didn't like feeling like a monster for losing it at my friend. So I was determined to be better and work through things and get past my trauma (to a point where it wasn't constantly bothering me.) I couldn't trust professionals, I couldn't get help for what I really needed since I'd have to lie to my parents, so I did it myself. I'm 2 years clean on self harm, my eating disorder thoughts can get to me but I have NOT relapsed in a few years now, I've learned more reasons behind my actions, I've unlocked traumatic memories, I've kept journals, I've found ways to communicate when overwhelmed or nonverbal, I apologize more often and explain my actions while also validating my friend since she's traumatized as well. I have changed so much in a few years because of myself and because of people like on here or elsewhere that offer good advice and kindness and acceptance. I have learned tips and tricks from other people with the disorders and I have been able to share that advice with others suffering. I have gotten to a healthier place with my relationships. I have undone a lot of my internalized ableism and internalized enbyphobia. I have acquired items suited to my needs, physical or mental. I have made lists of my triggers and how things can feel. I have done all of this because I had no other choice. And I am slowly learning to open up to more people and to rely on them. I am setting boundaries with my friends and asking things of them that allow for me to feel safe/not in control. I have changed a lot. I have become more of who I want to be. I did that myself.

So yes, professional help would be amazing. But we live in an imperfect world where professional help is difficult to access and filled with many people that are ableist or damaging to the mentally ill. It is an extremely flawed system, especially here in America (I don't know how it is in other countries so this is all based around the American mental health systems) and harms just as many folks as it can help. In an ideal world, yes we would be able to seek help for our disorders and be able to rely on doctors and other professionals, but we do not live in that world. So the reality is that people like me, our experiences, what we can do for ourselves, is extremely valid. And I'm glad I've found people that helped me feel more confident in seeing that. Even if I'm asocial, seeing such posts have helped me feel more sure in being able to say this and share this. It would be nice if we could all seek and receive good professional help for our mental issues, but we all can't. So we should not judge people like me or others that are not always willing or able to trust professionals or have very bad experiences with getting help. Because there are people that abuse the system, abuse the mentally ill, and don't forget how much it's affected by capitalism and authority. These are my experiences and aid to why I am unsure about my future with seeking help or getting diagnosed. These are my experiences with different therapists from the time I was 12 to me now being 21. And I shared these because I felt it necessary and helpful to give light to it. Good professional psychiatrist help can be hard to come by for many folks so we should not judge those self diagnosed.

When I accepted my self diagnoses, THAT was when I was able to pinpoint my own actions and work on them. Before that, I just thought "something is wrong, but I don't know what and I can't fix it." Using these labels has helped me pin point help, find people like me that can give advice and experiences, and help me understand my own actions. I never knew what I was experiencing was hallucinations or delusions. When I learned I was on the schizospec, I was able to feel less fearful about my delusions/hallucinations because I knew they were in my mind. Did it make me not anxious? No. But it helped me find the key points of triggers for them and helped me have more confidence in dealing with them. I still sometimes sleep with the light on or the TV on or have to be on call with my friend to sleep. I still have to keep my door locked out of paranoia. But I can work through it easier. Accepting my self diagnoses allowed me to actually find ways to help myself. Seeing how my past really was and WHY I acted the way I did and using that as a sign of progress. I'm a lot happier these days. Even if I struggle, I feel like I'm caring for myself truly. I'm happier, I'm more content, I'm more confident. That change came because I allowed myself to self diagnose since professional diagnoses were not accessible to me. I'd still be scared, suicidal, hurting myself, lashing out, having episodes, so paranoid I can't live, maybe even gone through with killing myself if I hadn't. I've changed because I've accepted myself. Self diagnosing can help so much. And thusly, I have been able to share advice that has helped me and I have even been able to help my friend MA since they don't have therapy. They've learned a lot and changed as well and it's helped both of us improve our communication and sharing our needs and learning self care. A lot of good change has come from it and I'm proud of myself and how far I've come.

So if you're against self diagnosing because it could be bad, don't bother interacting with me. That's a very narrow and stereotypical view. It's a complex issue and there may be people that exploit self diagnoses or spread misinformation, but that does not make people like me invalid. It's turning a complex issue into a very black and white thing with "all self diagnosing is bad because this one person was self diagnosed and it harmed the diagnosed folks more." Yes, that is bad, people like me believe that and agree with that. But that doesn't make every single self diagnosed instance bad. It's a very narrow view of an issue like this and only harms us as well as avoiding a real discussion around the issues of self diagnosing and the psychiatric field. It prevents a real discussion around mental illness in general. So if you think all self diagnosing is bad then go ahead and leave or block me. Because I've come a long way and I'm not going to entertain such ideas.

And to those questioning self diagnoses or wondering if they can, you have all my love and support. I know you'll be doing plenty of research. A great place to start is often with personal experiences. Whether you can find someone diagnosed or read comments, it helped me a lot especially with understanding how symptoms actually are since often blanket text book statements don't always work for my autistic brain. Hearing the experiences of others, especially vastly different cases, can really give a better understanding the disorders rather than just reading an informational article. I started with some comments on videos about disorders where people shared their experiences. First hand experience is REALLY helpful I've personally found. But also, it's okay if a diagnosis you thought fit turns out not to. Misdiagnoses happen with professionals as well and disorders can have overlapping traits. I've suspected some disorders for myself and then realized "no, no, it's actually this." But it's also okay to realize that you could have both! Many disorders are comorbid. Always ask questions. Seeking advice from people that are more along in recovery or have been diagnosed for more years (self or professional) can help since they'll often have learned more about themselves and coping and picked up tricks from others, like I have. They can be a good start for finding how to deal with disorders at first.

That's my advice for now. I'm losing my train of thought so I'll stop for now. Either way, random person, you are loved and you deserve to be seen and to feel valid! Help is available, even if it isn't stereotypical professional therapy. You'll get better and you'll be so proud of yourself. And if you read all this, thank you ☺️ /gen

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ecumenicallymaroon · 2 years

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29/5/22, part 2

More writing today. What the hell.

I finished writing the earlier entry and felt like I'd eased something in myself. Like I hadn't let loose the floodgates or anything, but I had perhaps opened it a crack and the pressure had eased a little. The whole time I was at church, I kept thinking that I wanted to keep writing.

I remember when I was about nineteen, I was sat in a park writing in my journal (because in addition to the thousands of Livejournal entries, I also kept a physical journal, and I also emailed an online friend all of my thoughts and questions - just, so many emotions, man) and a random lady came up to me and said, "You should never stop writing and journalling." And I was like, yeah, no duh, I will never stop doing this, but I did. I grew up and I stopped writing anything. I don't know why.

I think maybe my feelings took such a dark turn that I lost any real hope that things could be different. I mean, so much changed when I turned twenty, my whole life became utterly unrecognisable, and even though there were good things that happened, when I look back now, it feels like a churning sea of blackness. A lifeboat came by and I got through it all by clutching on to the side of it, but I don't think I ever really got in. Eventually I hit dry land, heaving and throwing up seawater, but alive, against all odds.

I think that first therapist I had, when I was about 27, was the dry land. Well, no, he wasn't, but when I washed up on the shore, he was the metaphorical towel hander outer. I was just gasping for air and he gave me a towel and let me process the shit I'd just been through.

I'd been for some kind of counselling before, a few times, but it had never really worked. I always no-showed after a couple of sessions, or the therapist just wasn't actually paying attention to what I was saying. I remember telling him this while I drew endless vines on the PHQ-9, and he asked what had changed for me, because I'd come religiously to every session. I said, "I think I'm ready to do the work now." I wasn't really, but I was ready to think about doing the work.

The sermon this morning at church was about church family and not leaving anyone out, ironically enough. Someone I used to know, John, would say that that was supernatural, which maybe it was. I didn't feel like I got solutions offered to me or anything, but I did feel seen. The guy who preached this morning is a bit of a twat, so it always annoys me when he says anything that I agree with or that helps me. Like, ugh, get off my side, you're irritating and making my side look stupid, but that's immature.

I thought for awhile that maybe I was going to be called to be a pastor or a preacher, but now I don't. I don't think I'm steady enough for it. I sometimes worry that I'm not steady enough for my job that I actually have. I worry about it a lot, actually.

I started thinking this morning about maybe it's time for me to go away to the commune again. I spent a long time there when I was nineteen/twenty, and I've been back a couple of times for short visits. I can only do short visits now - proper adult stuff getting in the way. But maybe it's time to go back.

When I talk about it, people will say, "oh, a commune, how lovely, it must be so restful" or stuff like that. Bullshit. It's the hardest work I ever do, living with so many people. But it's also some of the most restorative work that I do. I always learn something new about myself, about other people, about God. It's not always stuff I like, but it's stuff I need to know.

My dream would be to take a full month off of my real life, go to the commune, and stay there for the month. Just have room to focus on just the normal tasks of daily being alive and being with people. But that's just not possible right now, and that makes me feel pressured.

Pressured to just, be okay and be a grownup and be fine, act normal. My current therapist (different to the guy before) says that she thinks I am perfect. I know she means perfect in my imperfections and in my growing, etc, not literally perfect, but that's not really possible for me to accept. I hate so much about the way I am. I hate that I can spiral so far down so quickly, and I hate how my emotions bounce around and control so much of my life. It just feels overwhelming.

There's a person in my life, Jay, who is driving me crazy. Jay and I always drive each other crazy, and the more we are forced to be around each other, the more inevitable the blowup. She seems to feel this weird sense of competition when it comes to me, and she goes out of her way sometimes to present me with information she suspects I won't like, or to intentionally leave me out of something. She's the rudest person I've ever known who was still sort of functional in the real world, and I cannot stand her. I literally don't have a shit to give about her or what she does with her life, and it would be a lot simpler if she didn't keep forcing me into this position where I have to try to tolerate her when I know it's not going to last, and she's going to find a reason to paint me as a villain, regardless of what I do. I hate that I have to be around her.

And you know, I wish I could just turn around and say, "Look, Jay, can we just be grownups about this and admit that we don't like each other, we never have and we never will, and stop trying to force this to happen, because it's literally never going to happen." But I can't. There's always a sense of, she's assigned me a surprise test, and I'm failing it, which annoys me even though (or especially because!) I don't want to take this test, I literally don't care about you but dammit I hate failing tests even more than I hate being around you.

What a stupid problem. I thought once I finished high school, I would be done with that kind of shit. I largely am - I have very little to do with people I don't like, which sometimes causes problems when I need something and I haven't maintained a positive/neutral relationship - but not Jay. I'm stuck being around her for the foreseeable future.

But also, I think it would be a lot easier to quietly ignore her bullshit (and other people like her) if social media, messaging, WhatsApp, all that stuff, if none of it existed. If I only saw her briefly once a year or once every couple of years, it would be easier to roll my eyes behind her back and ignore her. But no, I have the privilege of constant receipt of her passive aggression. If I could just sever ties with people more easily, I'd tell her exactly what I thought of her, but it would have too many knock-on effects in other relationships that I do want to keep.

It feels good to type like this. On one level, thinking and processing it into words, and on another level, just listening to my fingers fly across the keyboard. Just go, go, go, and let it all out. Glory in my own keyboard competence.

