#why the fuck is my brain wired like this? why can't i function like a normal person?
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#freacking out big time#anxiety through the roof#no amount of natural calming herbs and teas and shit will ever fix me i need to die ✌🏻#why the fuck is my brain wired like this? why can't i function like a normal person?#everyone around me makes plans and goes through with them#they work normaly and meet deadlines normally#and i cannot do anything right ever#i just want to behave like a normal human being with a normal working brain PLEASE#at least once in my life i want to be able to enjoy doing anything PLEASE#why do i have to be so anxious all the time?#why can't i know how to have a conversation and hang out with people#why can't i mantain a fucking friendship?!#i fucking hate veerything right now and i have no place to vent other than here in the void#so please ignore this and just let me get the feelings out cause i can't talk to anyone about this#because again i'm not a normal human with normal emotions and worries so nobody ever understands#fuck!#angel talks#personal
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Hello! I saw you mention that Pyrrha remembers pre-resurrection, and I totally missed that!! Do you have any theories as to why?
I have a few thoughts!
Just for context - because I didn't catch that on my first read either until I started going back through! - there are a few instances that seem to suggest Pyrrha remembers at least some of her life pre-Resurrection. Off the top of my head, I know there's one point where she refers to G1deon as G--, just like John does. Nona also says that Pyrrha calls her "Hairy Maclary", which is referring to a series of children's books by a New Zealand author. Here's a link to a picture and some info about Hairy Maclary... I can definitely understand why Pyrrha would call Nona that lol. This one's super interesting to me in that it's such a fantastic example of the way Tamsyn uses memes and references so skillfully! In the previous books, most of the references are fairly organic in that they're things that could conceivably be, you know, just things the characters say; the readers catch it (if they also know the reference! otherwise they're fairly unobtrusive) but the characters themselves aren't intentionally making a reference. This would be the things like "You can't just ask someone why they want to be a Lyctor" and "a hunger that only thumbs could satisfy," etc. The exception, though, is John. The "none Houses with left grief" particularly is SO fun from an exposition perspective (but if I start on that one I'll never stop), and then of course we have Commander Wake Me Up Inside. The implication here being that John remembers these specific things and is intentionally making those references within the context of the story. Pulling that same expository trick with Pyrrha sets them up as both remembering... at least to some degree. The hints that we get from Pyrrha are such that it's pretty unclear to what extent she remembers, leaving a lot of room for juicy speculation :)
I initially touched on it over on this post where I rambled about names, memory, and the Eightfold Word, but I'm copying over the Pyrrha-specific paragraph so that you don't have to dig for it:
When assisting with Harrow’s lobotomy, Ianthe tells her, “If you push your brain too hard, any surgery could simply heal over.” And in NtN, Pyrrha tells Palamedes, “You should be draining and replacing her fucking brain fluid... When Gideon and I designed that trial, I used to crack his skull and sieve it myself, just as a control variable... The only other people I put through that damn trial were Mercy and Cris, because only Cris didn’t mind being trepanned on the regular.” I don’t know exactly where the threshold is for pushing one’s brain too hard, but I suspect frequently draining and replacing one’s brain fluid is in that ballpark. Which is to say, it’s very possible that Mercy and Pyrrha (and potentially others) could have healed over from anything John had done to their brains.
Also, I don't know why this didn't occur to me as I was writing up that other post, but when Pyrrha's telling Palamedes about how dangerous their uhhhhh living arrangements are, and how they're risking brain damage... Pyrrha and G1deon were operating under somewhat similar circumstances for thousands of years. Cumulatively, it's possible that G1deon's brain was racking up damage that eventually eroded away whatever John had done. Another thought is that maybe the fact that G1deon died and Pyrrha didn't is at play here.
It could very well be less dramatic than that, though. We don't know much about how Lyctorhood impacts the brain, although to be completely fair, we also can't say for certain how a typical human brain would function after ten thousand years of runtime either. Our brains are constantly wiring new neural pathways and rewiring and revising old ones. After thousands of years, might we be reaching a Ship of Theseus situation with regard to the neural circuitry impacting pre-Res memories? Which is a fancy way of saying, "Maybe it wore off."
It could be all of the above, too. Assuming that Lyctor brains retain plasticity like we see in typical human brains (and I'm not letting myself think too hard on implications either way, because in sci-fi/fantasy make-believe land, neuroscience can be whatever you want it to be), we'd probably see that effect happening with the other Lyctors at roughly the same rate, but at least as far as we can tell (and that wording is intentional because I'm not taking anything off the table with this series), the others don't seem to remember. So that might be contributing, but not sufficient on its own. BUT perhaps ten thousand years of rewiring PLUS ten thousand years of cohabitation PLUS however long of being "trepanned on the regular" PLUS G1deon dying might override John's meddling.
We've still got so many open questions here regardless of what the specific mechanisms are. Like, I'd love to know when Pyrrha started to remember exactly. And did G1deon remember anything, then? It seems like he was Straight Up Not Having a Good Time so if he did remember, he might not have been relying on those memories much. Whatever's going on, I'm sure it's just as bonkers as the rest of the series!
#'in sci-fi/fantasy make-believe land neuroscience can be whatever you want it to be' i whisper repeatedly to myself#after spending like two hours this afternoon formatting datasets from the neuroscience lab i work in#nah but for real i have zero issue with that kinda stuff being. you know. fictional. i just need to not go down that rabbit hole lol#also sorry about sneaking a little bonus ramble about meme usage in there#believe it or not i had more about that but took it out because it wasn't directly relevant lol#also to the other anon that's sitting in my inbox: I PROMISE I HAVEN'T FORGOTTEN#it's just... you opened a hefty can of worms and it's gonna take me a while lmao#ask#anonymous#tlt meta#pyrrha dve#nona the ninth spoilers#tlt#long post
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Dear Sephiroth: (a letter to a fictional character, because why not) #62
I said that I might go over some more techniques that I like to use in order to keep my memories and emotions in check. Today I made use of one, so I figured I might as well go over how it works.
I did dishes today, which might not seem like a huge accomplishment at first glance, but given that one of my ribs is out of place on the right side, doing anything that moves the right shoulder typically generates a lot of pain for me; I have to be very careful of how I move, or else it'll start to feel like someone is trying to tear my shoulder blade and my collarbone right out of my body.
Today I was having a bit less pain than usual, so I decided to do the dishes. They've been piling up, and I wanna cook something soon, and it's easier to cook things if the sink is empty, because then I can just put things in there without worrying about it becoming overcrowded. Also, if you're making pasta, the sink has to be empty and scrubbed down so that you can put the pasta strainer on the bottom without worrying about things getting icky.
Unfortunately, I have a lot of trauma when it comes to doing house chores. So if I'm not very careful about keeping my memories in check, my brain will start to wander over to the past, and memories of being screamed at for not doing a good enough job will creep into my mind. The memory of my mother evaluating my work and then berating me for it still looms over me whenever I do anything related to cleaning my house, and if I'm not careful, the feeling of tension will make me forget that I'm not in that world anymore. No one here cares if I miss a speck of dust on the carpet while vacuuming. No one here cares if they find a spot of hard water or even a speck of food on a plate that I washed; they'll just put it back into the sink to be washed again like sane, healthy people - WITHOUT accusing me of being an "ungrateful little fuck" who "is trying to give the whole house botulism" and threatening to send me back to my father's house so that my stepmother can "beat my ass into shape".
