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#she’s been flaky and difficult and I’ve done my best and tried to support her
chessiedarlington · 2 years
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My ‘best friend’ has decided we shouldn’t contact each other anymore.
I feel used.
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thoushallnotfall · 3 years
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God Bless the Children of the Beast - Part 13
Previous // Masterlist
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Pairing: The Dirt!Tommy Lee x Reader
Word Count: 2.7k
Notes: Sorry this took a minute to get out guys; it’s been a busy week! 
God so much happens in this update. We literally jump through like 3 years. 👀
Okay, so I'm changing some history here. (I'm mean I've already done that because, well, the movie did and that's what I'm following; but we're doing it again) I know Thaler took over after Doc, but since they cut him from the movie and made it kind of look like Nikki just sort of ran things, that's the angle I'm going with. 👍 Like I've literally been planning this from the get-go so I'm not changing it now.
Warnings: None
1990
A lot had happened in the last year.
Rehab had been a success for you and the boys, and you all had managed to stay sober through the recording of Dr. Feelgood–Motley Crue’s first number one album. Nikki had surprised you all and gotten married; and while Brandi seems like a genuinely nice girl, you were just glad to finally see your brother happy and committed to someone for a change. 
Still, not everything was going so well. 
You were back out on the road touring for the new album, and the band was feeling the strain. They had never toured without booze and drugs before, and it was clearly getting to them. Not only that, there was trouble at home for Vince and Tommy, and neither of the were handling it well.
Normally, they'd party their frustrations away–get drunk, do some drugs, then find some chicks to forget their wives with for a little while–but without that outlet to fall back on, they had to find other ways to cope. Vince took it out on his bandmates–usually choosing to argue with Nikki or Tommy–while Tommy chose to either argue with Vince, or bottle up his feelings entirely. Of course, they both still cheated, but without the drinks and drugs it apparently wasn’t enough of a release for them. You tried to talk to them about it, but they both brushed you off for one reason or another. 
Vince’s growing animosity with Nikki, and on occasion Tommy, made him start to keep you at arm’s length. He didn’t have a problem with you personally, but your closeness with the other two made it difficult for him to open up to you despite your efforts to talk to him. As time went on, he just kept pushing you further away, becoming more distant, and you worried just how far he would drift from you and the others before he would just disappear all together.
You and Tommy were just as close as always–closer even, since rehab helped you get past some of your old bullshit–he just didn’t want to talk about his problems with Heather. Part of the problem was that he didn’t totally understand what was wrong; what little he would say about it was that she was being ‘weird and distant’ and that she wasn’t answering his calls, so he didn’t really know enough to talk about. 
But you also thought part of him was just too scared to talk about it. Tommy had dreamed about true love his whole life, and he found it–it had probably never occurred to him that he could lose it. Things had always gone so well with Heather; for there to suddenly be signs of trouble brewing probably terrified him. You wanted to talk to him about it–comfort him, if you could–but if he didn’t want to talk about it, you didn’t want to force the issue.
Aside from the personal problems, there was also the issue of Nikki running the show. 
When Doc was fired, Nikki had taken over trying to manage the band alone. He wasn't doing an awful job, and you helped him out as much as he would let you given his control freak personality. Still, it was the cause of a lot of the fights between him and Vince.
You and the boys were sitting at a table in the middle of a strip club, drinking waters and looking miserable. A waitress walks by with a tray of lemon drops, offering you the shots. They look amazing, and you can just imagine the sweet and sour shot burning down your throat, but none of the boys had drank this tour and you weren’t about to be the first to fall off the wagon. Nikki sends her away with an order for another round of waters–Vince looking less than pleased. Trying to escape the tense atmosphere, you glance over your shoulder to look at Tommy. 
He was standing at the payphone, looking upset as he talks into the handpiece; Heather must still be dodging his calls. You stare at him a little longer–watch the frustration and confusion on his handsome face–and even though you should be happy that things weren’t going well, you couldn’t help but hurt for him. You didn’t want Tommy to be unhappy, no matter what the reason behind it.
