i've had this floating around in my head for months now

anonymous asked:

I've seen you say a couple times that you don't see or that you're disabled. Do you mind talking about it? I ask because I am an aspiring writer and it is really hard for me. I wanted to know how you managed or what it was like?

I don’t mind talking about it. It’s something that made me who I am.

When I was about 12, my health sort of started to eat itself. I suddenly had a ton of allergies, and there were days I couldn’t get out of bed. I got sick all the time. In freshman year of high school, I suddenly couldn’t see. For a long time a thing had been going on in my eyes, but I guess I didn’t think it was abnormal until it made it impossible for me to see. Basically this hole was kind of growing in my eyes, but it was more like a rainbow.

When I started having trouble with colors and detail vision, my mom freaked out a bit, because at the time, I was an award winning artist who had ideas of going to college for art. Then I started tripping over things, hitting my head, having trouble with depth perception. Then I got sick, and I mean sick.

I spent about 23 hours a day in bed. I had almost constant migraines. I had pain in my entire body. My skin turned yellow. I went to every kind of doctor you can think of and was tested for everything there is. One day, I had about 12 vials of blood drawn. No one knew what was wrong. The eyes weren’t that big a deal at first, because it seemed like I might have something really serious. The first couple of eye doctors I went to kind of looked at me and said “Oh it’s nothing big.” I actually had one guy tell me that my brain was just shutting off my eyes because I wasn’t using them properly. Yeah.

Then finally, my mom took me to a friend of our family who happened to be an eye surgeon. She did a free exam. I’ll never forget it because it was the first time anyone believed me. I’d been told by doctor after doctor that there was nothing wrong with me. I’d been referred to therapists, told I needed depression meds, told I was just going through a phase or needed attention. Then this doctor put on her head gear, looked into my eyes…took off the head gear…got new head gear…looked into my eyes…took off the headgear…got hand held tools…looked into my eyes…and then stared at me with her mouth hanging open.

“I can’t see the back of your eye,” she said. And suddenly the world simultaneously healed itself and flipped upside-fucking-down for me.

Then it was all about my eyes, the one symptom we could see happening. The one that was the most dangerous. But by then it was too late.

What happened is pretty simple: I apparently have some weird recessive DNA. It triggers certain bizarre immune issues at puberty. My immune system decided to attack my body. The eyes are a delicately balanced system. They show symptoms first. My immune system attacked them with a vengeance. They swelled up like balloons. Normal eye pressure is about 14-17. Mine was at a 22 at its best. It put a tremendous amount of pressure on my Retina, specifically my macula, cutting off blood flow like when you sit on your foot. You know those little shadowy things that float across your eyes? They’re called protein floaters. My eyes had produced so many of those that the doctor could not see through them. It was a fog.

They had to find a way to map my eye, to track the damage. Cue the eye exam from hell. I have always been, even before my autoimmune disorder, deathly allergic to melon. Any kind of melon. But now I was allergic to all sorts of shit, fruits vegetables, all kinds of crap. My dad is allergic to contrast dyes. So when the retinologist suggested this dye-based eye exam that is kind of like a CAT scan, my mom said “no”. See, they inject you with this dye and then they flash this weird light in your eyes. It causes the dye to glow, and then they can see the things through the fog. My mom told them I was too sensitive to stuff for that to be safe. The doc assured her they’d put a butterfly in my arm, meaning the vein would be kept open, and a syringe of benedryl was set on the counter. They’d never had anyone react, and they needed the pictures or there was nowhere to go from there.

So they put this dye into me, and it was like I’d been injected with fire, but there was no way around it, and to me, I knew they only had about 90 seconds to get the images they needed. So I sucked it up. finally the burning began to spread. Suddenly my back felt like I was being stabbed, and I suddenly couldn’t speak. I tapped my hands on my mom, then began sneezing spontaneously. My mom lifted my shirt, and I had quarter-sized hives. The nurse said “Stop sneezing on the camera”. Yeah.