As you might guess, housework is very triggering for me. But I can't just not do it. So that means I have to find a way to keep my brain's adrenaline response from going haywire. And make no mistake, I will get an adrenaline response, because my body still remembers the time when nothing I ever did was good enough (even if it was "clean enough", I could always do it "faster" or "more efficiently", and just… ugh… I couldn't win in those days…).
But just because you get an adrenaline response doesn't necessarily mean you have to allow it to rule you. If you know that one is gonna come up, then there's a variety of things you can do to keep it in check and function through it.
The basic premise is that when the adrenaline response begins, the amygdala essentially shuts down the higher thinking parts of the brain in favor of prioritizing one's survival instincts. Anything that one does often enough can end up becoming hard-wired into one's instinctual behavior. So if, for example, you have to fight often in order to survive, the motions eventually become second nature - hard-wired into our instincts so that we don't have to think about it in order to do it with the kind of automaticity required to minimize any hesitation that might kill us. This is precisely why the amygdala will shut down the brain's higher functions; it diverts all resources to itself in order to maximize its speed and efficiency, because the brain has only a limited amount of CPU, so to speak; it can't do a whole lot at once.
Now, normally, if an adrenaline response is unwarranted, the hippocampus (a part of the brain that deals with things like memory encoding and retrieval, and a handful of other stuff) will step up and say, "Yo, come on now, cut it out." And then the amygdala is supposed to be all like, "Oh snap! My bad! Sorry, B! I'll go right back to chillin'."
Unfortunately, for those of us with trauma, we have this giant, beefy amygdala that operates on a hair trigger, and a small, underdeveloped hippocampus that can do fuck-all about it. This is because adrenaline and cortisol (stress hormones, fun fun) are actively neurotoxic; if you live in a situation where you have stress hormones coursing through your body all the time, they will break down other parts of the brain while the over-used amygdala gets super strong and sensitized. Yay, neuroscience, I guess.
So, when one is triggered to the point of being in an adrenaline state, higher functions such as "logical thinking", "empathy", "language processing", "critical thinking", "emotional regulation" and all that fun stuff… these are the first things that the amygdala will toss right out the damn window. This is not a "willpower" thing. It's not a "moral failing". This is basic human biology. It is chemistry and physics. Thinking like a person can "willpower" themselves out of an adrenaline activation is like thinking they can stab themselves in the neck and "willpower" themselves to not bleed out. It's just not how this stuff works.
So for me, in order to survive in the world I was raised in, my instincts became "dissociate" or "lash out in the same way that my caregivers used to lash out at me". These became my instincts because I've either witnessed them or have had to do them countless times. It is literally ground into my brain wiring now. If I'm not very careful, my body will do these things with an automaticity that I have little control over and very much do not like, even though these things are no longer the appropriate thing to do in any of my situations anymore.
…For you, it's combat. It's eliminating the enemy quickly and with prejudice. You have had no choice but to do these things countless times in order to stay alive, so by now, it's ground into your brain wiring. So for someone like you, if you get sufficiently adrenaline-activated, your body is simply going to do the thing that it knows, and the whole time, your awareness is only going to be partially there as you go through the motions of the neural pathway you've been forced to blaze thousands, if not hundreds of thousands of times, even if that's not the appropriate thing to do in a given situation.
…Complex PTSD is SUPER ANNOYING like that. It's absolute fucking garbage. It's like doing an involuntary time travel to your worst possible memories anytime you get stressed out. There's not a whole lot to be done with it other than to manage it, and fortunately, there are LOTS of ways to manage it. You can grind new instincts into your amygdala through deliberately practicing better things, and you can keep choosing the new thing until your brain has no choice but to prune away the connections of the old response. It takes years to do (because it took years to build those neural pathways to begin with), but it's work worth doing.
So, nowadays, when I gotta do housework, I will first weaken my amygdala by putting on tunes and singing as loudly as I can. I'll explain how this works:
Remember when I said that a brain has only limited CPU? It really can only do a few things at once. Singing forces us to activate the speech and language centers of the brain, as well as the creative centers, audio processing centers, and fine motor coordination centers (most people don't think about this, but the coordination required to move the mouth and tongue to speak is absolutely fucking insane). It also forces a person to be intentional and deliberate about their breath; one cannot sing well without being very mindful about breathing deeply and keeping the airways open. If you'll recall, I talked about why breath is important in my previous letter. Singing truly is the most perfect tool for preventing adrenaline activation and flashbacks.
So I'll do the dishes, and my amygdala is gonna try being all like, "ohhh, here we go again; we're about to get our ass handed to us, better sound ALL the alarms before we get got," because that's what it does every goddamn time. Except, I'm already gonna be belting out "City Ruins - Rays of Light" from Nier:Automata, and so my amygdala is not going to have the resources it needs to overpower everything else, because I'm forcing my higher functions to remain active and keeping my breath under control:
youtube
I wonder if you noticed the parts where I suddenly became aware that I am recording myself and quavered. I posted it anyway, because it doesn't have to be perfect to be worthwhile. This video should be proof enough that you don't have to be good at singing in order to use this coping skill.
So, I'm sometimes still left with a vaguely uneasy feeling while I do the tasks (this is unpleasant, but manageable), but at very least, my amygdala won't be able to hijack the rest of my brain in service to a narrative that no longer exists, for the purpose of keeping me safe from threats that are no longer present. I like to think that this bit of brain hackery is pretty swanky! Don't you think so, too?
I think that's all I've got for writing today. I had a lovely visitor at my house - a very dear friend of mine - who needed a safe place to help him deal with a situation he's having. I won't get into the details. But I am glad that my house is a safe place where those who are having a difficult time feel like they can go to get a bit of reprieve. I thought I was going to go to the grocery today, but I think I'll do that tomorrow instead.
Remember that you're loved, and please stay safe.
You'll hear from me again soon, I promise.
Your friend,
Lumine
#sephiroth#ThankYouFFVIIDevs#ThankYouFF7Devs#ThankYouSephiroth#final fantasy vii#final fantasy 7#ff7#ffvii#final fantasy vii crisis core#final fantasy 7 crisis core#final fantasy crisis core#ffvii crisis core#ff7 crisis core#crisis core#ff7r#final fantasy vii remake#final fantasy 7 remake#ffvii remake#ff7 remake#final fantasy vii rebirth#final fantasy 7 rebirth#ffvii rebirth#ff7 rebirth#final fantasy 7 ever crisis#ffvii ever crisis#ff7 ever crisis#ffvii first soldier#singing#coping techniques#wholesome
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Blarg
I've not been functional since last week. Stupid fever. It's not even a high fever, just a lingering make-all-your-joints-hurt-like-fucking-hell fever. I'm so tired.
I want to knit and write. I have no bbrrraaaiiiinnnnssss
I need this guy to stop the evil dead eating the last cells in my skull (gods, Ash, I haven't watches that movie in decades (literally and without hyperbole 😳).
Here lieth my brain. Covered in a fog of fever, ne'er to be seen again.
Ok, I'm being hyperbolic now.
I go through phases in my life where I figuratively ingest every piece of literature I can put my hands on. I'll be that way for months at a time. Then, without any rhyme or reason, my brain goes - ya know, we like this stuff, but we're going to stop. Now. For months, eh, maybe years. It's been probably 4 or 5 years or more since I've been able to sustainably read and entire book without external stimuli (I.e. reading to my son out loud).
I hate it. HATE it. I love to read. I love all the fan-fiction I've been reading, but this stupid fever has my brain stuttering.