“They’re keeping us on the road–15 new days in Canada.” Nikki says, bringing your attention back to the table.
“I haven’t seen anything about any new days.” Vince says, looking annoyed. Uh oh. This would end in another fight if Nikki wasn’t careful. 
“Check your itinerary man.” Nikki replies.
“I would, but apparently someone doesn’t think it’s important to let the lead fucking singer know what the fuck is going on here.” Vince snaps.
“I’ll get you a copy of the new itinerary Vince.” You reply, trying to deescalate the situation. Just then, Tommy plops down in the seat next to you.
“Guys I fucked up. Heather’s being all weird and distant and–I drank.” He says, looking ashamed. “Well, a little–I had one shot and I’m sorry.”
“I’m gonna have a fucking cocktail too man.” Vince says before you have a chance to respond. “What are you gonna do about it Nikki?”
“Okay look everyone falls off the wagon once and awhile–” Nikki replies.
“Oh fuck you man, fuck off! Fuck the rest of this tour! It is the no fucking fun tour, and I am sick and tired of not having any fun.” Vince shouts, standing up.
“Vince!” You call out to him as he walks off, but he ignores you.
“Just let him go y/n.” Tommy says as Nikki chases after him.
You watch as Nikki confronts Vince, who physically pushes Nikki away before taking a shot. Just like that, sobriety was out the window. Nikki comes back up and sits down.
“Shit.” He says, slumping in his seat.
“I’ll get him the itinerary when we get back Nikki, and we’ll sort this out, okay?” You say, trying to be supportive. “It was just one drink; he was just angry because he’s stressed out.”
“I can’t believe I forgot to send him the new fucking itinerary.” Nikki says.
“It’s fine, you’ve got a lot on your plate. Don’t stress about it; I’ll take care of it.” You reply. He looks over at you.
“You probably wouldn’t have forgotten.” Nikki muses, before sighing, hanging his head. “You’re right y/n, I do have a lot on my plate–too much, probably. I’ve been thinking for awhile now that I’m not really cut out for this manager shit–that I should probably hand over the reigns to someone whose better suited to the work so I can get back to just focusing on the music.” He lifts his head to look at you. “So what do you say? You wanna be our manager?” You stare at him like a deer in headlights.
“Excuse me?” You ask, stunned.
“You guys are cool with that, right?” Nikki asks, looking over at Tommy and Mick.
“Fuck yeah dude! That’s awesome.” Tommy says, smiling over at you. Even after everything, his smile made your heart race.
“About time if you ask me; she’s the obvious choice.” Mick says, taking a drink of his water, a smile playing on his lips.
“You really want me to be your manager?” You ask, looking back at Nikki.
“Yeah. You already have experience helping me and Doc, and I mean who’s better qualified to take care of us than you?” Nikki asks, smirking.
“You are uniquely qualified for the position–you’ve got nearly 10 years experience cleaning up our messes.” Mick jokes.
“I don’t know, I made a lot of those messes too.” You reply, smiling.
“Hell yeah you did!” Tommy says, raising his hand expectantly. You laugh, giving him a high-five.
“I’m just saying; yeah, maybe we could hire someone with more experience in management–but we could never find someone we trust more.” Nikki says, putting a hand on your shoulder. “You’ve been with Motley Crue from the very beginning–you deserve this–and we know you’ll always do what’s best for this band.” You had to stop yourself from tearing up.
“Okay, if everyone’s cool with this–I’ll do it.” You say, smiling from ear to ear. “But you have to talk to Vince about it too.”
“Yeah, yeah–I don’t see why he’d have a problem with it, but I’ll tell him tomorrow when I bring him that fucking itinerary.” He says, leaning back and smirking at you.
February 1992
The phone rang and rang, but there was no answer. You knew there wouldn’t be–Vince had become so flaky since Sharise had left. You look at the others, all looking pissed as you slowly hang up the phone.