My mom went ballistic. The doctor flew up the stairs and gave me the emergency meds. I slid into a dissociation state and nearly out of my chair. They had to prop me against the camera for the next couple minutes and reinject the dye. No other way, you see.

They did this test every few months for a few years.

But then there was treatment. Not much they could do, except try to get the swelling under control. Only way to do that was corticosteroid injections in the eye. Yup. A needle in the eye. No, they don’t knock you out. They numb the surface of the eye with the same numbing drops they give you for the exams and then they come at you with a needle, tell you to look down and to hold still. And you fucking do.

I was 15 when that started.

I went to experimental clinics, labs, and joined studies. I dropped out of those. Why? It’s pretty simple. The first day I came to the exams, I was kept waiting for over two hours. I was taken into a room. I was left there. No information, no talking. Suddenly a man came in followed by a group of people, all in lab coats. He started moving me around like I was a doll and talking like, “The patient presents with…the patient this, the patient that…”

I shoved him back and said, “The patient’s name is Kristina, and she is 16.”

He finished his exam, and when he left, after the students had gone, he took two Q-tips, dipped them in that pink shit your dentist uses to swab your gums before an injection, and SHOVED them under my eyelids with a cocky smirk.

The patient will never be an snotty little bitch again, I guess.

So yeah. Fuck those guys. They gave me two injections in one day, which no one had ever done before, because it was almost impossible to function with two pimple-like bubbles on your eyeballs.

Still my health was bad. Then all of a sudden, when my mom had given up, It just wasn’t anymore. Suddenly, I was fine, and all that was left were the eyes. I went back to school, except now I was blind.

In a few months, I’d lost about 80% of my perfect vision. I was photophobic. I got horrible and constant headaches. I walked with a cane. And not a single fucking teacher believed me, except my civics teacher, who had gone blind at a young age due to some other weird eye disorder, and my physics teacher who was deaf. I had teachers send me to the office for wearing my sunglasses (with a note on file). I had teachers get on my case about having an audio recorder and CD player for my books. I had teachers call me names, make fun of me, make me leave class to photocopy their notes larger, so that I missed the lecture the notes were on. I had teachers take my medications which had to be in my possession because of their time-sensitive nature and constant administration and hide them in their desks as punishment for asking questions or demanding help. I had classmates pick on me, but luckily, I was well-liked, and I was an officer in the ROTC. I even excelled there in spite of my vision, because my Captain believed in my leadership skills.