Speaking of brains. Autistic ADHDers - I was diagnosed ADHD in my mid-30s AFTER my son was. That's pretty normal for women my age, unfortunately, we were the chatter box in class, the you-could-do-so-much-better-if-yiu-tried ones, the lazy, messy, disorganized ones (I always knew where my stuff was!). Now, here's where I'm feeling like more knowledge is wigging me out. There's a website that is designed for people to seek as a resource for autism. I've had some close to me suggest I could be on the spectrum, but I scoffed cause wouldn't someone had noticed? Except, no one would have cause I've always worn a mask - different masks for different situations. The older I get, the harder it is to hold it in place. I used to hug everyone cause people expected me to, now I barely want to touch unless it's family or someone I've known a long time.
So, that website. I went on and did every tests, long or short. I scored high, like very high, on all of them. I can't afford to get tested. And I don't know why I'm sharing this here (Tumblr feels safe, which is nice, I haven't openly talked about this to anyone except hubs and spawn #1).
So, I've basically lived my life jerry-rigging every aspect. Now, loud noises set me off. Hearing someone chew has always bothered me, but it's rage inducing now to the point I have to put on music or leave or cover my ears. It's so bad that I have started isolating myself from extremes of noise (other than music! Music is life!). My in-laws visit and I'm almost in tears the whole time - they're in my space, moving my things, and so so loud.
Are those autistic things? Or ADHD or both? There's more - I used to be very smooth with dealing with the public. Now, I feel like a nervous teen on the verge of a first date any time I have to. I was a a bartender, a food counter person, a 911 dispatcher. I was public admin and technically still am (though I rarely deal with them anymore). I will physically vibrate from the anxiety and get a massive adrenaline rush that keeps me wired all day. Oh, I also can't take ADHD meds as they interact with my depression/anxiety meds and make me super manic and depressive.
There's more, but I'm freaking out cause I don't want my break to stop again and I can feel it starting and I hate it.
I think I just want to know if anyone can relate.
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hiii sorry this is late i have been having a crazy day lol
so neurodiversity refers to anything (literally anything) that is out of the ordinary, ordinary being a "normal" functioning human. Neurodivergence or neurodiversity is used to collectively refer to a variety of mental disorders like Schizophrenia, Autism, ADHD, OCD, anxiety, etc.
ASD (Autism Spectrum Disorder), more commonly known as Autism, is a developmental and communication disorder. For me, and a lot of other people, Autism is a disability. It affects the way i see, feel and understand the world around me. Autistic brains are built different, as in, our brains lack some features of the allistic brain, like something called executive function, which helps in planning prioritising and getting tasks done. Autism also affects the emotion sensing parts of the brain, meaning i process and feel things very differently. Most notably, it affects the language processing and speech. Most autistic people struggle with speech and learnt to speak late (i was the opposite, i learnt to speak super fucking early---thats another cool thing about autism: we just dont develop normally). Most autistics struggle with tone, sarcasm, and social rules and etiquettes. We are also generally very sensitive to textures and sounds (i would rather die that touch velvet and i often get cranky in loud environments) because our nerves are more sensitive and get excited very easily. We also tend to have attention difficulties (thats another byproduct of executive dysfunction!) and have trouble with focus (not always though sometimes we enter a stage of hyperfocus where nothing else matters---seriously sometimes i hold in my pee and forget to eat because im too engrossed in whatever im doing). Also we tend to struggle with eye-contact because to a lot of us its overwhelming and feels invasive.
Autism is seriously under-researched and thats why we dont know a lot about it. Hopefully this changes in the future because it would be very helpful to know why my brain is acting weird but until then, hope this helps ((:
Oh it's totally fine! Are you good now?
Thanks so so much for this Mrun this is so very helpful because now I can begin to comprehend autism! Oh so everyone who has a mental disability would be under the neurodiversity umbrella? That's nice to have a little community label!
I see, so it is as if your brain is wired different? (And possibly the nervous system because you mentioned yoir nerves being really sensitive to textures?) I can understand why it is called a spectrum now too. Oh also I don't know any autistic person as of now but if I meet someone, should I ask for their specific needs or is that considered prude?
I can't thank you enough for this honestly, my book just gave me these 2 passages that hurt my brain so much.
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Fictober '19 Prompts No. 17 & 18 — "There is just something about [him]." / "Secrets? I love secrets."
Category: Original
WIP: WASTE
Rating: T
Timeline: sometime during the book I guess
CW: mature language
Word Count: 952
Additional Notes: this was the first time I featured Mercury in my writing!!
***
"Oh…shit."
The bad thing about using weapons that rely pretty solely on electric currents is that when you're fixing or performing general maintenance on them, one wrong move and your entire day is ruined. For me, however, that is true times, like, two, I think.
So why did I choose to use weapons that rely so heavily on electricity when I know damn well I have a computer wired throughout my brain? I'll wait for someone else to answer, ‘cause I'm dense as a black hole and I don't fucking know.
Three things happened when I jammed that precision screwdriver into the power supply of my whip—it was an accident but I don't think that makes me look any less like a dumbass here—I blacked out. Immediately. I was told later that I also spiked the screwdriver so hard across the room that if Adam had been standing two feet to the left it would've gone through his skull. Also, Adam had come to visit at that exact moment.
I don't know how long I was out but I woke up already fighting to stand up.
"Whoa, hold on a sec, Guetry," Adam was saying, I think. "You're smokin'."
"Nah, I'm quitting," I said, and my voice both sounded buzzy and did not come out of my mouth but rather a hole in my face I had no control over.
"Sit down." Adam took my arm and everything hurt so much. My fingers, my toes, my back, my front, my sides, my upside-down, between, under, and over. "Sit here. I'll be damned, how're you not dead? I'm gonna call emergency services—"
"No, no," I choked out, feeling myself dropping onto a chair and that was about it. "Scotty…Scotty, you there?"
He was not there, and I couldn't get a hold of him even after I managed to stop short-circuiting. Adam took care of me, made sure I didn't need emergency services after all, but it only occurred to me much too late that I no longer had an AI keeping my body functioning, and I further blacked out four more times before I finally woke up in a hospital bed with a headache that could've woken the dead.
Adam watched me from a chair in the corner of the room, arms folded. He lifted an eyebrow. "So. Got somethin' to tell me?"
My face was half-buried in a pillow and I was on my side, which meant that I had fluid somewhere that needed draining or whatever; I don't pretend to understand half the things that are wrong with me at any point and I definitely don't understand them in relation to Scotty and why I need him.
Speaking of which…half-consciously I reached up and used the pad of my middle finger to suss out the triangle etched into my temple. "S-Scotty..."
"That's kinda what I wanted to know about," Adam said. "You got an AI in your head?"
"Mm," I groaned, running a tired hand over my arm tattoo and taking care to avoid the burn scars. "He's…a secret."
Adam cocked his head, a strand of silky gray hair falling into his amber eyes.
Yeah, I swooned a bit. So what? I was hard-up. Leave me alone.
"Secret? I love secrets." His dimpled smile sucker punched me in the gut despite feeling like someone had already done that.
"Sorry," I breathed, grasping the rail of the bed and shutting my eyes before my other brain decided to push my limits. "He's the product of a bad time for me…I don't really…talk about him much to people I don't know on a deeply intimate basis." I paused for effect. "…Or aren't part of my team."
Adam laughed—a hearty, throaty laugh that squeezed my chest as if it came from me. "That it, huh? You tryin' that hard to get me on this quest with you? You won't even tell me 'bout it, Guetry."
"Can't. Not without your agreement to the contract. 'Sort policy."