“I’m telling you guys everything is fucking all upside down and flipped flopped and while we’re waiting for our lead singer to get his head out of his ass we’re getting left in the dust man!” Tommy says, standing behind his drumset. You sigh. “I’m just saying bands replace their frontmen and it still works okay? Van Halen–”
“I know Van Halen fucking did it cause you say that every single time Vince misses a fucking rehearsal.” Nikki snaps.
“Come on Tommy, he’s just going through a lot right now.” You try to reason with him. “Wouldn’t you be a little off your game if Heather left you?”
“Don’t even fucking say that man.” Tommy says.
“I mean, can’t you all just try and be a little empathetic for once? Please?” You ask.
“Whatever; just call the prick again.” Mick says. You sigh, making your way over to the phone, while Nikki moves over to the fax machine. You have a feeling you’re not going to be happy about the message he's about to send.
You’re working on some paperwork while the boys continue with rehearsal without Vince, when the blonde comes marching into the studio. 
“Someone want to tell me what the fuck is going on here?” Vince asks, clearly pissed.
“Let’s save us all some time, especially yours Vince as it’s clearly more valuable than ours!” Nikki snaps back. You stand up and move towards them.
“You’d better tell me what the fuck’s going on man.” Vince says again.
“What’s going on is we’re down here, and we’re working, and we wanna be here, but we are tired of forcing you to be here with us.” Nikki says.
“Maybe I’d come in more if I liked the material.” Vince jeers.
“Maybe you’d like the material if you were in the studio making it with us instead of staring at your fucking watch!” Tommy jumps up and shouts.
“Woah, let’s all calm down.” You say, getting between them.
“Yeah, I’m staring at my watch because this album is fucking stupid!” Vince yells back. There’s a silence as the boys all look at each other. “You know what fuck all y’all. You know, I’m done. Fuck this, I quit.”
“Vince!” You call after him as he makes his way to the door.
“Good, ‘cause you’re fucking fired!” Nikki yells back.
“Nikki!” You shout at your brother, looking between him and Vince.
“I quit already, dick.” Vince says, walking out. Nikki slams the door behind him. You look up at him, as the room fills with a heavy silence, the weight of what just happened hitting them. Before anyone has the chance to say anything, you quickly run out after Vince.
“Vince!” You called his name through the rain, but he was already getting into his car. You quickly make your way through the downpour and jump into the passenger’s seat before he can drive off.
“What the fuck?” He looks over at you in surprise.
“I couldn’t just let you leave before we talked.” You say, your wet hair dripping water on the leather of the seat as you look over at him.
“I’m not going back in there y/n–I’m done.” He says, looking out the windshield.
“So what, that’s it? Just like that? You’re just gonna walk away?” You ask, not even trying to hide the tears pooling in your eyes.
“It had to happen sometime y/n–we all knew this was coming.” He said, still not looking at you.
“It didn’t have to Vince–it still doesn’t. I can talk to them, I can–” He puts his hand on yours.
“It’s over y/n. Let it go.” Vince says, looking into your eyes. You feel a tear slide down your cheek.
“So now what?” You ask. “What are you gonna do?” He moves his hand away and looks back out the windshield.
“I don’t know. I’ve still got my racing–and hey, I could always try making it as a solo artist.” He smiles over at you. “You wouldn’t happen to know any good managers, would you?” You laugh.
“Oh the boys would hate that.” You reply.
“Fuck’m–it’s your life, do what you want.” Vince replies. “Just think it over and let me know, okay?”
“Yeah, okay. I’ll think about it.” You reply, reaching for the door handle. You stop, looking back at him. “And Vince, I just want you to know; no matter what happens–any of the drama or the bullshit that may come from this–you’re still my friend, okay? You’re important to me, and I love you.” Vince blushes, looking away.
“Yeah yeah, I love you too–now shut up and get out of my car.”