I always tell this story because I think it is funny. We had this special boot camp we got to go to if we were in the upper ranks of the ROTC. If you joined the military after high school (which I could never do) you got a higher paygrade for having gone through it. Almost like taking a couple JC classes in the military. It was grueling and all physical fitness, obstacle courses, PT, classes, guard duty…fucking blah. Our unit was allowed six participants. I sort of figured that it wasn’t really fair for me to go, even with my high rank (a company XO). To my complete fucking shock, my Captain recommended me to go, cutting out a classmate (and ex) of mine who was higher in rank. The boy went ape-shit. He went on and on about how unfair it was. He even went to the school board. My Captain made his reasons clear; he told them that the academy isn’t about military sponsorship. It’s about skills and quality. He didn’t care if I had a disability. In his eyes I had more innate ability than anyone there because I had worked so hard just to be where I was. The boy was angry. I told my Captain I appreciated the gesture, but honestly, we ought to make it fair. I told him that we should train to meet the PT standards, and that if this kid could make his, but i couldn’t make mine, he should go. I made mine. He didn’t. He complained about that too. At the last minute, we were told one extra person could come because another school had lost one. So he came anyway. The whole time he bitched about me being there. When I got there, the real military officers gave me shit like you wouldn’t believe, because they weren’t used to dealing with disabilities or recognizing that they can’t discriminate against high schoolers by law. The commander of the unit tried to dress me down in front of everybody for wearing sunglasses. I was pretty pleased with myself for telling him off but still sounding respectful. He kept saying “Take off my glasses”. I told him they weren’t his. They were mine, by law, and that if he had a problem with that, he could consult my attorney, the DOJ, and the doctor who prescribed them. He tried to fuck with me. I didn’t say anything except to ask him if he wanted me to have a migraine, because that’s what taking the glasses off means. He was so confused by me he walked away and called my Captain over. There were words. After that, he came up to me once or twice, almost like a test, to ask me if I needed him to slow down or if I was getting around alright. He wasn’t being nice. He was egging me in a condescending tone and with very bullying language. He’s a drill instructor, and you know what, that’s his job. I told him I was fine. But I made a decision: I wasn’t just going to make the female PT marks. I was going to test out of this fucking place at the male PT marks. And I fucking did. That boy…had an asthma attack on the track (I had asthma too, but I worked my ass off while he coasted on his “boyness”) and failed. At the certificate ceremony, the commander came up to me and said I had really impressed him, and that it was a shame I couldn’t enter the Navy. I thanked him, but what I wanted to say was, “Go fuck yourself and take the NAVY with you”. I ended up the Battalion XO Senior year. This would have given me a guaranteed spot in Westpoint if I could have taken it. My Captain cried when he told me he was sorry he had to give it to one of our Company XO’s. I told him that it was best for everyone, because I am not the type of person to enjoy taking orders. I had learned that about myself.

He laughed.

Around Junior year I got people to pay attention. My doctors got the DOJ and the Social Security people involved. A woman came to my school and enforced compliance in a tone of voice I’d never heard anyone but my mother use. She threatened to rain brimstone down on them if they didn’t give me what I needed, and things changed.

My parents wanted me to take a full scholarship to a local school, but I wanted to get away. So I did. I wanted to travel abroad, so i did. And when I was 19, they perfected one of the surgeries they had been working on the entire time I’d been struggling with this.

See, the injections had brought and kept the swelling down, but that meant that the fog was still there (since ocular fluid doesn’t replace), and the structures in the eye had been stretched all to shit, and were laying in my eye like melted plastic wrap. The old surgery was like a blind man hacking with a machete, but the new surgery used fluorescent dyes to track movement. Dyes that wouldn’t kill me. The old surgery had a 50-50 shot at complete loss of vision and made you lay on your face for three weeks. The new was fool proof and took 45 minutes. So, I got one eye done. They swapped out all the fluid and replaced it with saline. They peeled the distorted membrane off the macula. They stitched up my eyeball and gave me a sick metal eye patch. Looked like a fucking space pirate. It was rad.

But the blind spot is still there. The cataracts caused by the steroids are still there. The scars are there.

A few years later I had the other one done too.

My college was great. It took a lot of work getting all my reading done, about 500 pages minimum, per week, done via audio. I used to spend hours at the pool table in our residence hall, listening to my books and practicing. I got pret damn good too, at pool. It was difficult taking notes or working with a note taker. It was scary traveling by myself. It was hard to get people to understand there wasn’t anything WRONG with me. Just that my eyes don’t work even though it seems like I’m normal and fine, and like they should. People always think to be legally blind you have to be completely blind, and they think you’re not going to be able to defend yourself. I’ve been targeted by pickpockets. I’ve been followed by scary dudes. I’ve been treated like shit, laughed at, and accused by full grown adults of faking to get privileges, all because I can look at the place where their head should be and smile at the blank spot there. All because I can walk down a flight of stairs with a few neat tricks I know that have nothing to do with a cane.

But shit…you probably didn’t mean to ask for my life story. I’m going to get back to the point. My writing. What has it done for that? Like how can you be a writer if you can’t fucking see? Technology. It’s been amazing. I can use a computer same as anyone. The Kindle has been a fucking revolution for me because for the first time in a decade and a half I could read without pain and suffering. Just…all the things it does have made life so much easier than it used to be. It got me out of bad relationships with people who used my disability as a control. It gave me a little bit of confidence back. It helped me know I could handle myself.