I took a typing class in high school (peak 2002 material, you're welcome) and it was funny to watch my grade slip every semester. It wasn't that I couldn't type, it was that I was already really good at typing because I'd grown up with a computer in the house (before that was a given) and I couldn't be arsed to do the work so I just didn't. Feedback from the teacher: "EcumenicallyMaroon is not meeting her full potential." Sounds about right. And yes, I am an ex-gifted kid.

I remember reading a novel once about gifted children, and they all had some kind of metaphysical power to 'connect' to each other and the world and end world violence or something (it was the 90s - the book was called Welcome to the Ark, I think). And I was like, wow, that's awesome, maybe I'll get these kinds of powers. Obviously I did not. I got the internet instead, which is a cursed gift if I ever saw one. What's the phrase for a back-handed compliment, but in gift form?

I remember hearing a youth pastor once theorise that the End Times, Mark of the Beast thing was going to have something to do with the internet, because the sixth letter of the Hebrew alphabet is W and 666=WWW. I thought that was complete nonsense back then. I still mostly do, but there is a part of me that kinda gets it. Not for the reasons he stated, those were all crap, but I do sometimes question how much net positive the internet has brought to the world. I think being online so much as a kid and teen fucked me up, and I think it fucks up most people. We're just not meant to know this much, I think. It breeds cynicism, extremism, and inaction. Yet here I sit, typing away, sending all my thoughts into the void.

Hello, void.

I will write more tomorrow, I think. This feels good. It feels like breathing deeply and walking into your own house after being away for too long. It's all still here, all the important parts.

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chefdoeuvre · 3 years

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Aftermath

Jay Halstead

Pairing: Jay Halstead x Sister!Reader

Description: People always tend to forget about the aftermath.

Words: 2,122

Requested: yes by anonymous; second, if it's ok i wanted to request a part two to the imagine? i was wondering if you could just explore the aftermath of her assault, as she continues to heal and accept what's happened to her. by this i mean experiencing ptsd and having nightmares, flashbacks and dealing with certain triggers. also, maybe she could still sometimes turn to substances as many survivors do, and just break down sometimes. obviously since it's a halstead sister fic and i love the support system in the last story, i'd love to see jay helping her through everything and being super protective + some scenes with the rest of intelligence? but it's obviously up to you. thank you so much <3

Warnings: mention of drinking, sexual assault, drugs, language, PTSD, Jay Halstead and all of Intelligence being the best.

A/N: This is the long awaited part two to Infliction, and by long-awaited I mean like a month later. I tried to make the end light hearted because it seemed like a good way to go. I apologize in advance for any grammatical errors.

—

It had been a few weeks since the party and things were beginning to look up. You and Brayden started hanging out more and it was safe to say the two of you were on your way to becoming best friends. The group of guys had all been arrested and sent far away from you. You, Jay, and Will have been having more frequent family movie nights instead of them heading out to Molly's every free night they got. Intelligence had basically adopted you as one of their own and even went out of their way to hang out with you. Kim and Hailey had girls nights away from the ever-annoying guys they work with. Adam and Kevin practically chauffeured you to hangouts with Brayden and took you out to your favorite diner on the weekends. Even Hank had called you once in a while as a check-in and to keep you informed about your case. Overall things seemed to be getting better for you.

Except for one little detail. Your PTSD was hitting you like a truck. Of course, the only person who even remotely knew what was happening was Brayden because he was the one person you spent most of your time with. Thankfully he was there to help ground you and calm you down when it all became too much for you. This wasn't sudden, it's been building up since it happened and clearly you needed to work on accepting it rather than shoving it all down. That's one thing you and Jay had in common, the two of you always had trouble addressing your problems no matter how big they became.

Currently, you were laying in bed and staring up at your ceiling that Jay had covered in stars for you. If there was one thing about you is that you still are a child at heart. You had been shocked awake by your recurring nightmare. It always followed the same premise of the night of the party but every night there were either different people, points of view, or different actions you took that still led you to the same outcome. There were dried tears staining your cheeks that you hadn't bothered to wipe away and every few moments there would be a soft sniffle to break the eerie silence.

Having enough of staring up at your ceiling you let out a low huff and pushed yourself up to a sitting position. You turned to the side and looked at the clock resting on your nightstand. The clock read 4:19 AM which was clearly too early for you to be up but too late for you to try and go back to sleep before Jay's rustling while getting ready would wake you up. Reaching over to open the drawer in your nightstand you checked the small bottle hidden under the glasses case that held your blue light ones. It was three-quarters full of vodka you had inconspicuously stolen from Jay's cabinet. You kept promising yourself that you wouldn't drink anymore, but clearly, that wasn't really panning out in your favor. Sure you would have a swig or two before braving yourself and heading off to school but it was to take the edge off, not to get drunk.

If Jay were to check through your drawer he'd probably think otherwise. You had stopped with the pills since he had found you, but what he doesn't know won't hurt him so you continued to drink. Obviously, it wasn't a lot and definitely not enough to get you drunk off your ass. You just wanted to be buzzed enough to have the courage to walk into your dreaded school every morning and deal with the numerous triggers you kept on discovering.

Eventually, it was time for you actually start getting ready for school. Jay had already left for work a while ago, leaving a kiss on your head before stepping out the door. You pulled on a random outfit that was comfortable and your usual pair of shoes before throwing your backpack over your shoulder and walked downstairs. Deciding against your worst judgment you made the choice to brave the day without the buzz of alcohol. Waiting at the front entrance of your building was Brayden. Like every morning the two of you would walk to school together if Jay had to go into the district early. If Jay only had paperwork that day he would drive the two of you to school instead, but that didn't happen very often.

The two of you walked to school silently, only exchanging a few words of greeting. Once you had made it to the large building you both had to split up for your classes. The day went on like usual, boring teachers droning on about upcoming assignments and tests. Lunch had arrived after what seemed like forever and you sat at an empty table practically half asleep. You held your head in your hand as you kept your eyes from slipping shut at the exhaustion.

"You not feeling too hot there?" One of your classmates from English asked as he passed by.

You froze at the familiar words before shaking yourself out of the memory.

"Fine, just tired." You brushed off their comment as he nodded with an understanding smile before continuing to his table.

Moments later the door opened and you picked your head up reluctantly. It was a few guys on the football team.

"You not feeling too hot there?" One of the seniors asked you.

You simply shook your head which only worsened the pain in it. The boys walked a few steps closer before placing their hands on your shoulders. They shoved you back onto the bed and immediately your body began to react.

You kicked and punched aimlessly to get them off of you but your movements were uncoordinated and your mind was foggy. There were too many of them and they began to overpower you, their hands wandering to unwanted places.

“Y/N?” Brayden’s voice pulled you out of the flashback.

“Huh?” Your teary eyes darted around his face before focusing on his concerned expression.

“Let’s head to the library, all right?” Brayden suggested already standing up from his seat across from you.

You nodded silently before hiking your bag over your shoulder and walked to the library beside him. Luckily at your school, they were lenient enough to let you head to the library during lunch. Usually, the kids didn’t take advantage of it but it was an unspoken spot of peace for you and Brayden.

The two of you sat at a table near the back and Brayden pulled a chair up beside you.

“Want to talk about what happened back at lunch?” Brayden asked softly.

You bit your lip in contemplation. This had been happening for weeks and every time you’d shake your head and change the subject. But the fact was it wasn’t getting better and you just needed to tell somebody that you weren’t okay. A few tears slipped out of your eyes which led to quiet sobs escaping from your lips. Brayden offered you a hug with outstretched arms, making sure to check if you were okay with it. You leaned forward into his embrace and squeezed his waist tightly. He held you there while rubbing soothing circles on your back until your cries stopped. You lifted your head off his chest and wiped away the remained tears on your cheeks before speaking up.

“Uh, flashbacks. I’ve been getting them for a while. I thought they’d go away, but they haven’t.” You explained with a sigh, avoiding his gaze and instead taking interest in your hands.

“Okay first, if they happen again tell me, or pull on my sleeve and I’ll get you somewhere quiet. Got it?” Brayden bent his head to try and get into your eye line.

You nodded your head with a hum before he spoke up again, “since they haven’t gone away maybe you should talk to someone. Preferably a professional, but if you’re only comfortable telling me then I’m all ears. Although, I’m not sure that I can cure you with magic, wish I could though.” Brayden tried to lighten the mood with his magic comment.

“Thanks, Brayden. Jay actually has been bugging me about seeing a therapist. Said it helped him with his PTSD, I think I might take him up on it.” You looked up at the boy with pursed lips.

“That’s good. Just know we’re not trying to force you into anything, we just want you to feel better however long that may take.” Brayden gave you a soft smile.

“You are wise beyond your years, you know that?” You smiled back with a small laugh.

“I try, I try.” Brayden shrugged nonchalantly.

“Can you come with me to the district after school?” You asked cautiously.

“Of course, not like I’d rather do my homework.” Brayden laughed.

“And there’s the Brayden I know.” You smiled widely.

Soon enough you and Brayden had been making your way to the twenty-first district to talk with Jay and probably the rest of Intelligence. The air was lighter between the two of you once you had finally started to open up. Of course, you hadn’t spilled everything but the little you had told him made the weight on your shoulders lessen slightly.

“Ah, baby Halstead and company, what brings you here?” Trudy greeted from the front desk with a tight-lipped smile. Even if she didn’t want to admit it, she had a soft spot for you.

“Can you ring us upstairs? I need to talk with Jay.” You asked.

“You’re lucky they haven’t caught a case today.” Trudy walked out from behind her desk and led you and Brayden upstairs.

“Thank you, Trudy.” You smiled and followed the woman.

“I have a special delivery for Detective Chuckles.” Trudy spoke up once the three of you reached the top of the steps.

Jay’s head snapped up from his desk with a look of confusion when his eyes landed on you. He quickly stood up and scanned you over for anything.

“What happened, are you all right?” Jay cupped your cheek in concern before sparing a glance at Brayden for any sign of something bad.

“I’m okay, I just needed to talk to you.” You reassured him.

“All right. You wanna head into the kitchen?” Jay asked.

“No, we could talk at your desk. They’re all gonna find out anyway.” You gestured to the rest of the unit who was watching the two of you intently.

Jay nodded his head and led you to his desk. You reached out and held onto Brayden’s arm as you pulled him along to take a seat and sit beside you. Of course, at this, the entire unit had gathered around with concerned faces once you started to explain to them. Jay’s expression was held with soft eyes as he listened to you agree with wanting to try therapy and asking for help.

Once you were done Jay stood up and placed a kiss on the top of your head before whispering into your hair, “I’m proud of you.” Jay pulled away to give you a warm smile.

“All right come here you little muffin.” Kim held out her arms with a smile.

You stepped forward into her embrace as she squeezed you tightly, she rocked the two of you from side to side eliciting a small giggle out of you. Hailey joined the hug with a laugh once Kim pulled her by the arm.

Antonio placed a hand on your shoulder once you, Hailey, and Kim pulled away, “I’m proud of you, kiddo.” He offered you a kind nod.

“So proud.” Kevin gave you one of his signature bear hugs.