1993
You somehow convince the boys it would be fine if you manage them and Vince, and things for him were going fairly well. His first solo album, Exposed, was doing moderately well on the charts. Meanwhile, you were trying your best to deal with a Motley Crue without Vince Neil. John Corabi was brought in to be the new lead singer for the band, and while he was a good singer and a nice enough guy–he just wasn't Vince.
The fans knew it too. As much as Nikki and the others tried to promote John, everyone just wanted Vince back. Of course you did too, but what could you do? The band had succeeded because they were a group of stubborn fools who didn’t know when to give up, but that also meant they didn’t know how to back down from a fight–even when they knew they'd fucked up. No one wanted to admit they were wrong and come ‘crawling back’ to the other, so they were stuck in a stalemate.
You were sitting at home in your office, going over some paperwork for Vince, when you phone rings.
“Hello, y/n Sixx speaking.” You say absently as you continue reading over the paper in your hand.
“Y/N?” It was Tommy. He sounded upset. You set the paper down on the desk.
“Tommy? What’s wrong?”
“Y/N, I-I fucked up man, I fucked up so bad.” He stammers. “Fuck y/n, I, I–”
“Whoa, Tommy! Calm down.” You say, clutching the phone tightly. “Just tell me what happened.” 
“There was this fucking article–someone got pictures. Damn I’m so fucking stupid!” He shouts.
“Tommy, you’re not making any sense.” After a long stretch of silence, you hear a sob come through the line.
“Heather knows I cheated. She left me y/n–she’s kicking me out.” Your breath catches in your throat. 
A rush of emotions hits you like a freight train–too many to sort through at once. Anger, sadness, pity, illation, hope, guilt; each coming one after another. Anger at Tommy for cheating again. Sadness and pity at the pain he must be going through. Illation and hope because finally, finally, you might have a chance with him. And lastly guilt, that you would even consider your own feelings now, when he was in so much pain.
“Y/N?” Tommy calls out to you, snapping you out of your trance.
“Oh, oh god Tommy I’m so sorry.” You say, shaking your head to clear your thoughts. “Um, if, if you need somewhere to stay for awhile, you’re more than welcome to crash with me.” You offer.
“Really? You’re sure that’s cool?” He asks.
“Yeah of course.” You say. “It’ll be just like old times.” He laughs through a sob.
“Yeah, old times.” He repeats.
“You want me to come by? I can help you bring some stuff over.” You ask.
“Thanks y/n. God, what would I do without you?” He replies, and you smile to yourself.
You didn’t want to be this happy about Tommy’s marriage failing, but it had been seven years–seven long years, and you had given up hope of ever getting your chance with Tommy. 
Now, you might finally have one–a chance–and that thought alone nearly made your heart leap out of your chest. 
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a-pretty-nerd · 4 years
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Tomura Shigaraki x AllMight!Daughter!Reader
Chapter 5
Premis:
When The League of Villains discovers that AllMight has a daughter, they are quick to snatch you up and hold you hostage. Shigaraki had a careful and thought out plan, but that was before you got there. Now you're in the mood for some not-so-healthy rebellion.
Word Count: 1,386
Warnings: prescription drugs, restraints, yelling. 
A/N: So its been a hot minute, sorry my MHA friends! I’ve opened my inbox again, so if you’ve got a request for any MHA characters, I’ve gotchu! (I also write LGBTQ+ content, so whatever you want, I gotchu bb <3) And don’t be afraid to interact! Gimme a like, comment, shoot me an ask, it really helps me out! And if you’d like to support me further, go ahead and check out my Patreon where I’ll be making some exclusive content! 
Chapter 4  Chapter 6 
Shigaraki sat alone in his room pouring over web page after web page. Books, articles, essays, anything and everything he could get his dry, cracked hands on. Telekinetic quirks were common, there was no shortage of people with the ability to move things with their mind. However, he was having a hard time finding cases where the user was medicated to suppress their quirk. Sure, science was always developing new ways to alter quirks, but rarely were people with telekinetic powers put on such strong anti-depressants. 