And really, I think my vision loss had a lot to do with my writing. In some ways it gives me different perspective, sure, but it’s more than that. I was undeclared when I entered college. I didn’t know what I wanted to do. I thought about history or sociology. My mom had a degree in that and she was an English teacher. I wanted art history, but what the fuck was the point in that? Couldn’t see a damn thing. And then I had a class in poetry, and shit…That made sense. I’d always loved language and writing. Always been okay at it. Dorte stuff but never thought about doing it for a living. But then it was like yeah…yeah I’m gonna fucking do that. Just like when I decided to meet the male PT standards.

If it is in you. If you love it. If it defines you and possesses you, it does not matter how fucked up you are. You will find a way. You don’t have a choice. You are that thing. And you’ll adapt. You just have to let yourself. You have to keep pushing. You have to learn how to handle frustration. you have to train yourself into stamina. You just keep going. I’m nowhere near as successful as I want to be. I’m still going. I hope I get even better. I hope I can say things that make truth more obvious, or that help people put words to things they have always wanted to say.

I don’t need my eyes to be a fucking firestorm. That’s just me. Eyes don’t mean shit.

So keep going. Keep doing whatever you need to. Do it better and better. Bend yourself around it. People who see you struggle will think they’re lucky, but you and I know the truth: they’re not even close to the kind of strong you are. Not even a little bit.

anonymous asked:

Do you know of any College or coffee shop AU sanvers fics? I think I've read literally everything sanvers that you've written (all of which have been amazing - so thanks a billion and one times!!)

I have a bunch of college ones, but here, have a coffee shop and college one!

She can’t quite figure out if the girl’s hair is red or brown or something in between.

She can’t quite figure it out, but she knows she gets jealous of the girl’s own fingers when she rakes it through her hair distractedly as she’s studying.

And she’s always studying.

It’s like the coffee is incidental, like the people coming and going around her are incidental.

She’s always studying.

Always studying, her lips moving slightly as she pieces through a particularly difficult equations.

Or, they look like difficult equations, anyway – looks like astrophysics, to be precise – whenever Maggie passes by to bring lattes and mochas and cappuccinos to customers nearby the studying girl with the tantalizing hair color.

The tantalizing face. The tantalizing body. The tantalizing way of moving, of muttering to herself. Of taking her glasses off – god, those glasses – to rub her eyes every now and again. The tantalizing way of focusing, focusing, so diligently. 

It’s been a week, now, that she’s been coming into the coffee shop Maggie pays the bills in between forensics lab and political science class.

It’s been a week, and Maggie doesn’t even know if she’s into girls, but dammit, she’ll never forgive herself if she doesn’t try. 

Because there’s something about this girl. A pull. An irresistible pull. 

And Maggie can’t help but wonder if it’ll work in the other direction.

She waits until Alex closes her textbook – she was right, it is astrophysics – not wanting to disturb her brain flow.

“Excuse me,” she says, voice so low, so constricted, that the girl doesn’t hear her. She curses internally, clears her throat softly, and repeats herself, louder this time.

The girl looks up.

“Oh, I’m sorry, do you need that seat? Here, I can move my stuff, I – “

“No, no, you’re fine, I’m sorry, I just – hi. I’m Maggie.”

The girl blinks and takes her glasses off, and god, are her eyes gorgeous.

“Alex,” she says, confident but unsure why this girl – this really, really, really pretty girl – is talking to her.

Maggie turns the name over and over in her head, and decides that she needs to taste it on her own lips.

“Alex,” she repeats, and she revels in the feeling. “Well um, I… I don’t mean to be a creep, but I work here, and you’ve been coming in here a lot this past month, and I… I am… rambling. Sorry – “

“No, no, you’re fine. Usually I’m the one rambling around really pretty girls. Not that I’m calling myself pretty, I mean, I was… I didn’t mean…”

“Were you saying I’m pretty?” Maggie asks, her voice nearly cracking.