When I opened my eyes again, Adam had leaned toward me, granting me a thoughtful stare. I stared right back, aware that all that stood between my nakedness and him was a blanket and a flimsy hospital gown. The way he smiled at me, though, could've leveled buildings. He exuded charisma and fortitude the likes of which I've only seen in one other person, but Adam's was…good. He felt…good.
"I get the feelin' it ain't in your nature to follow Consortium policy," he murmured.
I closed my eyes again and sighed. "Great, now I'm gonna have to explain my semi to the nurses. It's gonna be a whole ordeal..."
"I'll join you on one condition," Adam said, skyrocketing my hopes for the most frustrating millisecond of my life. "We gotta make a pit stop on Logoryt. I got…a loose end to tie up. It won't be too outta the way."
"We can work with that, I think." I tapped the nurses' call button with my knuckle.
…I think about Adam a lot. There is something about him. He's funny as hell and gorgeous and…he had a surprise or two on him I found out once we got closer that I cherished and lavished with affection. Made him even better in my eyes, even more beautiful.
I hope I get a chance to see him again. I really do, because the more that time goes on and our paths don't cross, I can't help but feel like I'm missing out on something amazing and real, and something I fucking deserve. The short time we had together, our summer fling I guess you could say, he made me happy.
And I know he'd never let me live any of this down.
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A struggling ADHDer confession
I was born mentally ill, maybe it was my premature birth that didn't allow my brain to fully develop, or my genetics but
I have ADHD, which is a chronic lack of norepinephrine neurotransmitters, as well as fewer dopamine receptors and considerably smaller brain volume
For that reason, other illnesses were allowed to develop, such as my crippling anxiety
I am primarily hyperactive-impulsive, my executive functions are impaired, my thoughts are always racey, I have lots of issues with processing information and communicating, I sensory overload quite easily and it's embarrasing, I'm loud and can't stop pacing around for the life of me and it's been 10 years I'm a nocturnal. I take 4 different meds, because my strong hyperactiveness and anxiety prevents me from being treated with stimulants. Combining with the meds I take for other health issues, I swallow about 12 pills a day, in which 10 are my daily anxiety and ADHD treatment. This fella right here is my monthly drug baggie:
Sometimes it felt like a superpower, to think super fast and make a thousand associations per second and be much more creative than anyone else ever was. I'm a talented artist, writer, scientist, I have neurodivergent and neurotypical friends that love me, and I don't have anything else I could ask for
And I was used to love being this way, being me, the only way I can be, yes, I am mentally disabled, but I'm happy with who I am, and nothing could ever change that, right?
Actually, when I look at the exams I fail because I can't set numbers apart, or when I forget to write my answer, details I neglect, no matter how hard I try, I mess up for some very stupid, very fucked up reason that is not even my fault. Not only in academics, but in life and relationships. I forget nearly everything, I can't stay still in a reunion and most days my brain just turns off all functions and leave me behaving like a squashed vegetable
This has caused me many kinds of problems, from the smallest as losing an appointment, to failing an entire college semester, to being kicked out of my frat and getting homeless in a foreign city, because people just couldn't live with me
And I just feel like a failure, a mistake, and wish I didn't exist, I wish I could die and be reborn as someone else, someone that won't have to face these stupid issues, or never even be reborn at all, I just want to disappear
Everyone else can do it eventually if they try really hard, why can't I? Oh, yeah, my brain is wired wrong, thanks a lot
And the worse? No do-overs for me. No one will provide me assistance when I fail due to my brain issues, they'll throw me in the trash. No one will understand, no one will give me another chance to try again, I'll just have to deal with it the same way normal neurotypicals do, and if I can't do it, well, it's because I'm just not trying hard enough, like the useless, pathetic trashbag I am. I should just stop being lazy and begin to work harder, and if I can't do it, if I'm a such a terrible, awful, disgusting human being, then I surely deserve to be outed of society, I deserve everything that happens to me for not having a normal, 100% functional brain
After everything that has happened this week, my mind issues just sound more and more like an excuse for being idle and dumb, and that I should just quit trying if I'll clinically never be able to make it. I'll never be able to change, or make anything worth it.
#adhd#adhd brain#my adhd#gad#adhd problems#gad problems#confession#tw suicide thoughts#meds#depression#tw anxiety#anxiety problems#anxiety#crippling anxiety#mental illness#mentally ill#mental disorder#mental health issues#my brain is malfunctioning#i hate myself
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I know I fuck up sometimes. I wish I was more easily understood. I don't know how to explain things. Mostly because I don't even know how to explain myself. I posted a tweet on new year. "New year. Same me. New attitude. New approach. New determination." I don't think it's been realized yet that I fully meant that. I'm handling things differently. I'm making moves I've never made before. Everything about this year is different to me. I made a promise that this year was gonna be a great year. I spent all last year suffering, but planning because I knew better days were coming. A hiccup here and there, but that's life. Nothing's ever perfect. So far, everything has gone exactly as planned. Routine's don't stay the same for me. I evolve, I adapt, then I come back better than ever. I change things, I try things out. My whole life I've made a career of changing things. I do it constantly. I always feel like people hate me for it. But what people really hate is change. They get something in their head then expect it to stay the same. I can't offer that. I can't offer continuity when it comes to most things. That's just not how my brain functions. I don't know why I'm wired this way, I just am. One of the reasons I feel like I'm supposed to change the world. I'm like a rubix cube. Only except once you think you've figured it out, the pattern changes. The colors are different. Things will never be the same until I find a version I like that can stay. The biggest conflict of my life is when the world around me follows the same patterns even though I've changed the game entirely. Those same patterns won't work anymore. You have to find a new one that fits the mechanics. And that why I feel like everyone in the world hates me. That's why I probably will never be understood. I won't ever stop changing things until I'm happy with the final version. I make mistakes. As much as I hate to say this, I'm human. No human alive can go without making mistakes along the way. It's an unfortunate part of being what we are. But when you control your own destiny and write out your own story, you're able to fix those mistakes. Or atleast do what you can to re-write your character so that those mistakes seem irrelevant. It's called character development. All I ask for this year, is for people to stop reading past chapters and start reading this one. That's all I want. I promise this chapter is so much better. You can see that in just the first 29 pages. Now imagine what the rest of the chapter will be like. All you have to do is just read along...
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Dec 13
Thought it was going to be time to buy a new microwave, just changed spaces it was using on the power bar and hopefully that fixed things. Even if you don't really think about it change your power bar/strip regularly, they aren't extension cords, they don't last forever. Change your extension cords too.
Nothing like realizing one of the extension cords has paint from your 90s college bedroom on it in the 20s.
If your power bar has a light and the light is flickering or getting weaker it's a sign to change it. And don't overload them either.
Or maybe, Little Walken, you can live in a place younger than you with proper wiring and working outlets. Painted over pipes connected to a metal box outlet attached to the wall have a sort of Terry Gilliam's Brazil feeling. Except they could have pipes that weren't landlord white.
If I get to fancy arting today I have the want to get out the toned paper. If it's basic arting I might do some sketching in the book I keep with the reference pictures of on the loose paper I want to use up. I have a few pics I haven't really tried yet and want to get to.
Part of a Garak and Bashir idea is forming, I want a slight bit more of a logical reason to introduce the Plot Complication, but it would involve Dukat so desperately wanting to be the Main Character in a situation he goes beyond stepping too far to full on striding.
I might get back in to Good Omens for five minutes. I saved several of the more thought out who Crowley was when he was an angel posts from here to sort thru. Samael is a good candidate.