“Okay, it’s my turn.” Adam squeezed his way to stand in front of you. Which caused everyone to laugh at his eagerness.

“I could never forget about you, Ruz.” You wrapped your arms around his shoulders as he lifted your toes off the ground.

“Are we done yet? You guys are treating my sister like an attraction.” Jay sassed.

“You’re just mad that you only got to kiss me on the head and not a hug.” You retorted from leaning back into Brayden with a smirk.

“No, not true.” Jay shook his head with furrowed brows.

“Yup, totally jealous.” You nodded convinced.

“How did we go from a serious topic to Halstead and mini Halstead having a sarcasm battle?” Adam questioned with a confused expression.

“I learned to stop questioning it.” Brayden shrugged from behind you.

“It’s how we cope. Halstead thing, I guess.” You said with raised brows.

“Fair enough.” Jay sighed.

#chicago pd fanfiction #fanfiction #imagine #request #one shot #one chicago #one chicago fanfiction #one chicago imagine #chicago pd imagine #chicago pd #jay halstead x y/n #jay halstead x you #jay halstead x sister!reader #jay halstead x reader #jay halstead fanfiction #jay halstead imagine #jay halstead

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xxisxxisxxis · 3 years

Text

Gateway Drug | Part Eighty-Seven

Words: 4.5k

Warning(s): explicit language, sexual situations, drug abuse, violence

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NIKKI

"Nikki, what the hell are you doing?" Vivian asks me as we walk down the stairs of the law firm.

"I've broken every fuckin' vow except 'till death do us part' and I'll be fucked to hell if we stuck it out and stayed with each other after the worst bullshit just to fucking divorce." I state and she stays quiet for a moment before I'm stumbling back when she halts and snatches away from me, glaring up at me.

"What if I want a divorce?" She asks.

"I'd tell you you're full of shit." I snap and she raises a brow and crosses her arms.

"Then what the hell was the point of hounding me for a divorce just to do this?!" She barks at me.

"To prove a point I guess, I don't fucking know." I admit.

"To prove a point?! What point were you trying to prove?! That even when we're not together you still have the control in the relationship?!" She yells.

"I don't have any fucking control in this relationship, are you fucking me?! I haven't had any control since day fucking one, Vivian!"

"Are you fucking serious?!" She screams at me, frustration all over her face. "You have always had control, Nikki, trust me, I know, I'm the one that had to lay down and take your bullshit and give up what I wanted to do just so you'd feel in control!"

"I told you to go to fucking New York to go to school, did I not? What the hell did you do? You stayed! You can't get pissed at me for not giving you what you supposedly think I promised you!"

"No, Nikki, I'm not pissed at you for not giving me what you promised--I'm pissed because you've given me years of fucked up shit that was never supposed to even be a part of the plan!" She has tears in her eyes, her voice shaking…

She's right. I'm not going to tell her she's wrong…

I sigh and rub the back of my neck, exhaling, as she wipes her eyes.

"...Look, me and the guys are going to a different rehab, and I'll actually stick with it, and I want to work this out." I tell her, honestly. "I just don't know how to come back from the shit we've done to each other, Viv, but if we can figure out how, then I wanna do it."

She doesn't say anything, looking at me with her pretty green eyes, nodding slightly.

I didn't realize that once we agreed to work on our marriage, that all hell would break loose in the midst of repairing the damage.

Me and the guys, except Mick, were sent to another rehab because the first one was too obnoxious, and by the second one, we were actually getting somewhere with each other as a band and individually, including the people closest to us in our lives. For me, that was Vivian.

My leg can't stop shaking as I repeatedly tap my foot, waiting for my counselor to get in and meet Vivian for the first time.

I exhale and glance at her, her red hair curled, reaching just over her boobs, long legs taken up by black stockings that have lace trim mid-thigh, just peeking out from under her black dress, black heels tapping quietly on the floor, her dark red nails standing out against the cover of the shitty crossword she's flipping through. Her perfume has the whole little area she's in smelling good and her red lips rub together for a moment as she doesn't even notice me staring at her.

It's a Saturday and I'm assuming she's going out with Sharise or something when she leaves here, or she dressed like this to torture me, knowing I haven't had sex in nearly two months, starting in Japan back in December, and my right hand is my best friend currently.

My fucking balls hurt as she shifts her legs, uncrossing them to cross them the opposite, now.

If it were up to me they'd be wide open and either around my hips or my head.

I keep my hand pressed to my lips, resting my elbow on the arm of the chair, focused on her.

I slide down in my chair a little to try to see what kind of panties she's wearing--if she's wearing any at all.

It wouldn't surprise me if she's not wearing any at all. Just to fuck with my head like she loves to do.

"Take a picture and it'll last longer." She tells me flatly, not taking her eyes off the book.

"I would if I had a camera." I don't even deny staring at her and she flicks her gaze to me. "Or a video camera. That'd be better." I add.

"Ha. Ha." She sarcastically lets out and I smirk, watching her get up to grab her purse from the empty chair adjacent to me, leaning down to dig through it.

It takes everything in my power not to get behind her, bend her over it, slide her panties to the side and start poun--

"We're here to start the process of fixing things between us and you're here only focused on sex." She states and I snap out of it.

"No, I'm not." I argue, furrowing my brows.

"Nikki, I know when you're picturing having sex with me."

"I'm always picturing having sex with you." I state. "And you know exactly what you're doing."

The faintest, smallest little grin comes to her lips as she goes to sit down again.

"I don't know what you're talking about." She mumbles and I look at her.

"You're cruel." I mumble and she rolls her eyes.

"Oh, whatever." She replies.

"You look hot."

"Shut up."

"We can be done in ten seconds." I say next and she goes red.

"Stop, Nikki!" She scolds me.

"C'mon, Viv, we've never fucked on a desk before." I point out.

"We've broken into Doc's office just to mess around on his desk, Nikki." She reminds me.

"Well, we've never fucked on a therapist's desk, so c'mon, it'll be quick."

"I--" she starts laughing, not believing me, "--am not having sex in a rehab facility. I'm not that horny."

"So you admit you are horny to some degree, though." I say and she rolls her eyes.

"Shut up."

"Just flash me or something."

"Nikki."

"Please?"

"You're so weird." She ignores my request while I'm pinching the bridge of my nose.

"I'm in pain, Vivian." I say next, groaning, exaggerating.

"Sounds like a personal problem."

"Fuck." I lean my head back, rubbing my face.

The door opens and my counselor comes in, smiling at us.

"Sorry, I'm late." She says, stepping to Vivian, extending her hand. "I have heard lots about you, I'm Amber."

"Vivian. It's nice to meet you." Vivian replies, smiling her shiny smile that should win her an Oscar because she wears it so well even when she's fucking miserable--I obviously know from experience.

Amber sits behind her desk as Vivian sits back down in the chair, and she looks up from her paperwork at us, raising her brows.

"If we're going to start this grueling process, I highly suggest you two get comfortable being within three feet of each other, again." She adds.

Me and Vivian exchange looks, before she sighs and stands up, walking to the little couch I'm sitting on, plopping down beside me.

I smirk to myself, looking at her from the side of my eye.

"Okay, let's just get to it, Vivian, I've gotten a brief history of your husband, and I feel as though I can sort of, kind of, pin point a thing or two that has lead to the point that you two are at currently, but I'd really like to learn a little bit about you because all that's portrayed publicly to all of us is he's this nitty gritty, abrasive rock God, and you're the angel that tamed him to settle down." She explains and Vivian scoffs, raising her brows. "I know it sounds ridiculous but that's what's given in magazines and pictures taken of you two."

"Yeah." Vivian nods.

"And I don't think that's true, I don't think everything is happy and sunshine and, 'oh, we're opposites but that's what we love about each other,' and blah, blah, or else neither of you would be here admitting your marriage is in shambles...so, becoming familiar with Nikki--sober--the way that I have the past week gives me a sense of who he really is without the drugs and the cameras and the fans and the girls, because in here he's only got himself. He doesn't have to upkeep the persona he puts on to make it seem like everything's perfect. And, although you aren't a patient here, I really want you to allow yourself to just be and differentiate between who you are to the public, and who you are privately, because--from what I've heard--they're two completely different people." She says next and Vivian nods. "So, who is Vivian Kinston and how did she get together with Nikki Sixx?" She offers a warm smile and Vivian exhales, already looking overwhelmed…"In three descriptions, who were you when you met Nikki?"

"A very religious, ballet dancing, perfectionist." Vivian says and Amber nods.

"Let's dissect that and break it down for a moment." She says next. "Okay, religious--was that on your own or passed through your family or…?"

"Both of my parents, but mainly my mom." She replies and Amber nods.

"Okay, and what is mom like?"

"Very strict Christian, we couldn't have anything secular in the house...I'm not sure what she's like now but when I last saw her she had the pastor I grew up with trying to exorcise a demon from me because she found out I was engaged to Nikki." She tells her and Amber's brows shoot up.

"When was that?"

"'82, '83, around that time." Vivian explains.

"So you haven't seen mom in close to six years."

"Yeah."

"Okay...you were a ballet dancer when you met," she starts the next point.

"Yes."

"For how long?"

"Since I can remember." Vivian informs her.

"So, a strict Christian upbringing, and a very, very, intricate form of dance that requires a lot of discipline, since you were probably a toddler."

"Yeah."

"And is that where the perfectionism comes in, through your background with dance?"

"No."

"No, okay."

"My mom and my upbringing." Vivian explains. "Anytime I did something my mom didn't like or approve of or thought other people would lose their minds over if they knew I was doing it, she'd get onto me and would constantly drill into my head, 'this is not what we do, Vivian'."

"Wow." Amber nods, her brows slightly furrowed. "So, it doesn't come from a place of that physical drive to be perfect at most things you do, it comes from a mental and emotional drive of not wanting people to know what skeletons are in the closet that would make them think less of you."

Vivian nods, taking a deep breath.

"Okay, and do you think that sense of perfectionism from your mother has helped you or harmed you in the long run?"

"Harmed." She's saying it nearly before Amber can get her words out of her mouth.

"And why is that?"

"Because I grew up with her holding me to a nearly unreachable standard, and hounding unrealistic expectations onto me."

"And in turn…"

"...It's made me do the same to him." Vivian says and I stare at the floor.

"What unrealistic expectations, or unreachable standard have you held him to?"

"Not doing the things that he's done." She says next.

"What things?"

"Infidelity and drug and alcohol addiction."

"Why is expecting your husband not to cheat on you or put drugs and alcohol before you an unrealistic expectation that is unattainable for him?" Amber asks next and I rub my lips together.

"Because of who he is and what he does." Vivian says next and Amber raises her brows.

"So you think because he's Nikki Sixx--big time rockstar--that it's not realistic to expect him to do what he is supposed to do as your husband which is stay faithful and not put substances before you?"

"Yes."

"Oh, I see." Amber looks at me and I sigh. "Was your relationship ever open or polygamous, during or prior to marriage?"

"No." She shakes her head.

"Was he addicted to anything when you got married?"

"He did drugs and drank but at that point in time he didn't have a heavy reliance on it, no."

