I would love to be a stylish Legally Blonde-esque law school girlie but unfortunately I am physically incapable of looking cute for trials

Feathers

Oc x Loki Laufeyson Part 2| Caught A/N: I don't know if I wanna right this in First, or Third person. OS its gonna switch between the two and Ill find out what i like the most.

A man was kicked into the wall making a loud noise. The man grunted his nose bloodied. She held her blade to his neck. He was some normal beaten down man with hydra connections. She then spoke to him. "Just tell me what you know about Hydra, Stop being so difficult!" She yelled, the man laughed. "You'll Have to Kill me." He then spit blood at her. "Fine. I will. I have NO problem doing that." She then slammed one of her Chisa Katanas into the man stomach. The man groaned. "You are a monster and always will be. Hail Hydra". The man fell. You might think that woman is a monster, you might think I am a monster. I have been called it so many times its became a record on repeat. I wouldn't be this way if Ivan Didn't Make me this. I will do whatever is in my power to destroy Ivan and Hydra. I took out a sheet of paper that some nice librarian gave me based on some old records she had. It was full of names of people who were known to be apart of hydra at one point. These two names were circled like the woman wanted me to really look for them. Steve Rogers and James Buchanan Barnes. Wasn't Steve rogers dead tho? Or was he just on the moon. (A little TFATWS joke for ya) I guess I'll look for them next. I crossed off the name of the doctor I just paid a visit to, and put a question mark by Steve Rogers. I pulled up my mask and walked out the building to be greeted by a large group of agents. The hell? How did they find me? I have been doing this for 3 years. Never been caught. A Black male with an eye-patch walked upfront, crossing his arms. "Hello Purple Phoenix. Or do you prefer Amya Brooke?" The man said looking at me. How does he know My name? He must have been hunting me for years. Must have been the only one who knew how suspicious that disappearance was. I sighed looking at all the agents surrounding me. He knew a lot about me. "Don't try to fight all of us. I know lots of information about you. I may have some useful information for you as well." I sighed as he spoke. I needed this information. There were so many of them. I could take them out but is it worth it. I flipped my Katanas which made the agents nervously reload there weapons. I laughed a bit, they were afraid of me. Everyone was. I then put my Katanas away and glared at the man. "Since you know my name, Who the Hell are you?" I asked the man. HE walked up. "Name's Director Fury of S.h.e.i.l.d. Do we need to come get you or will you come willingly." I could tell he knew if I fought they'd lose. I shrugged and walked to him. "I'll Comply. So you guys don't get hurt." Fury laughed at my remark. They put there weapons away, so I followed fury to his car/ I sat in the back. Two agents sitting beside me. Both male. The cars pulled off as I looked at Fury through his mirror. "I'm glad we finally found you. After 5 years. When you started going on your little murder spree we could continue to track you. Since our trail went cold shortly when we saw that accident." He said as he drove. "So you guys were the only ones who looked for me. For those two years i was locked and tortured in the lab. Wow, I thought people actually gave a shit about me." I said shaking my head. "Lots of people do, but, it was covered up so perfectly. Something about your body being found. We almost believed that you fell off the cliff to, until they wouldn't let us see your body. That's when we started investigating....You know, we are on the same team". I laughed at that remark. "If we were on the same team why the hell did you have a entire army ready to kill me?" He looked at me calmly. "You know exactly why. You have killed over 50 people purposely and over 100 on accident. You're a killing MACHINE. You broke out of a lab and due to your anger the fire expanded way more than it should have. What the hell kind of power do you have?" This made me upset. I never meant for that fire to happen. "I want your help Brooke. There are some people I want you to meet. Then you can make your decision." The car stopped at a large building. S.H.E.I.L.D tower. The agents

got out and I simply followed. I walked beside Fury as he lead me to a large elevator. It was glass. Never seen one like it before. We began to go up until another person got into the Elevator. She walked in and looked at me. She had short red hair and wore all black. "Afternoon Agent Fury and Company." The woman said. She then stood beside me. "Hello, Agent Romanoff. Any new updates on our Asgardian Friend?"

I had no clue who they were talking about. "Which one." She replied. This woman was powerful, also pretty. She turned to me and spoke. "Они нашли тебя, да." (They Found You, Huh) I turned to her. I sighed. "Да. Мы знакомы?" (Yes, Do we know each other) I replied. Fury looked confused. The woman shook her head and turned to the doors which opened. Fury walked out the woman following. I guess this is the floor. I walked out as well.

On Being Lit: A Personal Essay on Mental Illness, Homelessness, and Compassion

Theo Karantsalis of High Times Reports:

A former librarian shares his experiences with schizophrenia, bipolar disorder, and living with a fragmented mind.

This essay has been re-published with the permission of the author.

The fine line between sanity and madness blurs as a jittery librarian in downtown Miami with body sores, unkempt hair, and tattered clothes gives fiery sidewalk lectures.

Onlookers who recognize the senior librarian shake their heads as they toss a dollar or a get-well note into a tip jar with the hashtag #litwithfire scrawled on it. As the 57-year-old hippie throwback from San Francisco rambles on about spiritual warfare, chem trails, and legalizing weed, a struggle between rational and irrational thought plays out on the public stage.