“I… it… I mean of course I was, have you ever looked into a mirror, Maggie?” Alex asks, and Maggie decides she never wants to hear her name come from anyone else’s lips again, because god, does it sound perfect when Alex says it.

Alex, Alex, Alex.

She blushes deeply when Alex’s words sink into her skin.

“I… I just wanted to know… well, if you ever wanted to get coffee when you’re not studying astrophysics – I’m in forensics, myself, so see, maybe we’ll have stuff to talk about, science and all – I could take you… out. Take you out. To coffee. Or not. Or whatever you wanted. I – “

“I would love to, Maggie. Go out with you.”

Maggie remembers how to breathe. “I swear I’m usually not this rambly.”

Alex laughs, and it’s the most gorgeous sound Maggie’s ever heard. “I swear I am usually much more rambly than I am now. My little sister will be proud. I’ve managed not to make too big a loser out of myself.”

“You couldn’t be a loser if you tried.”

“Get to know me first before making that judgment, Maggie,” Alex chuckles, and Maggie blushes again.

“I’m trying to!”

Alex bites the inside of her cheek and puts her glasses back on, staring up at Maggie for a long, flirtatious moment that has Maggie forgetting every word she’s ever known and every thought she’s ever had.

“Well,” Alex starts, breaking eye contact but not breaking the spell. “I have to go pick up my sister from high school, but uh… when you want to see me again… outside of all this… you let me know, alright?” 

She presses a napkin with a phone number and her name, hastily but carefully written, into Maggie’s hand.

“I will, Alex. I will,” Maggie promises as Alex gathers her things and blushes as she stands.

“Good,” she almost whispers. “See you soon, I hope.”

“You will. You will. Alex.”

Maggie whispers her name like a prayer, and clings to the napkin like a saving grace.

She floats the entire rest of the day, and, across town, so does Alex.

anonymous asked:

I've been seriously traumatised by a comic book. I need some family fluff, don't even care if it's canon or an AU.

Less ‘family’, more ‘fluff’ in this case, Anon:


‘Follow the steps to the stars’, the note read, its linked script almost perfectly written across the cream page.

Climbing the steep steps, Claire tucked the last cryptic clue into the front pocket of her jeans. She had spent nearly half the night happily trotting all over Glasgow in search of these little snippets, each one more difficult than the last.

But knowing him as she did, it wasn’t hard for her to break the code and find the next.

With Valentines fast approaching, Claire had been eager to know what had been planned for her, but he had been incredibly savvy this year and had managed to keep it all a secret until the last minute.

She had started on the bench by the Clyde where they had first met all those months ago, worked her way through the city to the Glasgow Museum of Modern Art where he had taken her to a very strange opening on their first date and into Queen Street train station where they’d had their first kiss. He had carefully hidden all of his wee notes, a tiny Lindt chocolate buried in the centre of the paper –her favourites.

Now, twenty clues down and one to go, Claire found herself hiking through the very desolate mausoleum, the stars twinkling in the sky above her. Just as the clue had described.

Burrowing her frigid hands into the fur lined pockets of her coat, she pulled the thick material around her chest, her scarf dangling around her neck, swaying to and fro in the light evening breeze.

Ahead she could hear the light fluttering of music as it floated through the air towards her, guiding her forwards. The beautiful melodious piano cut through the silence, gradually getting louder and louder as she turned the final corner, weaving through the larger tombs as the ostentatious crypts began to dwarf her.

Reaching the central shrine, Claire’s heart picked up pace, the cold air prickling the back of her throat as she swallowed.

There, written in candles across the risen grass mound at the base of the thick brick tomb, lay a message that stole the oxygen from her lungs and caused moisture to spring in her eyes.