"An unrealistic expectation would be you telling him he can sleep with other women but then you getting angry every time he did. That's setting an unrealistic expectation of, 'I'm giving you permission to indulge in sex with other women but I expect you not to,' or him being addicted to heroin when you got married and you expecting him to drop any addiction he has solely based on the fact that you two got married. That's an unrealistic expectation. Him being a famous rock musician has nothing to do with his ability, or lack thereof, to be monogamous and sober." She explains to Vivian. "So you wanting your husband to not have an affair and not get strung out was not an unrealistic expectation that you had in a moment of naivety." She assures her.

"Okay." Vivian sounds like she's been waiting to hear that for a while…

"And I believe the issues you two are facing the most from both Nikki, and yourself, have grown from the root of how you two think. I know we hear the saying, 'opposites attract,' but we don't think about how sometimes when people are too opposite it acts like hot and cold air when it mixes and if it's in a big enough whirl, or big enough of a spectrum, it creates a tornado or a hurricane." She says next. "Religion equals a sense of morality, your history with ballet equipped you with a fair amount of discipline, and that perfectionism that you spoke on is your way of caring so much about what others think of you, you sacrifice yourself and just smile to keep things looking amazing on the outside."

Vivian nods.

"I asked him to describe you in three words, and he said, 'beautiful, depressed, belligerent'." She tells her and I slowly see tears coming to Vivian's eyes. "Nikki admitted to me that when he met you, he had no sense of morality, he was doing whatever he wanted, when he wanted, he had no discipline in terms of controlling himself around drugs and women, and he couldn't give less of a care about what people thought of him." She explains. "And that might even been fun and exciting when you were just starting out but once you're married and he's gotten all these eyes on him suddenly, there are expectations put on the both of you to be this couple who has everything, and you're both attractive, and he's the bad boy and you're the good girl and you just fell in love is the only explanation you have for making the relationship work to the point of wanting to get married and you have a great house and matching cars and all this and all that and you're in the press smiling and laughing and holding hands and hugging up on each other and oh, it's a wonderful life, but as soon as you get alone…" she trails off, looking at the both of us knowingly. "He's high, you're suffering, and both of you are living a hell. But nobody can know that because you're Nikki and Vivian Sixx. You two are perfect because he doesn't cheat on you like other rockstars do to their wives and girlfriends. He doesn't put drugs and alcohol before you like so many others do to their girlfriends and their wives. He doesn't turn into this monster you don't recognize and lash out like a dog at you after a night of sitting in his closet and shooting up, because he 'loves' you, and you don't have to keep quiet for years while it just keeps adding up and adding up until finally you beat on your husband and those around you over minuet instances because the big things you were probably justified to get that angry over were swept under the rug and were never dealt with for years--because that's not what you do." She ties it right back to Vivian's mother.

A tear rolls down Vivian's cheek, neither of us expecting it to be this heavy just during her introduction to Viv.

"If we don't stop that mentality, it's going to poison every relationship around you that it hasn't already and when you have children it's going to be a curse on them just like it's a curse on you." She tells her, as Viv sniffles, trying to keep up with wiping her tears away. "I've already been on him about his upbringing burdening him, so please don't think this is a personal attack on you."

Viv nods, mouthing, "okay."

"You two want to make this relationship better and be better for one another, we are going to have to tear down six years worth of walls and blockades and gut this entire thing completely and start again. It's not going to be easy, you're probably going to learn things about each other you've been hiding and maybe even amicably decide to divorce before it's all over with, but you are both going to heal and start the process of forgiveness. With yourselves, with your parents, with your friends, and with each other."

She gives the both of us some homework...

"I want you two to prepare to tell each other everything you've not told one another for next time we meet." Amber tells us and the color drains from Viv's face, I know for a fucking fact that I don't look much different from her.

"What?" Vivian asks her.

"If we're healing this relationship we need everything in the dark in the light so we aren't building on an old foundation of secrets." She states. Vivian just nods hesitantly before we're dismissed.

"Vivian." I stop her out in the hall before she can leave, grabbing gently at her wrist.

"Yeah?" She asks me.

"I love you." I tell her and she looks at me, smiling a little.

"I'll see you Wednesday." She replies, squeezing my hand before she walks away.

What the hell? I tell her and I love her and she just fucking says, "I'll see you Wednesday'?"

I watch as she goes down the hall, heels clicking, hair down her back…

Goddamn.

This is definitely my payback for taking my time with her for granted, because now that I'm in my right mind and not ruining our marriage, she barely even looks at me.

At least she was actually wanting to work things out, because after the Vanity bullshit, I thought we'd never make it out after the first time I saw her since it had happened.

July 1987

I brace myself against the bathroom wall as my whole body goes numb for a moment, my eyes rolling momentarily.

"Sixx, c'mon, we gotta get goin', Viv's here!" Fred yells from behind the door, his fist beating at it.

Fuck him. Fuck this tour. Fuck this band. Fuck everything right now.

Viv's just got here from the airport, she flew back in earlier this morning and I've been hiding, completely avoiding her, but I can't anymore.

The media's in a frenzy since Vanity aired all of our dirty laundry, only making Viv and I both on edge even more.

We've been denying the shit out of Vanity's engagement claims, but I don't think people are buying it as much as we'd like to think they are.

I take in a breath and stumble to the mirror, looking at myself.

Not too bad for a low down, dirty, bastard.

Opening the bathroom door to see where Fred's waiting for me, I glance past his shoulder to see Vivian.

She looks like she feels like hell, but has managed to pull herself together.

Makes two of us--well, kind of, at least.

"C'mon, the guys are already at the venue."

Fred tells me.

"Great." I smirk, patting his shoulder, stepping to Vivian.

I don't think either of us are taking into consideration the amount of utter bullshitting we're about to have to do.

I also don't expect the amount of paparazzi waiting for us right outside the hotel's doors.

As soon as the door opens, screaming, flashes, invasive questions come hurtling our way. It feels closterphobic enough to make Vivian grab my hand, tight, curling closer into me as if trying to hide away from prying cameras and questions about my alleged affair.

I feel her being tugged at once, and just as she says, "Nikki," I'm snatching my hand from hers to beat repeatedly, as hard as I can, at the forearm of the perpetrator, a media creep trying to get her attention.

"Don't fucking touch her!" I bark out over the noise and he stumbles back, holding at his arm as I put my arm around her waist, tightly, getting to the car.

When we get inside, Vivian's obviously distraught over what just happened, shoving herself away from me.

I turn my anger to Fred.

"What the fuck is the point of having fucking security if you're not going to keep people from touching her?" I sneer.

"Because I'm a bodyguard, but you're a fucking Rottweiler." He states back without hesitation and I just roll my jaw, glancing at Vivian and she doesn't even look at me.

I sigh and dig in my pocket for the little baggie I got earlier, grabbing my hotel room key to take a bump to help me wake up for this show, and when we get to the venue, I'm getting out of the car and waiting for Fred to get out.

He does, and I stop Vivian, nudging her back inside before saying, "we'll be there in a second."

Fred just looks at me and exhales, rolling his eyes before stepping inside.

Vivian sighs out as I look at her, avoiding looking at me…

"Vivian, are we gonna talk about it or…?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

"I think we should."

"You proposed to her, Nikki."

"Allegedly." I add.

"You. Proposed. To. Her." She says it sharply and I lean back. "You had an affair with her. I trusted you. I trusted the both of you. And you lied to me." She hisses. "So, no, there is nothing to talk about...just let me out of the damn car." She slides over and opens the door but I reach over her and slam it shut.

She takes heavy breaths from where she's sitting, my body hovering over hers, the tips of our noses brushing together…

I lean down, my lips pressing to her's for just a second before she lets go of the fact I completely screwed her over.

I'm about to pull away when she pushes her tongue past my lips, her nails running over my back through my shirt as her legs wrap around my hips, one of her hands in my knotted hair.

As always, I end up eating her like a starved pervert, relishing in the sounds of her moans and gasps.

The truth is, she may hate me, but I'm good at getting her off and she knows it.

Once she comes and we start getting ourselves together to go inside, I look over at her.

"So, are we good?" I ask her, oh, so fucking stupidly, and she blinks at me.

"What?"

"Are we good?"

She catches on to what I mean, and rubs her lips together.

"Nikki, you could fuck me into oblivion, which you can't because I'm never letting you fucking touch me again, and we still wouldn't be good. Not even close to 'good'. You can't have an affair with my friend and then expect everything to be good just because we fooled around while you were stoned out of your mind." She snaps and I roll my jaw as she gets out and slams the door, stomping to the back entrance of the venue.

For the first time I feel the sting of rejection.

Is this how groupies feel?

I never thought once about getting head, leaving them in the limo and going on about my business.

Anger boils in me, Sikki chomping at the bit.

That selfish bitch!

I get out and go after her.

I don't know what the fuck I'm gonna say to her, but I'm mad.

"How dare you use me to get your rocks off and then toss me aside?", no, because I've done that to her a couple times...but that's because she's into it.

I swear she comes harder when I randomly come up behind her and just start going at it because she knows I'm just using her to get off and then leave her wherever I stopped her, and go out right after and wouldn't think twice about it.

But me? I'm so used to her looking at me like I'm God while I have my full attention on making her feel good, and she has the audacity to get off on my face and then kick me to the curb and tell me I'm never touching her again?!

I decided it wasn't worth the fist fight it would inevitably turn into by the time I got inside, but and looking back, she had every reason to get me horny and then swear off ever letting me get near her again. It was petty, but smart. And despite having sex one last time not long after that instance, the point was still made clear. For the first time in our relationship, the acceptance of sexual advances didn't take the place of forgiveness.

#nikki sixx #nikki sixx fanfiction #nikki sixx x oc #gateway drug

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living-after-death-blog1 · 5 years

Text

The Day My Daughter Died.. (An introduction to the end and the beginning)

I received a phone call from my daughter's best friend, Alli, at about 2:30pm on that day. She told me that she had just left work and was on her way to my daughter's house, after receiving a frantic phone call from my daughter's roommate, Kenneth, who said that he had come home and found her unconscious, with a needle in her hand. He had called an ambulance, he had attempted CPR, and was now waiting outside of the house while the emergency personnel did their thing inside.

I think it was already pretty well established that my daughter was gone, and I think that this was probably communicated to me, but my brain literally wouldn't grasp it. I wasn't devastated; I was terrified. I spent the entire conversation (which was probably at least 20 minutes long) thinking that we didn't know anything yet, feeling like I was frozen, like everything around me was happening in slow motion, and that I was just holding my breath until the moment when Alli could finally get to the house and someone could tell us what was going on. I thought we were waiting to hear that she'd been trànsported or something. It honestly hadn't occurred to me until just now that simply knowing that Kenneth had attempted CPR should have been enough information to answer to the only question that was looping through my mind, over and over, until Alli arrived. "Is she breathing?"

I was 4 hours away, in another city.

Once Alli arrived, there were people everywhere; policemen, emergency responders, tons of neighborhood spectators, and Kenneth, the roommate. I was still on the phone, waiting, while he and Alli had a brief conversation, which I couldn't really hear and I finally interrupted to ask what I thought we'd been waiting to find out this whole time.. "But.. is she still breathing?"

