2
Soul Survivor

He tried to make it as a joke, but he is breaking inside. There is nothing funny about this for Dean, you can see it by the look on his face, the way he lowers his eyes, the way he turns around and he can’t even look at Cas while asking this. Just today he tried to hurt his brother in every way possible, psychologically and physically. Those moments will haunt him forever. And while he knows it wasn’t all him, he also knows that it wasn’t entirely not.  

anonymous said:

idk if this is a dumb question, so im sorry if it comes across as trite or insensitive but which phase of bipolar disorder do you find more tolerable? Like do you feel depression or mania more bearable or easier to handle? xx

I don’t experience full blown mania, but my hypomanic episodes are easier to control with medication and don’t last as long as the depressive episodes thereby. I don’t find the ‘ups’ particularly enjoyable either because I quickly become hyper-vigilant and extremely agitated. The depression I am more used to and generally frightens me less. I tolerate it now better than I have done previously and am not as at risk as I was when I was a teenager. Also when I hit periods of wellness they can also be grueling because I feel like I’m just waiting for the next cycle to take over. That makes me anxious. 

i hope wash has a worn-out leather jacket in the back of his closet, well-used and well-loved, with patches sewn into it and creases at the joints from a familiar pair of shoulders and arms that used to fit perfectly into the soft interior and bend it into place — but wash doesn’t wear it, doesn’t touch it, but treats it with reverence when he has to move or clean it.

and it’s only after he and carolina have been with the reds and blues for years that the jacket catches carolina’s eye when she walks by wash’s empty room; she comes in, touches the smooth black sleeve with hesitant fingers, almost as if she can feel the warmth of the arm that used to fit inside.

wash finds her there a few minutes later, sitting on the edge of his bed with the jacket in her hands, the leather pressed to her face, her eyes closed; when she finally hears wash in the doorway, she looks up and smiles, bittersweet with nostalgia: “it still smells like him.”

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