Haven't read the book yet but it helps to know that the death we saw in S1 was Azrael before my brain comes up with any stories.
I have an Azrael mythos for my own original writing and wouldn't want to get my Azrael mixed up with the Good Omens Azrael.
And to get the thought out of my head- When Adam Greydon Reid played the teacher Mr Stoneman on When Calls The Heart at least once he had to get in to Mr Shitler (that was the teacher's name) mode from YCDTOTV in front of the kids and say "Where do they find them and why do they keep sending them to me?"
If you can't stand WCTH and have to scream HOW ARE YOU FUNCTIONING IN 19th CENTURY SOCIETY WITH YOUR HAIR DOWN every time you see it, Adam plays a strict teacher so you know between takes he was lightening up so not to scare them. I strongly dislike kids but I'd be sure to break character between takes so they'd know we're just acting.
At the end the teacher supposedly learns his lesson about not being so strict and gets sent off to another school but you can see the 'fuck you, bitch' in his eyes. It's a melodrama for five year olds without many critical thinking skills.
There has to be at least one something on AO3 but as a writer I actually don't read much fiction.
But go watch Hospital Show.
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How I'm supposed to feel like myself when I can't help anyone. Not even myself. That's the only thing I've ever been—someone who helps. For the past several years I've helped people, sure, but the vast majority of the time I watched people cry and beg and reach out for help I could theoretically offer while I was powerless to actually do or say anything.
I tried, believe me I tried. I'd agonize for hours trying to send messages, spiral in to hysteria because my health was too fucking bad to actually spit out what they needed no matter how hard I tried. I still have nothing. I feel an empty shell. I used to be able to parkour, now I can barely walk. I liked to dress well, now I can barely wear clothes. If I could have anything at all to feel like myself, that'd be nice. I can't be anyone but me, I'm set in, it's too late—I don't want advice. It's rhetorical.
I can't be anyone but me and I'm sick of advice that ignores that.
I'm fighting the temptation to disappear from a lot of people's lives again. Not everyone, of course, certainly nobody who could see this. I don't think they'd notice anyway, though, since I already became a ghost against my will ages ago and stayed there. I've disappointed their image of me. And I'm not feeding it, and I'm already gone.
I'm barely alive still no matter what I do. I can only enter the next phase of our life—the one where my mind is so separate I can't agonize like this anymore. But it's taking so fucking long to figure out how. We spent all that time integrating only to realise that not even that was ever actually ideal for our health but moreso someonelses fantasy of what we need to be, phrased like a truth. Well we function better when we're blind to one another.
I've seen it myself—when we were completely out of control, we made a thought journal. We felt like every line was unrelated to the last as we wrote. We couldn't read it for the first several months of it's existence, only move forward. That was the rule—just keep writing. Don't worry about it.
When retrospect came, they were all far from irrelevant. Scattered, sure, but our stream of consciousness had far, far, far more direction than we anticipated. Frankly if we could have had the health to read it whilst shit was happening—and we didn't not because our methods sucked but because beyond our control our brain remained close to failure as in brain failure as in like heart failure (aka, not an opinion just a medical statement)—if we'd been able to or had someone competent that could have helped us, what was going on would have been abundantly clear.
We've always been smarter when we aren't looking but after a lifetime of being convinced to not trust your brain, taking the leap of faith in yourself is more like a lot of increasingly terrifying leaps of faith that you keep deliberating over.
Not a child anymore so it's never as simple as just working up to it. There's a whole ritual of trying to figure out why you're not running, questioning if you don't actually want this, remembering who you are—someone who never used to question that before they broke you. Months of agonizing until you find the right wires in your head to pull out, the right code to write over, and then when you finally jump off the ledge you stumble. You're horribly out of practice. You make it to the other side, but at a cost due to your hesitance.
And then you have to do it again.
And again.
I want to trust my brain so fully that if it told me I'd be safe jumping off this cliff to whatever was below, and it couldn't explain how it knew, and we didn't have time to check, I'd leap because I trusted that at some point it had seen or heard or otherwise learned something that let it know this.
And this isn't an advice I'm dishing out—its only mine. Trusting your brain is everything but the journey of fashioning a trustworthy brain isn't something I can offer and in the process of being convinced to stop trusting mine I noticed, it manifested all the problems until it genuinely wasn't safe to.
But I know better now, and I don't stomp out his function just because it's scary and I don't understand it. Not anymore. Never again.
If I have to never be capable of knowing the words leaving my mouth, to remember what I'm saying, in order to say competent things—if that's the cost, than I'll accept that.
I'm smarter when I'm not looking.
So I'll figure out how to stop looking.
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My thoughts feel very all over the place and our of control right now I have too much in mt.head and it is confusing I feel angry at so many insignificant things. My head is spinning. I've never been this fucking dysphoric before I feel so shit in and about myself I'm an absolute fucking wreck I've put on so much weight I feel so awful about mysekr even though I know I am healthier now I can't look at myself in a mirror inhate my apperance I hate my hair I hate the fact I feel like I don't have a personality or any sense of self I don't know what I like or how I want to look or dress and I hate it my dysphoria is killing me I'm constantly paranoid about my period starting again I cannot be calm I need to change something about myself binding is killing me it hurts so bad ans icant regulate my temperature and I feel like my T isn't doing jack shit the gender clinic are being fuckin useless I need top surgery ans hysto I feel so out of control of everything I hate it so much I need my chest to be flat I need to pass I need my hair to be good I need to be clean I need to be clean I am not clean I need to be clean I am not taking care of myself at all ans like.i am getting so angry irrationally and protective over how Jakes been treated bad in the past it makes me irate I want to hurt anyone that has ever made him feel any bad feeling I feel so possessive n protective over him lately he is mine and only mine and the fact it's not always been that way is infuriating to me rn. Idk if it's bc he's been sick n I've gone into over protective mode or what but idk. I feel so out of control I duxking hate this I think I need to go back on my meds but I'm not sure. I don't even know who I am anymore any sense of identity is slipping away from me because I try to shove myself into boxes but I don't fit into one certain subculture n it's killing me even tho I know it's literally no big deal but I feel like if I don't I'll get judged and have to be a certain way so I feel like I have no personality of my own and don't know what ahy of my own interests of likes are because I just moulf to people around me and I need to stop smoking but I can't but im almost out of baccy
but it's the only thing making my head shut up and feel calm right now and I literally feel.like I cannot function I am so overwhelmed by everything right now I hate it so much I feel like.im.never seeing Jake right now eieher because he's at work so much and burnt out and I miss him I miss him I don't feel good at all I feel like I am going insane and I want it to stop I've been having really bad sh urges and I've been able to not so far but I'm scared but I've been drinking again and I'm trying to stop because I don't want to get dependent on drigs or alcohol again but addiction is wireed into me because of how severe my fucking ADHD is I can't help it and I need to not but my gp won't give me any of my meds and adult services arnwt willing to help or do shit until I'm 25 bx of my auriam and I dont know what's going on with the gender clinic or Mt t ans I'm so stressed everything feels too much right now my head won't stop it won't be quiet I hate it I cand motivate myself to do anything I'm a failure and a let down and not good at anything and don't even know why I am still here I cabr work im so mentally fucked in the head I can't even get a job I am useless and worthless and my.life feels hoplwss like I'm never going to do ajytbing with it I hate my head I hate my brain I hate myself I have every single little thing about myself I do not feel like a person I feel so far dissociated and depersonalized and derealizeed I feel like a feral animal trapped in a cage scratching and clawinh trying to escape until my skin is raw and I am bleeding I want to rip mt.skin off I donf feel human I am not okay please somebody bwlp me I don't want to wakw Jake up I don't feel okay I don't feel okay I don't feel okay I hate this I just want it to stop I just want to feel okay I want to feel like an actual human being and not an angry terrified animal
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(Written for @azure7539arts, who constantly encourages my ridiculous little spits of headcanon and who also deserves nice things)
See, like
Stephen's hands do work. It's not quite the same as it was (it'll never quite be the same), but he does get by. Meanwhile, there's Tony - Tony who also has a surgeon's hands, really, which he employs on machinery with delicate components and hair's breadth wires, rather than people with delicate organs and fine-line veins, but which fill an essentially similar function
Tony, who doesn't like being handed things
And at first it irritates Stephen because what the fuck? There was a time when Stephen would have killed (quite possibly literally) to be able to take something from someone and be sure he wouldn't drop and break it and embarrass himself. And Tony just - won't? Just because?