He leaned back in his chair, his nails digging at the dry skin on his neck as he thought over the information he had collected. He tried to pull the pieces together. You were so scared, so freaked out and panicked. He was having a hard time processing it himself. He had expected you to beg and cry while being held captive, but you were worried, about your captor’s safety. 
He pulled his hand away from his neck and looked down at his hands. The things you said. The way you plead for death. So sincere. No one had ever begged him like that. It sent a cold shiver down his spine. It caught him so off-guard. Maybe he’d bitten off more than he could chew with you. Maybe he should let you go. No. No, he couldn’t. He wasn’t done with you yet. He had plans he had to follow through with. If he could pull this off, he could tear the world apart from the inside, out. If he showed everyone how incapable and flaky heroes could be, he could turn the narrative to the public. It would make everything so much easier. 
If he could just get them to tell the truth. He had tinkered with the idea of broadcasting footage of you telling the truth, but even then, how could he get people to believe. No. He decided he just needed more time. While he plotted further, he would continue to keep you hostage. He had to. 
He stood from his seat and shuffled out into the hallway to find a few stragglers in the living room chatting. He stood there around the corner and listened to them talk. He had given the task of keeping an eye on All Might and the investigation, just so they could stay one step ahead. They were bickering about the best way to go about following All Might since he had hardly left his apartment since your disappearance. 
He turned and walked back down the hallway and stopped in front of a particular door. He stared at it for a moment, lost in thought. He knew you were behind it. He knew he had questions to ask you. He knew you’d comply, you were never shy about giving information before. You were so open but at the same time, so closed off. It was starting to frustrate him. 
He stood in front of the door for a little longer than he realized, lost in deep thought as he contemplated on his options. Suddenly the door swung open, it almost startled him. With wide eyes he looked down at Toga. She looked back with a surprised expression before flashing a smile and speaking. 
“Come to check up on our guest?” She giggled at him. 
“Has she been stabalized?” He asked. Toga looked back into the room and then back to him. She shrugged. 
“A few things move here and there when she’s upset, but nothing extreme. I’d be careful if I were you, she’s easily freaked out right now. She won’t stop begging to be let go. She keeps going on and on about our safety. Somethings not right.” Once she was done talking, Shigaraki walked past her. 
You watched his looming figure make it’s way into the small room. Before you slept in a sleepingbag in a glorified closet, now, you had been tied to an old twin bed. Your arms tied above your head, your feet stretched out in front of you, another binding around your torso. The whole thing made you feel sick and violated. There was something horrifyingly familiar about these restraints. 
“Have you slept at all?” He asked you as he sat down in the chair beside the bed. 
“Have you?” You asked him. You could see the dark circles under his eyes, how puffy and dry they were. You traced imaginary lines over the scars around them, you noted they were the same around his lips. You wondered if they were dry to the touch or just scar tissue left over. 
“How long have you been on medication for?” He asked you. You looked away, suddenly very aware of how long you had been starring at his face. 
“Since my quirk manifested when I was eight. Eight? Nine maybe?” You trailed off, filing through the memories in search of the right answer. 
“And you forgot to mention your medication until recently, why?” 
“I don’t know. This is my first time being kidnapped. I didn’t know when I’d be home, or if I’d be dead.” He scoffed at you. 
“Why do you keep thinking I’m going to kill you?” 
“Are you fucking serious? You’re Japan’s- The World’s most wanted criminal. You’ve killed before you’ll kill again. You think me forgetting about my meds is a big issues, motherfucker its hard to think about anything right now. Much less remembering to take my meds without my phone alarm going off to remind me everyday. I don’t know if you’re aware, by being held hostage is kind of upsetting!” On your last word, the bed began to rattle, a glass of water on the bedside table threw itself towards you, and the chair Shigaraki sat in thrusted forward, closer to you. He jumped at the movement, and grasped onto the sides in an attempt to stablize himself. The sight of the villain in such a state of surprise, made you smile. 
“Fair.” He muttered as he looked around, avoiding your eyes as you chuckled at him. He sat back down before speaking again. “What were you taking?” 