“Oh…my…” she sighed, her hands shaking uncontrollably as she pulled them from her pockets and rubbed her eyes, as if she might suddenly wake up to discover that it had all been a dream.

“It’s real, Claire,” Jamie whispered, stepping out from behind the crypt, a fresh bunch of chrysanthemums sitting prettily between his clasped hands. “What do ye say, sassenach, will ye?”

Glancing between the glowing words and Jamie, Claire shuffled her feet in the gravel, the sound of the crunching echoing in her ears as she breathed in a number of jagged breaths.

“But w-we’ve…” she began, trying to steady the thrum of her pulse.

“I ken that, aye? But does that really matter?”

Shaking her head, Claire closed the gap between them, letting the tears fall as she placed her cold hands over his warm ones, sniffling as she tried to find the words.

Behind them the small tea lights sparked, the wind dancing through the flames of the message that read:

‘Claire, will you marry me?’

Jesus…H Roosevelt Christ, Jamie Fraser. You’re mad. And I love the bones of you…”

“So, is that a–?”

“Yes,” she interrupted, not wanting him to impatiently take her acceptance from her, “it means yes, of course, yes…always *yes*.”

30 Seconds

“Some brother you turned out to be! You care more about your dumb mysteries than your family. If you want it so much, then here! You can have ‘em!”

“Stanley, Stanley no! Help me!”

“What’d I do? No! What do I do?”

“STANLEY, HELP ME! Stanl-“ Ford managed to throw his journal at his brother before being ripped from the room and pushed through the portal, blue flames erupting around him, electricity racing through his system, overloading every thought he’d had before. He was suspended in the flames that held him, gravity still reversed and causing him to float through the portal. He struggled to breathe, no air for his lungs to accept. Just when he thought he couldn’t stand it a second longer, he was thrown by another force so that he fell forward, gravity welcoming him to the cold, hard ground. Coughing and wheezing, he was thankful for the air but disoriented.

“I can’t believe it, you’re finally here!”

Ford looked up and saw an old man down on one knee, holding his arm out with a smile a mile wide. Gaining control of his breath, Ford rocked back on his heels, unsure of the man before him. He tried putting his arms in a defensive position, but he was still struggling to understand his situation to really pose a threat.

“What’re you looking at me like that for, Sixer? It’s me. Stanley.”

Ford’s eyes widened.

“I finally got you back, Stanford.” The old man was reaching his hand out towards Ford again. He didn’t know what to say. There’s no way this man could be his brother he was so…old. His voice too gravelly.

The man seemed to finally sense his hesitation was not just surprise. His smile drooped some and he lowered his arm slightly. “Sixer? I know it’s hard to believe, but it’s real. I’m real. You’re here again. It’s been a long time, I know, but I finally got you back.”

“You can’t be Stanley. Stanley’s not even 30. You’re too old.” Those were the first words Stanford spoke.

The man picked up his hat and ran a hand through his hair before replacing the fez back on top. (Was that Pa’s fez? How did this man get it?) Abruptly, he started taking off his suit jacket. Then he began unbuttoning his dress shirt.

“What—what’re you doing?” Ford asked.

“Do you remember the last thing that happened with you and your brother, Stanford?” Ford shuddered. He and Stanley had fought viciously over one of his journals just before Ford had accidentally been pushed inside the portal.

“Do you remember what happened to Stanley during that fight, Sixer? Do you remember kicking out and watching your brother be burned by the portal’s controls?” The man had succeeded in pulling off his dress shirt. Ford stood up, staring at this man, amazed at how much he knew. Had Stanley told this man what to say?

“I remember. I tried to apologize, but it just made things worse.” Ford put one hand to his neck, ashamed at what he had done to his brother.

“I remember too. And that burn? That is a daily reminder of the fight.” And with that the man turned to the side so that his right shoulder showed. He pushed the right sleeve down so that a marking could be seen. It almost looked like a tattoo, but Ford could clearly see it for what it was: a burn, healed over for many years, but a brand in the skin of this man in the same place Ford had inadvertently branded his brother a few minutes ago.