At that point, I heard Alli take a deep breath and, very slowly, and with such pain, she said the words that made it real.

"No, Stephanie. She's gone."

I remember taking a deep breath and saying, "Okay."

It almost felt like, "Well.. Here we are. This is actually happening. You know, that thing that happens to other people, but not your child, not you? It's happening. Right now."

Another deep breath, and once again, " Okay.. "

I remember thinking that I needed to hold it together somehow, because I was going to have to handle and figure out a lot of things, and I really, really needed to be able to think. I just had to think. Figure this all out somehow, as if it were a problem that could be solved.

I did what I've always done when I need to call upon an extreme coping skill. I stopped feeling, and I started thinking. Intellectualizing, my therapist, Becca, the one from my daughter's first treatment center, used to call it.

I called upon that skill in that moment. Think. Think about what other people are going through, feeling, experiencing. Think about how everyone else feels, so you don't have to look at what this really is. Don't even get close to it.

That is the moment that I apologized to Alli for having to be the one to make such a horrible phone call, telling someone's mother that they are dead, and thanked her for being that person, at the same time. I thanked her for being a good friend. I told her I loved her. Said I'd be available for the police or whoever needs to speak to next of kin, and told her to give them my number.

I called my boyfriend first, in a panic; I had to get home, I had to get to Houston, and I had to get there NOW. I couldn't drive, and all I could think was how I needed to get there, I had to get there, and I needed to get there NOW. No answer.

I called my ex-husband (not the father of my daughter, but of two sons, ages 15 and 18, at the time) and, not realizing that the boys were in the car with him or that he had answered on speaker, I started screaming that my daughter was dead, she was dead, and I didn't know what to do. Of course, after finding out that the boys had overhead, I called both of them to apologize that they had had to hear me like that, to hear the news that way.

I don't remember very much of the next few weeks. The things I do remember are choppy, like random scenes from a movie, but I remember those things vividly.

I realized that I had to tell people. Who? Who is the first person you call to announce your daughter's death?

I called my mom first, I think, and I listened to her sob and repeat, "Noooo..." over and over.

I called my daughter's other grandmother, on her father's side, and I listened as she cried and kept saying, "Oh my god.."

I called my daughter's ex-boyfriend, Javi, the father of my granddaughter, who was 8 at the time, and he couldn't believe it, couldn't accept it, either; jumped in his car to go over there. I guess he needed to see it with his own eyes.

I spoke to another of my daughter's best friends, Jessica (she happened to text me, so I thought she already knew, and when I realized that she didn't, I told her to call me. She asked me, "How bad is it?" I said, "Bad."), and then she, too, immediately drove over to the house to meet up with Alli, Kenneth, and Javi.

I couldn't listen to any more breaking hearts at the moment, so as fucked up as it seems now, I just started texting people.

I texted my friend, Sarah, who, along with her entire family, have been like family to us. I don't even know how I said it. I think I said, "I'm so sorry to tell you like this, but they found her this morning, unconscious, with a needle, and she didn't make it. " Sarah immediately called me, and started screaming, " What? What? " as if she couldn't hear me. Her mind, too, couldn't seem to allow this to be real.

I spoke to my friends, Theresa and Joie, sisters, and they immediately offered all kinds of practical help that hadn't even occurred to me, such as setting up a GoFundMe account to pay for funeral expenses. I had been laid off from my job of over ten years several months prior, and so all of the life insurance policies and everything I'd been so used to just having were no longer available, and I had nothing.

Joie also posted on Facebook on my behalf. It was the only way I could think of to let everyone know, especially my daughter's friends, and it was because of all of these people, and so many more, that I have managed to get through this last year.

I don't know what I did to deserve such wonderful people in my life, but I am surrounded by them. The GoFundMe account reached over $5000 within a couple of days.

My daughter's best friend from middle school is a hair and makeup artist, and she flew in from Colorado to make sure that she was the one who did the makeup for the viewing. That was always their thing, and even though my daughter's addiction had driven them apart over the years, Vikki had to do this one last thing for her friend, and I was happy to have her do it.

Sarah's ex-boyfriend, who knew my daughter as a child, took care of all of the flowers and arrangements.

Sarah's mom has a friend who was able to make a dress for my daughter to wear during the viewing; an Alice in Wonderland dress, because that was always her thing.

Sarah and her mom had already found the cheapest most decent funeral home that they knew of (her mom had used the place for her own mother's service), so I literally spent the next few days just having to answer yes and no questions.

It turned out that since my daughter never divorced the father of her second child (my grandson, Isaac, who was almost 7 at the time), even though they'd been separated and out of contact for a few years (she was engaged to someone else for at least a year), he was her next of kin, not me, and this brought forth a whole host of issues. He doesn't raise their son, his mother does, because he is either 1) insane, 2) brain damaged from drug use, 3) currently using drugs, or 4) a combination of all of the above. These things made the entire process very difficult for me.

They tried to dictate who could be invited to the funeral, which I wasn't on board with. They threatened me by saying that they would have her body transferred to the funeral home of their choosing and they would let me know when and where to show up. They said I could not have any locks of her hair. They said they would not split up her ashes. They even dictated to me that she be cremated, because they somehow knew (having only known her for a few years, and not knowing her at all, really, for the few years prior to her death) that she wanted to be cremated and that she wanted her ashes spread over the ocean.

I won't ever be able to understand why someone would treat the mother of a dead child the way that they treated me, but I've just added them to the list of people I'll have to figure out how to forgive somehow, eventually.

Everyone showed up for us, and I was so grateful for the presence of every single one of them. People I hadn't seen or spoken to in years, such as my ex-husband's ex-boss's ex-wife, lol.

I placed a son for adoption when I was 19, and though I had met him in person once, he and my other kids had not met. He and my daughter had been talking a lot on social media, and he had planned to come visit and meet everyone in May, after he graduated college, but ended up coming in April for her funeral, instead. He never even got to hear her voice.

There is so much I want to use this blog for. I want to document my own journey through this grief. I want to talk about addiction and help destigmatize the way people view addicts. I want to offer resources and maybe even hope. And I want to remember my daughter.

Her name was Jade. She was 26 years old when she died. She was one of the funniest, coolest, most creative, beautiful people you could have ever known. Yes, the addiction was a part of her journey, her struggle, but she was more than that. And I intend to honor ALL of who she was, by speaking the truth.

The truth is that she died from the toxic effects of an accidental overdose of heroin and methamphetamine. But that's just one part of her story, and mine, and I need to tell them both, even if no one ever reads a single word I type. I need to tell these stories.

Since I started with her death, here is a photo recap of what there is to know so far:

#grief #overdose #addiction #loss #bereavement #grieving

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created-just-to-share-a-plight · 4 years

Text

I need money and have no one to turn to. If you have time, please just visit the page and read what I wrote and maybe share, if you don't donate? I'd really appreciate it, but you don't have to, of course...

I'm currently sitting in my one-room-apartment, waiting for the rain to end, so that I can grab my bike and go visit my father, who's in the hospital for his cancer recovery. In a way, it seems like a fitting metaphor for the rest of my life right now: Waiting for the bad to stop, so that I can go out and support people again...

And there were other things I could've done, like I could've in this case. I could've stopped waiting and taken an umbrella and walked. The hospital is only 6-7 miles from here, that's an okay distance to walk. But riding a bike would be way faster, is what I thought and now it's late enough that I have to ride the bike, because walking would take too long. The same goes for my life. I could've tried harder, or did things earlier and yet, I didn't. I've had depressions since I was 10 and now I'm 22 and finally have a meeting with a psychiatrist coming up. Why did I wait that long? I don't know. First, my parents would have thrown me out of the house, if they had known I have depression and once I had moved out, it never seemed like the right time, I was always busy with something else. My desperate bids at getting a good education, for one and everyone else's problems, for the rest of my time. I finally called people and now I have a meeting coming up. And yet, I'm just waiting for the bad to pass, so that I can actually maybe go there.

So I'm stuck. But I did this to myself, didn't I? It's a thought I can't get rid of and it makes it extremely difficult to ask for help. Especially since there's no one around me to ask for help. My family? Well, my father's in the hospital, like I said and the rest of my family just paid for my mother's funeral, so they have barely enough to get by as well. (It was cancer in my mother's case too. I think my father might be the first person I know, who'll manage to outlive his cancer. Don't know anyone else that made it, but the doctors say he's got great chances. I can't shake the feeling they always say that, but I like to just let myself believe. It feels good, to have at least a little bit of hope for something in all this mess, y'know?)

And my friends? They don't care. To them, I'm a glorified freelance therapist or maybe a therapy pet. Maybe both. They pull me out to cuddle and reassure them. To explain their brains' psychology and make their emotions make sense. And that's about it. And now I'm stuck either not talking to anyone in real life, or accepting their invitations to come and play therapist, because I realized this stuff too late.

I'm late on a lot of things, huh?

Well, okay, it's just stopped raining and I have to go, if I want to be on time to visit my father, so let me get to the point: I have trouble asking for help, so trust me, that I'm not doing this lightly. I feel embarrassed and defeated, but I just hope people will take pity on me. I need to get 2000€ within this month and I have no clue how to do that, because I lost my last job and there's barely any time to get a new one. So here I am, asking for help.

I can do stuff in return (it's all listed out on the GoFundMe page). I can provide examples of those things, if people want me to. I'm willing to work for this, because it's not that I want the money freely given, I just don't know how to go about getting it at all, anymore, at this point.

So this is me, saying just this once, that I really, really need help and I'm lost and I don't know what to do anymore. Please, just... help me, if you can? And I promise I'll catch up and won't be late on things ever again.

I'll try my hardest, I'll do my best, I'll work myself to the bone forevermore, just please don't let me fail at this part of my life too right now.

#signal boost #please #help me #i don't know how to do this by myself anymore...

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nakalimutang-sumpaan · 4 years

Text

To think, if I just had continued a decade ago, I'd probably be an architect by now or even a few years ago...

BUT I guess there are perks to this shelter in place.

My social anxiety is extremely grateful haha. This online thing is GREAT. Having connections is the best bc the professor pays extra attention to me, though I'm trying my best to make it a point where he does so not bc of a mutual friend/connection, but bc I pay attention and actually participate. But tbh, I wouldn't have been able to participate if it wasn't for THE FREE CLASS FOR LDC THAT WAS OFFERED BY THE SOCIETY. I'M CONFIDENT AND KNOW WHAT I'M DOING AND TALKING ABOUT BECAUSE OF THAT CLASS. I feel like.. although I constantly feel like I'm 8-10 years late when it comes to experience and growth and am just currently achieving and reaching goals that I wished/planned to/should have accomplished as a teenager, the timing of everything is actually perfect. I say that bc without everything that I have gone through this past decade, I don't think I would have the mental and emotional capacity to handle certain things and experiences. Obviously my anxiety and depression have worsened a bit bc of shelter in place, but that's okay. Incredible things have come out of it. And the classes I'm taking in college now (FOR FREE MIGHT I ADD BC OF MY GRANT) are classes I'm really into and I know will pass and finish, just like Culinary Arts. I can only start, stick to, and finish something if I absolutely LOVE it... which I think is why I have never been able to finish/stick to anything bc I've always done things for others since they want me to do it. This time, it's for me and Jehovah. Though I know it makes dad+ happy too.