“Paroxzaphin. It’s a strong antidepressant. It’s the only thing that works for me. Because my quirk relies heavily on my emotions, it was difficult to control when I was young. But with the help of medication, it is now manageable.” 
“Supressed.” 
“Exscuse me?” 
“Your medication didn’t manage your quirk, it suppressed it entirely. If it does as you say, then it would have worked to manage your quirk, but instead it suppressed to a point where you were unable to use it entirely. 
“Fine. It suppresses my abilities. But you don’t know what you’re dealing with. It would be better if I didn’t have this ability at all.” 
“Why do you say that? What happens without it? You move a few pieces of furniture around? I’m not afraid of you.” He leaned in closer. Way too close for your liking. 
“You don’t understand. Overtime, it’ll get worse.” 
“How do you know?” 
“You have to let me go, everyone is in danger.” 
“Why? What happens?” He growled. 
“Let me go!” You cried. His frustration peaked as he loomed over you. His eyes wide, his lips turned into a dark frown as he bared his teeth. He reached out a hand. Your restraints loosened around yours arms, until you felt dust fall over your flesh. You pulled your hands down and stared at the bruises the restraints caused. Soon your torso and ankles felt the release as well. You looked up at Shigarak who now stood at the foot of the bed. You opened your mouth to ask him why, but he interrupted you. 
“You’re safe here. I trust you.” He said softly. You were confused. Where did this come from? Why was he so calm all of a sudden? Why was he looking at you like this? Like he understood, like he had sympathy for you. 
“What?”
“I’ll see about getting you your medication. For now, you stay here as you have been. If you feel things are too much, tell us before you go into another fit, okay?” You nodded. He seemed almost reluctant to be saying what he was. To be as mature and nurturing as he was being, but regardless, he seemed to understand. And that was new.
Taglist: 
@craftybean13 @babayaga67 @imjustverable
@bat-eclecticwolfbouquet-love
@kamenoyaki @hentaiqween101
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arabellaflynn · 4 years
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Hello, all. It has been a rough pandemic.
As you may have figured, since I am in the performing arts, I have been completely out of work since this shitshow began. The earliest venues will open up here in MA is September, which is not helpful for me, because I need to be out of my current place by 8/31. No one will rent to me on my Patreon income, so I've been trying to figure out how to supplement that with other online work.
My first thought, frankly, was camming. I'm attractive and I know that, and I don't care about being naked in "public". I have a lot of opinions on the legitimacy and legalization of sex work, but making a statement would be a convenient bonus; I'd be in it for the tips. As the appliance menagerie on the Flintstones used to say, "Eh. It's a living."
The best camera I currently have is attached to the slightly-less ancient laptop. You know, the one with the broken hinge that won't hold the screen up on the right. Only the wifi on that computer has quit working. The onboard chip was always kind of flaky, but for some reason it has chosen now to deteriorate to the point where it no longer acknowledges a router on the other side of the goddamn wall. Shooting in the living room with an ethernet cable is not an option, because another housemate is already doing that.
I bought a dual-band USB wifi adapter with antenna. It's a Realtek chip -- not gold-plated, but also not total junk. I specifically checked to make sure it worked with Ubuntu Bionic before I ordered. I have now installed three separate sets of drivers in three completely different ways, read everything ever written about this on AskUbuntu, and still the computer refuses to acknowledge its existence. Not even if I blacklist the onboard chip to keep it from falling back into previous bad habits.
The other elderly laptop (with the working wifi) has a cam that tops out at 640 x 480, which I suppose might squeak by as a tiny facecam on Twitch, or for tutoring where no one cares about pixelization. The microphone, however, is crap. It's a tinny omni on the screen bezel that likes room noise more than my voice. I don't have an external microphone, and there's no onboard Bluetooth for my wireless headset. So I bought a USB Bluetooth adapter, which this computer is ignoring as hard as the other one is the wifi dongle. I have a wired headset with a mic, but because this computer is probably mere months too old to know what to do with an inline mic on the same jack as the output signal, it doesn't register at all.