"I don't like being handed things," he says. Like that's enough. Like that even means anything. What the hell does that even mean?
Stephen thinks about it. Tries to figure it out, because that's what his brain does - it's restless and detail-oriented and stubbornly curious. He thinks about it and he watches Tony and he doesn't really get very far, but what he does figure out is that "I don't like being handed things" is socially acceptable shorthand for "If I have no choice but to accept an item from a stranger, it gives me severe anxiety"
He doesn't quite manage to ferret out the why, but he does notice Tony's perfect mechanic-surgeon hands shaking when he can't avoid taking a file from an incredibly persistent researcher in the R&D department
So maybe Stephen doesn't get the problem, but if it's posing an issue, it has an easy fix, doesn't it? Sure, why not. The next time someone tries to hand Tony something, all Stephen has to do is reach out his own hand and say "I've got it"
Tony blinks over at him, mouth hanging open and halfway to asking the barista to just put the cup of coffee on the counter. The barista blinks over at him, a little startled by the abrupt statement, but she looks over at Tony, who just shrugs and says "I guess he's got it"
And Stephen does have it. He's more than steady enough to handle a cup of coffee, after all
He puts it down on a table and Tony picks it up, takes a sip, and grins at Stephen even as he hisses at the heat of the coffee. And that's that
Tony is surprised the next time, too, but after that, Stephen seems to have been designated the official recipient of items meant to be handed to Tony Stark, if he happens to be around. Some of the assistants and researchers and various sundry heroes don't even think about it, they just hand the thing to Stephen and nod at Tony.
If it does give someone pause, Tony will always just gesture over to Stephen. "Give it to the wizard," he’ll say, "he's my hands today."
And Stephen would be lying if he said it didn't give him a little thrill of satisfaction every time
#ironstrange#stephen strange#tony stark#doctor strange#iron man#marvel#stephentony#long post#ish#solar wrote
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(I have cropped any personally identifying information out of the pictures for obvious reasons.)
So here's all the information I have at the moment on the Bonus Situation.
* To recap, the bonus projection software has been telling me for a couple weeks now that I would get a $96.06 bonus. Normally in the past this has occurred on the second paycheck of the month.
* Many of us have noticed the bonus projection software not updating properly since about October 4.
* I called IT the other day and filed a ticket about the frozen bonus projections, on advice from a friend on the support team.
* Today, or rather yesterday by the time I'm writing this, I got my electronic pay stub for the payday coming up this Friday, and discovered that it was unexpectedly short, specifically because the bonus listed on it was $12 instead of $96.06.
* I emailed my supervisor about the shorted bonus. She has forwarded the email up the chain of command but has no firm information yet. We will not both be at work again till Sunday, so I will hear no more from her on the issue till then.
* Later in the afternoon, I received the above email, from the admin in charge of the bonus projection software. Several things are hinky about this email. To wit:
* "The data for the M[onth] T[o] D[ate] numbers has been paused as of early this month because they are used for the calculating of the monthly bonuses, which is still being worked on." I am not here to criticize Mr Admin's grammar, but to point out that this is a blatantly flimsy excuse, for the extremely simple reason that there is a whole separate tab for last month's bonus data, and in fact that tab is still fully functional and showing my $96.06 bonus! It is this month's daily tracking of bonus data which has been frozen.
* Granted, if one were to admit the concept that the bonuses were still being calculated, it could be taken to explain why I'm only getting a $12 bonus on my paycheck. However, the bonuses were calculating themselves in realtime for the whole of September, and the last metrics finalized themselves on October 7. In the week since then, I could have calculated the bonuses for the entire bloody company using nothing more than my smartphone calculator and paper if I was given a paid 40-hour week to do it in, let alone having a software that was already displaying the answers!
* Also, you know, the software has never before needed to be frozen while last month's bonuses are "calculated", let alone a week after the metrics were finalized. And it has always previously told me accurately whether it was going to send me a $500 bonus or none, or something in between. This is, in short, fishy.
* Mr Bonus Admin goes on to state, "You should still be able to access the daily values" (I can't), "but the monthly ones will not update, and in fact should now not show up at all, until the work to change the scorecard and bonus structure is done. That activity should hopefully be done next week."
* The other picture besides the email is the completely blank screen where my outdated bonus projection resided until today. The one about the metrics I'm currently getting for October, not the one about the $96.06 bonus I was supposed to get for September, which may I remind you is still quite visible.
* "Your numbers are wrong? Boom, NO MORE NUMBERS! There, I fixed it." XD
* The referenced "work to change" the software has not been announced to workers at my level in any way, and no changes that could possibly involve shutting down the whole system have been made or announced. I am frankly Suspicious.
* Other agents have also said things about missing bonuses or confusing bonuses. One supervisor announced that the bonuses would not show up till our Halloween paycheck, which I could hypothetically swallow, if I didn't have a $12 bonus sitting there in black and white on this week's pay stub. Seems like there's a lot of misinformation floating around right now. (Also a certain amount of what smells very like disinformation.)
* So, lacking any information what is actually going on, and faced with an email that would have to put on black tights and a domino mask to look any more disingenuous, my brain is going for all the wildest explanations, like "The system has glitched out completely and is assigning random bonuses to everybody, and they're frantically trying to cover while they get it fixed", or even more dramatically, "Maybe the company can't afford to pay all our bonuses and is retroactively revamping the bonus system, and it was supposed to be done in time for payday but they're running late, and also maybe they really are only going to give me $12". That seems slightly less likely though because they did just give me, on the same paycheck, $28.08 in backdated raise.
* I'm also stressing the fuck out about bonuses in general because I had a really bad stats day today. A disgruntled gentleman (whose account was legitimately pretty thoroughly fucked by a previous incompetent agent) gave me a low survey, which busted me straight down from the $2/hour bonus tier to the 50¢/hour bonus tier. If my other numbers are really good for the whole rest of the month I can maaaaybe struggle my way back up to the $1.25/hour bonus tier. :P
* I also only took 9 calls today, averaging a half hour each (not counting outbound callbacks after various calls dropped), which fucked my call length for the month from the truly astonishing 795 seconds I'd been running, just under the wire for an additional 50% on top of my bonus, all the way up to 901 seconds, where I'm barely scraping by under the cutoff for having my bonus cut in half. I'd have to come in under 700 seconds every day for the rest of the month to recover from that, and I can't recover from the flunked survey at all.
* So, you know, I've gone from expecting a $96.06 bonus on Friday and hoping for a $474 bonus next month, to getting a measly $12 bonus, a runaround from tech, and maybe a $79 bonus next month if my numbers don't get any worse. It really feels like a kick in the gut.