Another nice thing is Professor took notice of me and called me kind and helpful today for helping out the new student. I could tell they were both a bit frustrated and weren't understanding each other so I ended up stepping in haha and that solved the problem bc I understood what the student was getting at. Plus, I was lowkey able to magpatotoo during my introduction when I mentioned that I'm taking this class to be able to further enhance my knowledge in order to be able to help out moreso when I volunteer to build places of worship during my free time.

The best part: All for Jehovah and for the organization. At least, initially is was. Mainly it still is, of course. Though I think I actually do want to work as a CAD drafter or designer bc THIS IS FUN. ANYTHING DESIGN IS FUN AND ANYONE WHO KNOWS ME KNOWS THIS.

I was called a Jack of all Trades a few weeks ago.. which is true. I know this. It sucks that I'm indecisive and love/am decent at baking, calligraphy, AutoCAD, and a little bit of graphic designing. I literally don't know what to choose. I mean, I’m a master of none but still. I also love all things nutrition or psychology, so much so that I would love to be a nutritionist or therapist/psychologist or some sort of mental health clinician. The thing is, I do love baking, and that's what I majored in, but there is no money in that unless I commute daily to the city since that's where you can make a lot in the food industry, which I'm not down for unless a company covers commute benefits lol plus to be a chef means working 10-12+ hour shifts and especially on weekends so that’s a definite no, OR if I open up my own business, which I would be down for and was the original plan...until I started pioneering. Honestly pioneering threw me off, but in the best way haha.

Although, honestly, being almost 30 and still not knowing what to do is frustrating and anxiety-inducing, I feel like Jehovah is guiding me to do what's best for me. I hope and constantly pray that He is, bc all I want to do is be used by Him and make up for the 8 years that I did not put Him first.

I hope that despite my mental health issues that I can still be used by Him... and finally find a job that does not feel like a job that supports my pioneering, LDC work, and pays well. I also know that it will help me with my confidence and actually be okay with being okay with dating too LOL bc I want to be great individually and be a wonderful addition to someone's life and not be a burden, at least not financially or spiritually.

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hencethebravery · 7 years

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If you're interested I'd love some fic commentary for Alive.

Oh, yes, very much so. btw, sorry to take so long answering this. I was far and away this weekend. If you’d like to read “Alive,” without my obnoxious commentary you can do so here. xo

I’m (still) doing author commentary!

One day, I plan to love so loudly, my body abandons every demon harvesting me. — Arati Warrier, “Alive”

A/N: I didn’t mean for this to happen, but this fic turned into an exploration of trauma and anxiety. The Killian in this soon-to-be universe ended up being a war veteran with OCD and illogical, rampaging thoughts and I ended up choosing the poem after the fact.

It’s a tricky thing. Once you’ve known the taste of someone’s lips and found it to be a far more momentous occasion than you had initially anticipated. Beforehand, one might think you’ll only know it the one time, and the odds of it happening again are unlikely, so… you do it, aye? Curious. How do you not do it again? That’s the question, isn’t it? Especially if it was a little bit unexpected, let’s say—it had failed to show up on the calendar for the month of June, and now the rest of your life is totally fucked to hell.

It’s not possible that anyone else’s lips could throw such a wrench into his schedule. Not even much of one, to be fair. Working freelance as he did, odd hours and odd jobs, one unexpected, life-altering kiss does not a fucked up schedule make. If anything, there was an added flair to his rather mundane existence that hadn’t been there earlier. Spike the coffee, eat an egg, walk the dog, kiss your mate, do the shopping—and what was that last thing?

You: “What was the what thing?”

Your Brother: “Kiss your who?”

Doesn’t matter. Point is, when you’re talking to your brother about sharing an all too brief kiss with the bloke you once rode the bus with, you try and keep it casual. After all, Liam Jones has no reason to know that you’ve circled June the 5th in an expensive black ink that’s bled through the page—all the way through to August, in fact, when there’s supposed to be a boat trip scheduled for the whole lot of you, and you have to ask yourself, “How do you not do it again?”

A/N: I’m really excited, because I’m in the middle of writing a tiny prequel to this fic (quite by accident), and having the opportunity to provide commentary on this is super helpful. Anyway, a lot of the anxiety and OCD-esque thoughts seen here often show up in my own brain, which is why they show up here. Sometimes if my schedule gets disrupted, even a little bit, it’ll ruin the rest of the week or the month or the year or whatever, so I ended up relying on the whole “schedule” thing a few times. Making it vaguely humorous is the only way to deal, hence, Killian treating his own coping strategies as objectively silly is a common enough mechanism.

The answer to that question is that you bloody well don’t. You keep that tongue of yours firmly ensconced inside your own mouth unless you’re shouting down bar maids or showing up your know-it-all brother at trivia night. You manage to live your life for a whole two months without screwing anything up. Well done, you.

You manage to abide by the calendar you’ve kept since naval training—the calendar that, for all intents and purposes, saved your life once upon a time. Being the roughed up, dramatic younger brother had its perks, but in the end, rampant alcoholism, a suspicious rash, and a series of exceptionally burned bridges had taught him the benefits of following a careful schedule. It hasn’t managed to buff out all the sharp corners; rum tastes too sweet and his memory is a little too good, but no price is too high when you’re trying to avoid the odd skin allergy. Which is what it was.

Regardless, August arrives and it’s hotter than the East Coast has any right to be. He’s quite confident in his assertions that even Afghanistan wasn’t this hot, and considering the fact that Afghanistan was actually hell, he’s not sure what to make of the temper tantrum that the state of Maine seems to be currently throwing.

“Just last week you were complaining about how cold it was,” comes David’s muffled voice from below deck, “enjoy it.”

David Nolan is of an optimism so profound it’s certain not to be believed. The man has thought exceedingly well of almost everyone and everything in their lives since they were children, which, to Killian’s mind, can only end badly. He’s not written it down, but it has been inscribed within the gelatinous valleys of his brain somewhere, this unspoken responsibility—don’t let it ruin him. Having people like David Nolan in the world is a very important thing, and the only way to keep them around is to have people like Killian picking up the pessimistic slack.

A/N: Killian as a black sheep has become a common trope in a lot of my OUAT fic where he makes an appearance. I love his brash selfishness in contrast with the “Charming” family’s own tendency to be selfless. I love that he probably sees it as his responsibility to use his darker impulses to help those people who have managed to retain their own lighter impulses. God. I love him so much.

“It’s my boat, mate,” Killian shouts down the hatch, “I’ll complain where I like.”

On the side of his monthly calendars there’s a designated “Notes” section, set aside for various odds and ends. He’s been known to put some poetry there on occasion, either verses he’s written or found, a phone number or two, an exceptional cocktail, what have you. For the month of August there’s a sailboat at the top (nothing too fancy), followed by wave, after wave, after wave, and then, down at the bottom, there’s a capsized sailboat. Hence, pessimism.

The heat is physically uncomfortable, to be sure, but it’s also demanding. For example, it demands that two men working on a boat out in the hot sun remove some of their clothing in order to avoid fainting or otherwise feeling ill in such unreasonable weather. This, however, requires him to confront the somewhat uncomfortable question of how he avoids doing the thing he had done only the once—with no intention of repeating said thing. His calendar said so.

A/N: @phiralovesloki loves “His calendar said so,” and I love her because she loves it so much. It’s like an endless cycle of love.

David Nolan in a t-shirt is not unlike David Nolan wearing nothing at all. If anything, it might be worse. Without the shirt, it’s almost as if he’s existing in a moment of unreality, wherein there’s nothing especially remarkable about that chest over there other than the fact that it is one. He’s got one of those too—if anything, his is better, covered in a masculine dusting of hair as it is. David’s white t-shirt looks like it’s been run through the wash a couple hundred times. There are barely-there tears at the sleeves and around the collar. Today it is stained with sweat beneath his arms and lower back.

A/N: Josh and Colin are two of the most aesthetically pleasing humans I have been #blessed to witness. I know this seems kind of like a female Gaze moment, but whatever, we deserve it. Women get “Gazed” at everyday of our lives, so it’s only fair that I write a poetical fanfiction wherein I get to think about two handsome men on a boat in tight, ratty t-shirts. Leave me alone.

The heat is overwhelming, like the desert, only there’s a wetness in the air that makes it harder to breathe. For a moment, he misses the feeling of having a gun in his hand so he grabs a beer from the cooler and holds it against his neck, his pulse tapping against the glass like machine gun fire. Interrupt.

A/N: To use the word “interrupt” in the middle of obsessive thoughts is something my therapist taught me. The more you know.

“You see those clouds?”

David’s voice is soft at his side, his own mouth wrapped around the lip of a bottle and he has to say that no, he hadn’t even noticed. The poorly drawn “ship” sailing on the pages of his calendar starts to sink in the wake of poor weather and his heart aches—keeps beating quickly in his chest and he knows a panic attack when he feels one. Inconvenient things, they seem to be.

“Killian,” David says, apparently for the second time, and he puts a hand on his shoulder. Definitely not in the calendar.

Killian doesn’t much feel like answering. Killian wants to write about the sky in his notebook. Not any sky, mind you. This sky, because it’s somewhat of a nightmare to behold. Even with the boat tied to the dock and the sight of safe, dry land in the distance, the sky at this moment is a wild thing. Moments ago, the air smelled like salt and bubbling yeast. The sun was a large, imposing spotlight on the deck of his ship, making the wood warm, their skin sweat.

In June the air smells like earth. Certain parts of the farm are freshly turned at this time of year, and no matter where you go, it emanates over the property. Through the fields, over the lake, between the trees. Over hill, over dale, point made. June is new. They are, the both of them, new. When Killian kisses David, it’s because he can no longer bear it.

“The wanting.” Answering the question, what was it he could no longer bear? Because he was starving in his little house by the sea full of dry, winter air that had given him nosebleeds. It was probably all that dirt in the air—all those trees in bloom. All that pollen in his hair, the perpetually dirty state of his hands.

The answer is a little bit dramatic, but David seems to take it in stride, either because he’s known Killian for most of his life, or maybe because he understands, either way, he smiles. When David smiles it’s a thing you don’t need to see, and sure, you should, of course you should, but Killian is exceedingly grateful that in this moment, he doesn’t need to open his eyes.

A/N: When Josh Dallas smiles it is literally like looking into the sun. That’s what this is about.

It’s his gut that’s empty, not his gaze. He is, quite frankly, sick of opening his eyes. All he needs to do is feel it, and he knows that his friend “wants” too—just as frantically, as hungrily, as poetically. He plays the follow-up question in his head on a tortuous loop the next few days. He even writes it down so he can stare at the shape of the letters and hate himself even more than he already does.

“How is it you smell like that?”

Because it is something… indescribable. He can wax poetic on the state of the air in June all he likes, he has words on words on words to describe it, but all of a sudden, the smell of this man is the scent of which he cannot seem to describe. And he answers, “Like what?” and Killian can only answer with his mouth against his, because it’s not about the words suddenly—it’s about the breath. It’s about David’s forehead against his, their lips barely touching, and he answers with a kiss because he’s a fucking idiot.