The camera on my phone is potato quality, because that is honestly about how much the phone cost. Ditto the refurb Kindle. Neither is smart enough to keep up with streaming video, which I found out when I tried to do a video rehearsal for something months ago. 
I have no place to do any kind of professional non-entertainment streaming work (e.g., tutoring) with my terrible equipment in any event. I don't own a desk. If a free desk appeared on my doorstep tomorrow, I would have nowhere to put it. My bedroom is small enough to contravene the Geneva Convention requirements for POW cells and I'm basically stuck in here, for reasons of both air conditioning and not having to interact with a house full of people who very much want me gone.
What I do have is a set of working emulators and some free video editing software, so I decided to take a stab at a subtitled Let's Play. I can certainly ramble on for 30 or so hours of Final Fantasy II. At the very least it'll give me something scheduled to do. So I pulled everything out and set it up, only to find that my controller was "pining for the fjords" -- no lights, no acknowledgement from RetroArch, no response to any button presses.
...
...okay, well, at least we're down to a level of equipment I can afford to replace. So I am waiting for the mail carrier to bring me another $10 gamepad, whilst stuck in bureaucratic hell. I'm down to emergency public assistance, which keeps asking me to send them random documents, inconveniently one at a time. Even when I can submit them online I'm required to wait a minimum of 2-3 business days before a human can look at them. I'm trying to not be mad -- they are clearly horribly overworked -- but it also leaves me with a lot of time to do nothing but busy-wait. They've finally decided I'm destitute enough for food stamps, so now I have to sit on my hands until the card arrives in the mail.
The chronic, crushing lack of resources is not helped by (or helping) the fact that I'm just not functioning very well. I was already on the edge of disintegration when the lockdown orders hit anyway; I was taking every piece of work I could find in an effort to scrape together enough for first/last/deposit on a new apartment, and honestly that's more than I can handle. I can consistently get to about 20 hours of "stuff that can't be done while in bed, wearing pajamas" per week, with occasional spikes up to about 30, before I start losing the ability to take care of myself. I skip showers, let my living space become a complete disaster area, and go to bed without dinner because the whole process of choosing something to eat, preparing it, eating it, and cleaning up after myself is so overwhelming that I just burst into tears and don't do it. I fed the rats twice a day and cleaned their cage once or twice a week, but couldn't manage to do the same for myself.
It's difficult to explain to people the state of being physically and mentally exhausted without also being sweaty and shaky from muscle fatigue. Perhaps the single most salient example I can give is lying in bed at night and realizing I kind of vaguely needed to pee. Not like urgently -- just enough that I knew if I didn't, I'd wake up the next day with an uncomfortably full bladder. Then just lying there anyway, not because I thought suffering was noble or I deserved it or anything idiotic like that, but just because taking care of it would involve standing up, walking into another room, and initiating a new task, and I did not have the capacity to do any of those things.
If you suggest I start making a to-do list, I will sit down right now and invent a brand new Blunt Object Transfer Protocol (botp://) expressly for the purpose of punching you, personally, in the face over the goddamn internet. I will even credit you in the patent application. I will not share the licensing profits, which judging from social media right now, would be approximately all of the money on the face of the Earth. I do not need "life hacks". 
What I really need is a case worker, or possibly a babysitter, or just to have shown up at the ER about two months ago, because that is the only way I have ever found to get people to pay attention when I ask for help. Otherwise I get triaged out of sight and out of mind -- they ask if I'm suicidal, I tell them no, they tell me 'okay, here's a prescription for six Xanax and a packet of resources, go home and fix it yourself'. I'm just like, you sons of bitches, do you think I don't know how to Google things? If I could fix this on my own, I wouldn't be talking to you. Except I can't right now, because plague.