I am Theo Karantsalis, a longtime college library administrator who has suffered from serious mental illness since childhood, or for about 50 years. This includes multiple suicide attempts, drug addiction, and bizarre behavior resulting in police standoffs, countless trips to jail, dozens of lawsuits, restraining orders, and lots of psychiatric intervention.

A crumpled doctor’s note in my pocket is a reminder to take medicine which includes immune system injections, large doses of anti-psychotics, anti-depressants, and mood stabilizers. It reads: “chronic mental illness, poor coping skills, evidence of paranoid and persecutory delusions, most recent episode manic, severe, with psychotic features.”

Over the years, a team of doctors have helped keep me afloat with schizoaffective disorder bipolar I type, or a combination of schizophrenia and bipolar disorder.

Regardless of how consistent one is with treatment, there are risks of unexpectedly going off the rails, as I did earlier this year. This left coworkers in our tight-knit College community scratching their heads and whispering.

When I requested emergency leave last April, the official reason was something valid and visible: psoriatic arthritis, which has left me covered head to toe with skin lesions that make it hard to sit, stand, or walk. If need be, I was ready to stack the request with multiple sclerosis, a condition that for twenty years has given me a neurological golf umbrella to hide any mental misfires.

One thing that I could never admit was that I had been sucked into a psychotic black hole. I recklessly spent thousands on Rolex watches, passed out $100 bills to strangers, filed a bizarre lawsuit against the College in federal court, chose to sleep on the streets, and recently fired two psychiatrists for being spies for the CIA.        

While in a psychotic state, one often has poor insight or an ability to perceive that he or she is ill.

Years ago, when I started my librarian career with Miami-Dade County, I looked the other way as homeless bathed and shaved in our restroom sinks or violated other minor rules like sleeping or eating. Deep down, I knew that I was just one psych ward visit away from joining them. And I did.

Ending up on the streets outside the main library – disheveled, delusional and with Diogenic indifference – I saw first-hand what it was like to panhandle near the metro rail station, watch the sun rise from a decrepit alley, wait for handouts of day-old muffins and coffee, smoke discarded cigarette butts, and feel the disdain some locals have for the downtrodden.

At the College, the mentally ill make up a slice of the folks we serve, and many colleagues have confided in me that they too suffer, albeit quietly. And for good reason, as words like “schizophrenia” or “bipolar” conjure up fear and the related stigma might affect a promotion or a career.

There were signs in the months leading up to my break that things might be amiss like handing out psychedelic business cards and custom bookmarks that detailed my extensive medical and drug use history, including LSD, cocaine and meth. I also wore the same wrinkled and stained clothes for weeks on end, quickly lost about 75 pounds, stopped shaving or combing my hair, and often shed clothes and spoke to wildlife by the lake.

While in a psychotic state, one often has poor insight or an ability to perceive that he or she is ill.

And even if I did have a sliver of insight, who might I have reached out to at the College about being under attack by interdimensional demons? Or that meetings were a waste of time, as we should just send mind messages back and forth via ESP? Or that out-of-tune foreign radio stations in my mind scrambled my thoughts and words jumped from my computer screen onto the desk and scattered into the walls?    

Perhaps it is time for the College to address mental illness from within the ranks so we can better understand and help each other, as well as those with similar issues seeking our services. 

As I wind down my wonderful 15-year journey at the College, I leave you with a simple, best-life practice that has helped me deal with police, jail, court, and living on the streets. 

Smile.

This is an international signal that no threat exists. Just love. These words from Crosby, Stills, Nash’s ‘60s classic, Wooden Ships, say it best.

If you smile at me, I will understand/  ‘Cause that is something everybody everywhere does in the same language

The reason those of us suffering from schizophrenia and bipolar may appear distant, aloof, or otherwise detached is because our minds tend to run on different operating systems. Though I now have flickers of clarity and reason, my thoughts and speech remain fragmented and disorganized, drowned out by noises and visions from another dimension.  

We live in another world, at times a wondrous and magnificent world, but one that is often disconnected from your version of the world. We remain somewhat tethered to Earth in various degrees, some with a fat rope, and others, like me, with a tiny thread. And the library is the magnet that instinctively pulls us as we seek direction, meaning and purpose. 

As I glance down from another galaxy, like Major Tom floating in a tin can, the signal bars waft in and out of service and I wonder what life will be like when, and if, I eventually land.

But I think my spaceship knows which way to go.

Theo Karantsalis, Associate Director of Learning resources at Miami Dade College’s North Campus, retired from the College on July 29, 2019.

Theo’s Suggested Schizophrenia and Bipolar Reading List:

The Collected Schizophrenias, by Esmé Weijun Wang

The Center Cannot Hold: My Journey Through Madness, by Elyn R. Saks

Touched with Fire: Manic-Depressive Illness and the Artistic Temperament, by Kay Redfield Jamison

TO READ MORE OF THIS ARTICLE ON HIGH TIMES, CLICK HERE.

https://hightimes.com/culture/being-lit-personal-essay-mental-illness-homelessness-compassion/