August doesn’t smell new. It smells tired. Or maybe he’s just tired. Either way, the bright, overbearing sun is lost behind a sky of heavy, dark clouds and the man at his shoulder smells like beer and sweat. Like the moth-eaten blankets he had kept below deck all winter. The trees are gone but he can still feel the bark against the skin of his back.

“We’ve got to tie the lot of this down,” he answers suddenly. He had wanted to avoid the inevitability of turning around to face him, the tree at his back—with that concerned look on his face. Killian smiles, but it’s not like David’s in June. You’d have to see it, or you wouldn’t even know it was there. “She’ll be fine tied to the dock, but I don’t want to lose any of this gear.”

He’d savor the refreshing feeling of the breeze if there were any time for it, but they seem to have run out of it, and thankfully for him, David seems to have adopted a similar sense of urgency. Moving around deck as he is, his hands wrapped deftly around thick rope, one knot after another. The thunder continues on in the distance, unperturbed, and there’s a flash of lightening that leaves an echo across a purple sky.

There’s another crack followed by a second flash, and the sky opens. Despite the maddening anxiety he has contended with all day, there is something undeniably satisfying about knowing he was right about the “shirt on being worse” thing. David pauses in his run about the deck to enjoy the torrent of rain that’s been unleashed on the two of them, a loud yell of relief passing his lips, and Killian wonders what they taste like in August. At sea, in a storm—like salt? Like rain? Like the beer they’d been drinking earlier. Like dirt, like himself, lingering on his tongue for months.

When David dashes across the deck, clothes clinging to his form, every muscle carved beneath wet fabric as if he were a statue, Killian is busy trying to forget about the sinking ship in his calendar. He’s trying to remember what it was his therapist had said about “being in the moment,” and suddenly David’s lips don’t taste like June. They taste like August, in the rain. Wet and messy and just as hungry as before.

“Aren’t you sick of it,” David not quite shouts against his lips, the rain and wind lashing against the deck, “that ‘wanting?’” He’s smiling again, that wide, sunshine-smile that he has worn everyday of his life and Killian can see it out of the corner of his eye. In between the heavy, wet drops hanging from his lashes and the hair falling against his forehead—of course he can see it.

“Yes!” Killian shouts over yet another thunder clap, both of their faces turned towards a manic sky. “Bloody exhausted!”

A/N: For all my talk about Killian Jones being a black sheep he’s also a dramatic garbage human and someone needs to make fun of him sometimes. Re: David, calling out Killian’s Extra™ ass, mumbling about “wanting,” when it’s just a kiss and he needs to fucking relax.

The sound of the storm is softer below deck, as if it were a record playing in another room. The ship tugs on her moors but she’s steady, tied against the dock as she is. The only other sound is that of the air heaving in and out of their lungs, heavy with anticipation and adrenaline.

“You smell good too,” David admits between each, tired breath, “I’m sorry I made you wait.”

“Sometimes the waiting is the best part,” Killian answers gently, and there’s something in his tone, a note of understanding that he’s impressed to find he actually believes. “I’m good at waiting.”

As David moves closer he peels the wet t-shirt off his back and chuckles, shaking his head. “No, you’re really not.” The shirt falls with a decisive, wet splat against the ground, but Killian is too distracted by the return of David’s forehead, his hand against his neck. His fingernails are short and blunt against his skin, the scratch of an almost, but he feels his skin prickle all the same. Standing still in wet clothes, the warmth of the sun a fleeting memory, he knows he should feel cold but there’s this heat inside of him—flickering and alive.

A/N: Canon tells us that Killian Jones can wait, but does he do it well? idk about that. Dude turned Emma Swan into a ship for a year.

“If that’s the case,” he whispers, his own hands hovering at his sides, “what are you waiting for?”

The kiss is gentler this time, the shelter of the cabin urging slowness, carefulness. Here, they are beyond the reach of the whipping wind and stinging rain. The gaze of a seaside town, the towering pines. Their breath is softer, less like they’re running out of time, and there’s a drag between each pass of his lips. He feels as if he’s being savored and it’s not a thing that you deny yourself a second time.

“You should—” David’s voice is rough, like he hasn’t spoken in years and Killian’s pride does a little victory dance at the thought of its return, “You should change.”

Logically, Killian knows that David means “change clothes,” he knows this unequivocally. But he also has a tendency to err on the side of unnecessarily meaningful and he takes it to mean something else. Not in a negative way, he does not, by any means, feel that David wants him to be somebody else. This he also knows, unequivocally. What he also knows, what he has come to learn, is that his heart in its current state? It’s not sustainable. “You should change,” his heart speaks in David’s voice, “you need not want quite so much, when you can so easily have it.”

A/N: That was basically a long-winded way of saying that you should stop getting in your own way, which is usually my main problem.

He shivers at the sensation of cool air hitting his bare flesh, but there’s hardly a moment to feel uncomfortable. There’s David’s hand against the soft skin of his stomach, his fingers trailing through the fine hair beneath his belly button, and the warmth, it feels as if he’s slipping into a soaking tub. The rain continues it’s harsh pitter-pattering against the side of the boat as they move towards the small bed, clumsy step after clumsy step.

It smells like dust as they land, like the attic in the farmhouse, but the pile of blankets manages to catch them just fine. The cotton, washed one too many times, coming up to swallow their legs and shoulders, keeping them in a soft, dry place. He secures his own lips against David’s jaw, that sharp corner just beneath his ear and the moan that follows is more of a feeling than a sound—more of a sob than a gasp.

When he returns to his lips to catch yet another, quiet moan, it tastes even better than it had in June, then it had above deck moments earlier. Again, indescribable, and he feels a bit frustrated by the fact that words might fail him sometimes. After all, they do sit so well on his tongue, they feel manageable in a way that his thoughts don’t, that his heart doesn’t, and without them he worries that he’ll lose any sense of control he might have.

At some point the rain must stop, but it’s hard to notice, what with the hands and the lips and the feeling of his stomach as it moves against his own, in and out with every breath, sometimes quick and sometimes so slowly he’s worried that he’s holding it. At some point, in between the feeling of David’s lips against his rib cage and his hands at the button of his jeans, the sun very briefly returns before evening falls.

It’s his favorite time of day, those few moments before twilight. The rich, buttery light of the setting sun falls through the porthole over the bed, warming their entwined bodies atop the mussed blankets. The darkness behind Killian’s closed eyes turns a muted red color, and he can feel the warmth of the sun as it slowly sets against his skin, the fleeting light of day a gentle goodbye.

The water is calm against the boat, rocking them carefully back and forth, and his mind has never been quieter. The steady torture of a mind that refuses to settle, that must be shaken up and poured out over each and every month, everyday—that must be considered and thought over and applied and re-applied. Where no one means what they say, where he rarely means what he even says, but here, in this moment between sleeping and waking, it is blessedly silent.

He hears David mutter something against the back of his neck, and he knows, even without being able to see. He smiles.

A/N: I really hope that this fic was familiar to people who live with anxiety everyday, because it was certainly familiar to me as I was writing it. I know it’s also Captain Charming and CC is magical to be sure, but I still hope all the anxiety-related stuff was interesting for people.

#@hencethewriter #attn blogging #yayimallamaagain

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xxisxxisxxis · 4 years

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Gateway Drug | Part Forty-Five

Table of Content or Part Forty-Four

Read HERE on Wattpad

Words: 3.1K

Warning(s): Explicit language, sexual situations, mentions of drug abuse

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Five days detoxing at Doc's house+rehab+therapy=road to recovery=out of the woods. It's the magical equation I swore up and down wouldn't end in "Error."

The few dishes on the counter shatter into the floor once Nikki roughly sits me on it, his fingers digging into my thighs that wrap securely around him, our tongues twisting as we tug and pull at each other's clothes.

I get his pants undone as he pulls the towel from around my body, taking a handful of my soaking wet hair in his hand and tugging my head back to leave bites and bruises up and down my neck, causing me to hum in pleasure while my core pulses with anticipation to be filled by him.

Moving myself to the edge of the counter, spreading my legs as he runs his fist up and down his length a few times, I take heavy breaths, a wash of shame coming over me for a moment because this is the complete opposite of what we were instructed to do.

But fuck the "no contact" rule.

I've barely had any contact with him the past few months because he's been stoned or drunk. Telling me to practically ignore and avoid him for 30 days straight is like waving a loaded syringe in an addict's face before sitting it down in front of them and leaving them alone after telling them "okay I know it's right there and it's the one thing you struggle most to control yourself around, but don't even look at it."

Fuck that, and Nikki. And I refuse to walk around my own house anymore and not do the latter of those two.

The indescribable feeling of him pushing into me has my head tipping back , and my eyes closing as the both of us let out content sighs.

I put my weight on one of my hands that rests on the counter beside me, the other hand wrapped around the back of Nikki's neck, as he moves in and out of me ferociously and I meet him thrust for thrust.

Let's take a step back and catch up on how he and I had gotten to that point.

Eight Days Earlier

"You two can detox at my place, check into rehab, come out when you're better and we'll go from there." Doc explains to Nikki and Tansy as they both sit on our couch.

"W-What about the press? Or my mom?" Tansy asks him nervously, fumbling with the tag on the throw blanket she's enveloped in.

"You let me deal with your mom and the media, alright?" Doc assures her.

"Surely your mom won't be pissed at you for getting help, Tans." I try to tell her and she rubs her lips together.

"People will know I have a problem if I got to rehab." She points out. "It'll make me look bad."

"Having to cover your entire body with makeup to hide the discoloration of your skin and the track marks, looks bad, Tansy. Screw what people think. At least you're admitting you need help." I say and she doesn't reply, just looking at Nikki to gauge his reaction to all of this.

He looks pissed, but too tired and defeated to give a shit enough to argue with me anymore about it.

"What's the point of rehab if I'm just gonna end up kicking it at Doc's place?" Nikki asks me and I let out a breath.

"Because rehab will teach you coping mechanisms that Doc can't, Nikki. It won't take that long for you to get out if you just try your best at it." I reply and he scoffs.

"So, what, you're babysitting me at Doc's until I'm done throwing up, shitting myself, and having hot and cold flashes and then shipping me off for a few weeks?" He cuts his dead eyes at me and Doc and I exchange looks.

"Well, it depends on how quickly you adjust to rehab and make a turn around, as to how soon you can get out...so it might be more than a few weeks." Doc informs him. "And Bob has already scheduled you and Viv an appointment with a marriage therapist."

"Well if I'm spending more than three weeks in rehab there's no point in working on our marriage."

"The program you'll be in includes this particular therapist who's currently working on creating a schedule for Vivian to come visit you often and you two have your sessions bi-weekly." Doc states and Nikki rolls his jaw, looking at me.

"Is this what you really want? Your husband gone for weeks on end until some quack gives me a certificate and a gold star because I went 'X' amount of time without shooting up?" He harshly questions me and I rub my lips together.