Everyone wants to fob me off on someone else. I was referred to an SSDI attorney by a friend, because frankly that's where I'm at right now. I wrote to them, specifically mentioning his name and the associate who helped him, and explained that I was basically a vegetable and I needed help applying for disability. I'm a college-educated suburban white girl, who grew up hearing her parents make rude jokes about welfare queens -- I have no idea how any of this works and I'm so broken I kept losing my place in a blanket whose pattern was literally "knit-purl-knit-purl to end of row; turn work over; repeat". Their response was "Sounds like you need some help applying for SSDI/SSI disability. Here's the website for the Boston Bar Association, good luck!" Crisis lines of both the psychiatric and financial varieties keep directing me to one of two national clearinghouse sites for social support services, both of which direct me to each other, because neither has any programs in my area.
I am trying really, really hard not to resent the ever-loving fuck out of anyone who has any sort of support system right now. One housemate has almost the exact same list of medical problems that I do, and is also completely out of work right now. She is married to the one who has a grown-up salaried WFH IT job, and will never have to worry about having a roof over her head or food in the cabinets. The single housemate has supportive family literally a five minute walk down the street; if she ever gets her feet kicked out from under her, she can stay with them temporarily while she scrambles back up. Another friend yote out to California right before lockdown to stay with his family. A local offered to help me with paperwork, then ghosted me intermittently before explaining that he was having a hard time himself right now and barely had the capacity for his own life. I have an elderly rat, no more savings, and no options.
I don't even know how I'm going to move the little I own. How do you even ask people to do that in the middle of a pandemic? If I don't have the money to move, I definitely don't have the money for a moving company, and I'm envisioning all of my community-minded friends pursing their lips in judgement and declining because like all the good people they are diligently social distancing.
I have also discovered, while hauling an empty suitcase out to Watertown and a full one back home again, that I do not cope well with face masks. It's fine if I'm not doing much, especially if I'm in a climate-controlled space like a store or the T, but as soon as I exert myself at all, I see spots. And no, it is not a matter of "just get used to it"; I have tested this by trying to wear a mask during my home workouts. It is just stuffy enough under there, and there is just enough reduction in air flow, that the world keeps going all film-grainy and dark on the sides, which I know from experience is the first step on a very short path to the Magical Land of Syncope. I had to stop during the outdoor trek and sit on the suitcase about twice a block through the commercial district, where it stayed on because there were people. This was when it was 72 whole degrees out (and the AC is generally on 74°F inside) which doesn't bode well for moving my heavy shit around in late August. 
I'm normally good at catching things at the weird-vision stage, although enough random strangers and T employees have asked me if I'm okay that I have to assume I look as ill as I feel at that point. And I have an absolutely tragic talent for talking people out of calling emergency services when I do actually keel over, but everyone is so health-panicked that I don't think it would work right now. I know what's happened and why, but I can't exactly communicate that to bystanders when I'm unconscious. As nice as EMS is, I don't feel like waking up to a round of Twenty Questions ("How many fingers am I holding up? Who's the President? Do you have a seizure disorder?"). So I just don't go out.
Alison over at Ask A Manager got a question about this the other day that suggests this is considered legitimate can't-(always-)wear-a-mask territory, and I am able to wear a mask where required in MA, which is indoors/during interactions with other people when it's actually useful, so I don't have any qualms on the scientific or legal front. I have just never been a good judge of how much potential peril/damage it's "reasonable" to put up with, and I don't have the capacity to explain myself over and over again a million times a day. 
I'm fucking tired. I'm tired of covid, I'm tired of living in a big glitzy continent-spanning banana republic, I'm tired of anxiety, I'm tired of other people carping at me to do things I can't in order to fix their anxiety for them, I'm tired of not having the space to dance, I'm tired of asking for help before things fall apart and being told 'well, come back when it is an emergency', and most of all I'm tired of this cycle where I tell myself "I'm going to stop being lazy! I'm going to put on my big-girl pants and wake up early and work 40 hours a week and support myself like an adult!" and then fail at it again because I just do not have the capacity to do that. I do not know how to make the system understand that I need some kind of support right now. 
Sorry for yet another depressing update, but that's where I am right now.
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