* (If a fucking miracle happened and I wound up with upsells over $30 a call, non-repeating callers over 86.5%, and an average call length under 930 seconds, I could hypothetically get a $197.50 bonus. Or if I also managed to squeak my surveys back up above 82% good... okay, that's only one more good survey and no more bad ones, it could happen. More likely, my upsells wouldn't quite hit $30 and any further good surveys I get would go toward making up the difference. But if I had both my repeat callers and my upsells excellent, I'd only need one more good survey -- assuming no more bad ones, obviously -- to squeak back up to the $2/hour tier for a hypothetical bonus of $316.)
* The trouble with that being that I don't... I don't know if I have any faith anymore that I'll actually get my bonus as projected? Like I can't think of any way that mysterious and unspecified "work changing the bonus structure" mid-month combines with an inexplicable $12 bonus to work out in my favor. I feel like I'm bracing for a slap.
#eletelephony#how to care about your future when you don't think it exists#i legit haven't even managed to calculate my budget out#to see if i can make November's rent with my paycheck being shorted my bonus#and normally numbers are so comforting and give me a sense of control#but like#I'm just too depressed and fucked up#like if i can't fucking trust the numbers to follow the rules then what's the use of anything?!#*cries quietly*
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Tony has to stay awake for a very long time for some reason, and when he finally is allowed to rest, he physically can't, so the rest of the Avengers (but especially Steve) take care of him until he can.
With two hours to deadline, Tony finally managed to unsnag the last line of code and send it through. A new smart AI bot, one designed for searching and detonating IEDs so soldiers wouldn’t have to, whirred to life and aimed its tiny periscope cam at him inquisitively, awaiting input. The right mix of AI–not so sophisticated that army programmers could turn it into an offensive weapon, but not so improbably slow that it failed to do its job. Three iterations ago it’d tried to bring the dummy bomb to Tony, and that was clearly a no go, so he’d started the code from the bottom up and programmed until the edges of his vision went blurry. It needed testing. Testing.
“Find,” Tony grunted and the bot happily rolled off to the mock test range. “Not perfect,” Tony murmured, slumping down against the table to watch. “Just functional. Just need you to do your job. Can tweak later.” It’s little treads bumbled across sand and rocks, grinding a little in a way that, just for a moment, sent Tony back five years in time. His fingers clenched compulsively at the table before he forced himself to let go.
In the sandbox, the little bot scanned back and forth with infrared and ground-penetrating sonar and blessedly, beautifully, it located the payload. The shovel arm activated and started digging. Tony nearly wept.
Time slowed to a molasses crawl as he watched and waited. The digging mechanism had to be calibrated just so. Too much force might set off the bomb prematurely, and while the bot was built to withstand most of the explosives it would encounter, the goal was also to mitigate as much damage as possible to save on long-term costs. At last the bot pulled his dummy bomb and began sending back data.
Tony swiveled to watch the bot’s feed, studying preliminary analysis from the computer’s suppositions and looking to see how close it got to guessing right. There needed to be human input at this stage to verify and validate, but if he could get the bot ‘s guesses at least 80% accurate, it would save soldiers precious minutes of exposure and danger in the field.
Line by line the profile appeared: likely composition, likely blast radius, size analysis, potential solutions. Not bad little bot. It wasn’t gauging size correctly–something was probably off in the camera aspect ratio, but that was easily fixed. Tony typed back orders and watched with eyes that felt on the verge of shriveling up into dried peas as the bot began procedure. It pried away the main engagement plate and started snipping wires. Beautiful. As dexterous as he’d hoped. And the test was going much better than last time, considering last time the bot had run right over the dummy bomb and technically blown itself up.
The bot finished the last of the disarmament protocol and swept its camera again, asking Tony for permission to return. He glanced at the clock. Hour-and-a-half to deadline. Beautiful. With a flick of his wrist, he typed in the commands for return, charging and self-diagnostic. It would be enough. It had to be. Tony needed it to be because he’d been awake…slowly he blinked at the clock and tried to focus. The numbers blurred in and out before sharpening and he sucked at his teeth. He’d been awake way too long, that’s what he’d been.
“J, lab’s yours. Get the specs and test footage to Pep and tell her to work her magic. Do not disturb orders on my quarters for the next four hours. I don’t want to hear or see anyone or anything unless the world’s ending, and even then, tell them to see if they can get Johnny Storm first.”
“Of course, Sir.”
Tony stumbled his way to the elevator, finally allowing himself to make the jaw-cracking yawn he’d been biting back for the last four hours. Now that the code wasn’t right in front of him, now that he had allowed his brain room to think of something other than the next string of numbers and letters, it felt like his bones were turning to concrete. His feet dragged and his fingers hung limp at his sides. The raw puffiness of his eyes seemed to get worse, especially when he stepped out of his dim lab and into the blindingly bright elevator.
JARVIS brought him to the penthouse without a word, and Tony emerged into a seating area lit only by the New York skyline. Late then. Late enough that the city seemed quiet. Maybe so late it was early. Tony had just been looking at a clock. Why couldn’t he remember what time it was?
On dragging toes, he slumped his way through the living area to his bedroom. No Steve. The bed was made, the sheets military flat. Tony would miss Steve’s body heat, but they didn’t always share a bed, so it wasn’t like he had any right to be disappointed or lonely. It was fine. Or at least it would be fine once was he was horizontal.
With fingers stiff and swollen from hours at the computer, Tony slowly peeled away his T-shirt and fumbled his way through his jeans’ button and zipper, shuffling out of the denim rather than pushing it away. He was afraid to bend over, what with the way his head was swimming.
“Getting too old for this, J,” he murmured, staring forlornly between the bed and the bathroom. He could go to sleep without brushing his teeth. It was an option. But he’d regret it when he woke up. He knew that much.
“With all due respect, Sir, perhaps it’s time to bring on a secondary R&D assistant.”
“Who’s,” Tony yawned over the “oo” and tried again. “Who’s gonna keep up with me?”
“I already have a list of several likely candidates, Sir. There’s a young woman at MIT, up-and-coming, who seems particularly promising.”
“Yeah? Well, put together a profile. Maybe–” another yawn “–maybe I can get to it tomorrow.” For a moment, Tony had to lean against the sink as his whole world tilted forward. He grit his teeth and waited the dizziness spell out, and then he picked up his toothbrush, smearing toothpaste on it at a snail’s pace. He brushed slowly, steadily, telling himself just a little bit more. Just. A little. Bit. More. And then it was down. His teeth were sort of clean. Enough to be bearable anyway. So he shuffled for his bed. It was almost as bad as being rip-roaring drunk, though at least this wouldn’t result in vomiting come morning.
With a final burst of energy, Tony flopped forward onto his mattress, groaning as his nose took more weight than it deserved. He barely had the energy to slither under the covers, but he forced himself to do it, jamming his feet (still in socks) down toward the bottom of the bed.
“Sleep” he whispered, turning onto his side and snuggling down. The sheets were cool and the scent of mint was in his mouth. Nice, beautiful sleep.
…
…
He’d thought, with the way his body felt, that he’d drift off right away, but from his nest under the covers, he felt suddenly wide awake. Wired awake. His leg started jumping a little, a nerve twitch in his calf that just wouldn’t go away.