I think of the reasons Nikki didn't spend more than three days in rehab the first time he went, was because A.) He refused to believe in a higher power, and B.) He didn't go to rehab because he knew he had a problem and wanted to get better, he went to rehab to appease the people around him because he felt we were twisting his arm until he gave up and cried "mercy" a.k.a "fine I'll go, just as long as you shut the fuck up and get off my back about it."

I look at him for a moment, studying his knotted hair, his yellow skin, his shot eyes, his weak appearance, before saying:

"I'd rather you hate me for a little while for getting you help, instead of waking up and trying to convince myself to continue to live in a world with no Nikki Sixx in it."

"We're not indestructible, Nikki." Tansy adds softly, knowing very well she and he both need help.

He doesn't say anything else.

She had Doc and I convinced she wanted help...but truth be told Nikki actually went to rehab while Tansy had Duff come get her from Doc's house.

She knew she had a severe problem, but the only time Tansy would "clean up" was when she gave her veins a break, out of fear of completely losing them, and was muscling smack. She would fall back on pills and lots of booze, then when some of her veins would start reviving themselves back from their smaller size, she would start up again.

I can't even say how much money she and her mother were paying people to keep quiet to the media.

Nobody could know perfect Tansy Lyn, Playboy's Barbie Doll, was so broken inside that she repeatedly destroyed her body, let it rebuild, and wrecked it again.

It must have been a punch in the face to her mom when Tansy came clean in '88 and admitted she had struggled with addiction and was going into rehab...and an even harder punch in the face when she came back in into the spotlight in 1989, dropping her stage name "Tansy Lyn" and dawning "Tansalyn Rose" after marrying Axl, and practically confessed every grimy detail of her obsession with hard drugs and alcohol since 1981, and why she started them to cope with what was happening behind the scenes of the brutal modeling industry.

In 1990, her vision-come-to-life, "I Won't Just Smile", was born. It started as a campaign to raise awareness against sexual abuse, exploitation, and coercion in all corners of the modelling industry, then stemmed into an organization that offered free services to victims of addiction and abuse, from rehab to post-assault counseling and everything in between.

Years of Diane's hard work to create her daughter's untouchable persona, completely shattered.

I was just thrilled Tansy had turned her struggles around and used them to help others, but first, she would have to face a handful of overdoses, one of which nearly killed her, have a section of her liver cut out, and have a temporary pace-maker.

All of it just made Axl more strict about drugs. Not just for the sake of the band and the fans, but he was afraid some members of Guns in particular would pull Tansy back into the merry-go-round of addiction after she got clean.

"You're telling me I can't stay with him and Tansy?" I ask Doc harshly in a whisper once the four of us get to his house.

"You won't want to stay, Viv. I'm telling you, they're gonna pull out all the stops to get you to cave and get them some smack because they'll be in so much pain. I don't want you to see them like that and I don't want you to compromise their recovery." He explains.

"You think I would do that?!"

"I know you would if it came down to it." He states and I roll my jaw. "This isn't just little flu symptoms and some body aches. They will feel like they are going to die, they will look like they are going to die and I cannot trust you not to give in." His brutal honesty. "You'll be able to see them in about a week, they'll be better by then and then we can look at the next step. Got it?"

I just glare at him.

"Go kiss 'em 'bye' and fuck off." He says next, waving his hand at me dismissively as he goes to my car to grab Nikki's bag and his car to grab Tansy's.

I step back into the living room to tell them 'bye' but stop myself, deciding it's better to let Doc deal with Nikki's pissed off temper when he discovers I won't be staying with them.

Grabbing my car keys from the table by the door, I head the house.

When I get back to our house, I check the machine that's blinking a light to signal a missed call.

I go to the kitchen and get a glass of water as Slash's voice slurs through the speaker.

"H-Hey, Viv, um...uh...we..." I chuckle at his incoherent mumbling and step to the phone to call him back as another message starts playing where his left off.

"Viv," It's Duff. "Call us back as soon as you can."

I furrow my brows a little, about to dial them back until yet another message comes on.

"Viv, we got signed!" Steven's screaming has me dropping my water and the phone, joy coursing through the soles of my feet up to my hair, and I'm running around and screaming along with his recorded message loudly blaring his own excitement.

I run back to the phone and pick it up, dialing their apartment.

"We got signed!" Steven's voice is shouting at me before the phone even rings a single ring.

"When?! How?! By who?!" I say back.

"We'll tell you over dinner because guess who got $7,500 cash advances?! The same mother fuckers who've been stealing from strippers to get by, that's who!" He exclaims.

"Yeah, don't ever tell people you guys did that!" I say in the same tone. "Lemme change and I'll be over there, okay?"

"Okay." He replies, and I can just hear his smile through the phone.

I hang up and give one last scream of happiness before sprinting to get changed and leave.

Tom Zutaut, the same man responsible for giving Mötley Crüe their shot, had given the same shot to Guns N' Roses.

They had signed to Geffen Records, and although that was their second goal--the first was getting a band together--they knew the main goal was to release their first album, and hopefully, have it a success.

Before I can even knock on the door, it's swinging open and Steven's like a puppy, jumping around, waiting on me by the door.

I hug him tightly, trying to keep myself from crying with immense relief that they're one step closer--a giant step closer--to their dream.

When we pull away from each other, Duff holds his hand up for me to give him a high-five and I do, his fingers locking with my hand to pull me into a hug and I'm sandwiched between him and Steven momentarily.

A flash catches my eye and we pull away from each other to see a girl with short, blonde hair, that I've never seen before, holding a camera.

"That's gonna be a good one." She tells us, smiling at Duff as the Polaroid deposits.

Mandy Brixx, member of the punk band, Lotus Lame and The Lame Flames, was a cute girl with bleach blonde hair, beautiful brown eyes and a captivating smile...and was also Duff's first wife.

Mandy wasn't perfect, but she didn't disown Duff after he told her he had gotten me pregnant.

Even though he didn't cheat on her with me, and they had been broken up for about six months when he and I got involved, I know it hurt her knowing he had hooked up with the woman she was sure she didn't have to worry about when they dated. They ended up getting back together in 1988 and got married the same year.

They divorced two years later because something just "changed" and neither of them were happy, but I've always respected her because she was really good to Monroe.

His second wife, however, was crazier than a run over dog because she was always on something.

The last time I saw her in 1993, she had said something crass and rude to Tansy and before Tansy could reply, I was asking Linda, "were you born a cunt or does the crack just bring it out of you?"

She swung on me and I swung back. Except when I throw a punch, I make sure it lands.

Maybe she would've actually hit me if her equilibrium weren't as fried as her brain.

I would've kicked her ass if Duff and Matt Sorum hadn't pulled me off of her.

I hope she got her shit together after they divorced in 1995.

I guess bass players and crack-head models go hand-in-hand...

"Viv, this is my girlfriend, Mandy." Duff introduces me. "Mandy, this is my best friend, Viv."

"Hi, it's good to finally meet you." Mandy tells me with a gentle smile and I extend my hand to her.

"You, too." I reply as she takes my hand in her's, my eyes subtly flickering to Duff now that he's standing beside her, silently asking him when the hell he was going to tell me about his girlfriend.

"I'll tell you later." He mouths to me where she can't see and I just keep smiling as she strikes up conversation with me.

Once we get to the Rainbow, Steven and I are a few steps in front of Duff and Mandy, the blonde drummer letting out a little sigh.

"What is it?" I ask, nudging him.

"Just worried about Tansy." He admits, and I raise my brows. "It's not like that, Viv, I swear." He promises. "She's a cool person, is all. I wish she was here to celebrate this with us."

"I'm sure she'll be thrilled to hear about it when you're allowed to go visit her in rehab." I remind him. "Where's the guys?" I ask next as we step into the Rainbow.

"Slash is hanging out with this chick he met a couple weeks ago, Izzy's with his girl friend and I don't know where Axl is." He tells me and I nod. "So it's just a double date for us tonight." He grins widely, winking at me slickly.

After hours of just goofing off, talking, eating and demonstrating our celebration of Guns' stepping stone, Mandy's calling it a night.

"I'll call you later, Duff." She says to him as she grabs her jacket and he stands up to let her scoot out of the booth.

"Sounds good, babe." He replies, kissing her cheek.

"It was really nice to meet you." She tells me.

"It was nice to meet you, too." I reply.

"Bye." She smiles one last time at Duff, waving to Steven before leaving.

"When did you me--"

"Viv, lemme out." Steven interrupts me and I furrow my brows.

"What?"

"Lemme out, there's a hot girl at the bar and she just waved me over. I wanna get laid. Lemme out." He pleads and I roll my eyes and scoot out so he can stand up.

He does so, heading straight to the bar to try his luck with a beautiful brunette.

And then there were two.

"You were saying?" Duff chuckles out when Steven's gone and I smile a little.

"When did you and Mandy meet?" I ask him and he lets out a breath of cigarette smoke.

"Uh, a month ago, maybe? She gave me her number and I went back and forth with myself until I convinced myself to call her." He explains. "We spent the weekend together so I guess we get along pretty good. She's a great girl."

"She seems nice." I tell him, tucking a strand of my hair behind my ear.

"Yeah, she is." He agrees, taking another drag of his cigarette.

I take a sip of my water and sit in the silence that falls over us before noticing he's staring at me.

"What?" I ask him.

"You wanna go somewhere with me?" He offers, putting his cigarette out.

"Where?"

"C'mon." He stands up, nodding to the door.

"But Steven--"

"--Is about to go mess around with that girl in the bathroom. He's not gonna be mad if we leave him." He adds. "C'mon, you'll like where we go."

"If you say so." I shrug.

He pays the bill and the two of us head back to their apartment so he can get his car.

I know I should have been at home by the phone, waiting for a call from Doc or Nikki or Tansy, but it was pointless to sit at home and worry when I couldn't do anything about it anyway.

When we get to where we're going, Duff is parking his car in the lot of an abandoned building, and I glance around to see there's not much traffic around us.

"Is this the part where you murder me?" I ask him and he busts out in laughter, shaking his head.

"This is where Mandy and her band rehearses." He explains.

"Why're we here?"

"I picked her up here the other day and noticed something you might like." He gets out the car and opens his trunk, pulling out a shopping bag.

"Duff..." I say, uneasy as we approach the rusted door.

"Shh, I got it." He digs in his jacket pocket and plucks out a worn key, unlocking the dead bolt and the door knob.

I follow him inside, and he switches on a light switch, only one light beam in the ceiling comes on, and in the large, dim room, I see a large mirrored wall, sleek but worn out wood floors, and I turn to see Duff holding out a brand new pair of pointe shoes to me.

I wasn't going to tell him I'd gone so long without dancing that I'd have to work my way back up to dancing on pointe, because he'd spent money for the shoes and they looked to be around my size and I didn't want to know how observant he had to be to estimate my shoe size in terms of ballet...so I did something I was really good at doing at that time in my life.

I kept myself from crying.

I knew Duff was going to be a constant encourager in my life when he held those shoes out to me and so easily, so confidently, said:

"You've supported and helped me get into my groove of things to start accomplishing my dream. Now, I'm helping you get back into your's."

#nikki sixx #tommy lee #vince neil #mötley crüe #gateway drug

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