“It’s just nerves,” Tony mumbled. Stupid contract. He didn’t want Hammer Industries getting it. Not Bain either. They’d try to weaponize it and that would be bad. Very bad. Had he checked the color protocols against the video footage? What if the bot had identified the wrong colors? What if, in the dark, it couldn’t make out color input? Tony hadn’t designed a night vision camera. Maybe he should–
He shook his head sharply. No. This was not the answer. There was plenty of time for tweaks later. What he needed right now was sleep. Even he could recognize when he was beyond being of any use to anyone, and he was there right now, already a lump of sleep-deprived meat.
“Sleep,” he said again, now a command. As if to make it a reality, he shifted in his bed, turning onto his other side and pulling the blankets into a tight burrito around him. He closed his eyes and tried to focus on his breathing. It was all going to be fine. Just get some shut-eye and then work on tweaks. And Clint’s arm guards. And a stronger stretch material for Bruce’s pants. Something flame retardant.
The night wore on and Tony tossed and turned, but his brain couldn’t seem to shut down. He could recognize it, in a distant sort of way. Nervous thought spirals that took him further and further down the rabbit hole. When he’d gotten them as a teen and in his twenties, he’d self-medicated into a stupor, but he knew how Steve felt about that. Tony was better than that, now.
So instead he tried every trick in the book. Counting sheep. Counting breath. Imagining he was a melting snowman. Tensing and relaxing focused muscle groups. Listing the periodic table. He never got far though. The thought spirals intruded again and again. For hours he fought it until, rumpled and so dry he felt like a corn husk, he peeked out from beneath his blanket and saw that the sun was rising.
“What the fuck?” he whispered, pressing his fingers into his eyes.
“Sir?” JARVIS asked, quietly, almost hesitantly.
“J, blinds.”
“Sir, shall I–”
“Blinds, please.”
The windows tinted to matte gray, trapping Tony in darkness. That made it so much worse. So so much worse. Without the ambient city light, he was in space, in the suit, falling, dying, alone. With a desperate wheeze, Tony whipped away his blankets, looking down at the arc reactor, touching its smooth face, pressing his palm to it to feel the steady thrum beneath. Too much. Too damn much.
Heart pounding in his chest, Tony rose and stumbled out of the bedroom into the main room. If he couldn’t sleep, he damn well wasn’t going to stay in the dark. He weaved back and forth to the kitchen, eyes on his feet, so of course he he ran straight into someone.
“Tony?”
Clint. That was Clint. Should’ve recognized the dog PJ bottoms. Tony blinked up and flinched when Clint took a literal step back.
“Holy shit, man, what happened?”
“Couldn’t sleep. Can’t sleep.”
There’s a clunk of glass on marble somewhere behind Clint, and with great effort, Tony raised his head. Oh god. They were all there. Team breakfast. Was it Sunday? It must be Sunday. Fuck fuck fuck.
Bruce was the first to move again, standing from his chair at the table. “Tony, you’re not looking so great. When was the last time you were able to sleep?”
“Uh…”
“JARVIS?” Nat asked, bypassing him completely.
“Sir has been awake for sixty-two hours and forty-seven minutes.”
“Jesus, Tony,” Clint breathed. Tony realized Clint’s hand was on his shoulder, but he couldn’t remember how it got there.
“Tried,” he said, tongue thick. It was hard to get the words out. “Tried last night. Laid in bed. Counted. Stuff. Couldn’t.”
As though a whistle had been blown, the team leaped into action. Clint slung his arm over Tony’s shoulders and turned to look at Steve. Nat was already at the refrigerator, pulling out a gallon of milk. Bruce brushed past them both going…Tony wasn’t sure where. He blinked and when next he looked, Steve was right in front of him.
“–ony? Tony?”
“Sorry. Can’t. Word.”
“That’s ok, Tony. We’re going to get some food and water in you and Bruce is getting you something to help you sleep. Then you and I are going to bed.”
“We are?”
“Uh huh.”
Clint steered Tony into a chair and a moment later, something heavy fell over his chest and legs. He looked down to see a length of heavy red fabric. Thor’s cape. He was wearing Thor’s cape. And under that he was…naked? Except for socks. He was still wearing socks. Not naked.
“Here Tony. Can you drink this for me? Got you a straw to make it easier.” Nat set down a mug of milk in front of him, and he nearly dropped it when he touched the ceramic. He wasn’t expecting it to be warm. But still, he sipped at it through the straw, trying to answer Nat’s quiet smile with one of his own. He didn’t feel like smiling. Or drinking. But he forced himself to. Something inside him slowly began unclenching.
“Here Tony,” Steve said, setting down a bowl of oatmeal with banana coins on top. “Try eating a little for me. Just enough to help settle you.” Tony tried to reach for the spoon only to have it swim just out of grasp. Like an eel. He frowned down and tried again but it stubbornly remained out of reach.
“Spoon’s swimming,” he muttered out loud and tried using both hands. Only Clint at his side managed to keep the mug of milk from becoming a disaster as it dropped away.
“Ok, buddy,” he murmured setting the mug out of reach. “Let me help you with that spoon. They’re tricky, I know.” He helped wrap Tony’s clumsy fingers around the spoon and then guided him through the first few bites of oatmeal. It was nice. Not too sweet. Not too hot. Warm and grounding in his stomach. He blinked and realized Steve was there, looking down with that sad smile that wasn’t quite a real smile, that little pinch of skin between his eyes.
“Good, Tony. How are you feeling now? A little more settled.”
He wanted to respond, he did, but he could barely keep his eyes open anymore.
“Ok, Tony.”
That was Bruce. Bruce was back. “I brought you some melatonin and mild muscle relaxant. I know you prefer not to have that kind of thing in your system, but you’re so keyed up, I worry you might not get to REM before your muscles wake you back up again. Will you take it for me?”
Tony nodded and opened his mouth numbly, feeling the soft acrid weight of pills on his tongue. Someone put the straw back between his lips and he swallowed convulsively. It was so nice and warm. He almost believed sleep was possible.
And then he was going up. There were arms under his shoulders and knees, a furnace of heat against his side. Thor’s cape draped over him in what was probably a ridiculously dramatic affectation. He would’ve laughed if he could’ve.
“Do not disturb orders. Nat, if there’s an emergency, you’re in charge.”
Was this what flying felt like? No. Tony had flown before. Flying wasn’t as soft as this. He cracked his eyes. When had they gotten to the bedroom? The bedside light was on, and in its soft orange halo, Steve was undressing, He glanced over and caught Tony watching. “Hey. Hey, you’re doing great. Just close your eyes for me. I’ll be there in a minute.”
Tony could feel a thought spiral pressing at the back of his brain, but he closed his eyes anyway because Steve had asked it of him. A moment later, the bed dipped behind him and there was heat at his back, a great swatch of warm naked skin.
“Just gonna help you relax a little more. You just keep your eyes closed ok. Go to sleep if you can.”
Steve hands were on him. Smooth, strong, sure. And then he started kneading. Gentle squeezes along Tony’s triceps, soft circles across his shoulder blades, firm strokes along his lumbar and glutes. The warmth seemed to shoot straight through him, setting off some sort of chemical trigger in his brain. Little by little, his limbs melted into the mattress.
“Great job, Tony. You’re doing great.”
Tony wanted to tell Steve he was great, he was sweet and kind and caring, and Tony loved him. He wanted to tell him all that. But his tongue was melting into his teeth and his eyes couldn’t stay open anymore. Under Steve’s gentle massage, he finally, finally slept.
#fanfiction#writing#tony star#steve rogers#steve/tony#stony#hurt/comfort#insomnia#avengers#rosefyrefyre
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