“That scar…that’s the mark that would be on Stan’s back. How–?” Ford shook his head. No. This couldn’t be Stanley. He’d only just been pushed through! How could so much time have passed and yet it feel like it was nothing for him?

A hand reached out and caught his arm just as he would have crashed to the ground. Another hand snaked around so it held both shoulders, cradling him to the ground softly. Ford felt light-headed, dizzy, confused.

“Stanley, no—I can’t believe this. How…?”

“I don’t know, Sixer. But we can figure it out, together. I spent the last thirty years of my life trying to get you back. I’m not letting you go now.”

Ford nodded and closed his eyes. He could face the questions pouring into his brain later. He could ask Stanley everything later. For now he gave in to the inky darkness at the corners of his mind. He passed out, unaware of the few tears that dropped from Stanley’s face onto his, tears that signaled joy at his return, and a fear of what their future would hold.

So, Prison Break will be back in a matter of hours.

And to a lot of you, that may mean nothing. 

But it means a hell of a lot to me.

Prison Break first aired when I was fourteen. I don’t remember much about the night itself, but what I do remember is kicking up a real fuss when my brothers outvoted me on the choice of programming, the two of them commandeering the TV remote and forcing me to watch the pilot of this new prison show instead of the episode of House that I had apparently very much wanted to watch at the time. After that night, though, House certainly never took precedence in my schedule ever again, because I had fallen hard for Prison Break in a way that I never had with a show before (or since), my soul already eagerly sold to it before the credits were even rolling on the first episode. 

For the next four years of my life, it was my obsession, my joy, my greatest love, the one thing I could talk endlessly about (particularly any part related to MiSa, my OTP of all OTPs), and the mere thought of which would always make me happy. It led me to my first fan forum, to amazing friends (who I am still in touch with to this day), and also brought me into the world of fanfiction, which in itself became (and remains) a hugely important part of my life. 

As it went on, the show not only taught me life lessons like sacrifice and making difficult decisions and taking responsibility for your actions; it also taught me about myself, and what I wanted and valued and believed. And, as with any show that truly pulls you in, the characters were always far more than just actors spouting lines– they were like family to me, and I celebrated and struggled and grieved with them through four incredible and traumatising seasons. I genuinely cried more tears for them and their pain than I ever did over anything else in my own (obviously very fortunate and privileged) life. 

The same year that Prison Break ended, I graduated high school and was accepted into medical school, a career that I had chosen for several very good reasons, not the least of which was because my still-forming teenage self had looked at Dr Sara Tancredi and had seen exactly the kind of woman I wanted to grow up to be. About five years after that, I was freshly graduated as a doctor, and finally got the chance to meet Went, Dom, and Sarah at my first Comic Con, and was able to thank them in person for the beautiful thing that they had helped create, and which– in Sarah’s case in particular, of course– had helped to create me. 

Today, I’m exactly a month shy of my twenty-sixth birthday, and have been a doctor for almost two and a half years, having even worked briefly in the prison system during that time, among many other things. I may not have the posters hanging on my wall anymore, and the cardboard box full of memorabilia and carefully folded cranes might be tucked away in a closet out of sight, but even still, this show has never left me. It’s in the “Be the change you want to see in the world” ring that I’ve worn every day for the last nine years. It’s in the tiny origami flower that has been tattooed on the back of my left ear since I was nineteen. It’s in the crane that was tattooed on my left wrist two years ago in Chicago, with those same old forum friends beside me, all coming together for the first time in our ten-year friendship to visit the city and the prison that had been the setting for the story that had brought us into each other’s lives. But even more than the marks on my skin, its mark is still inside me, a permanent building block in the foundation of who I am. 

In the last eight years, there’s only one thing about this show that I’ve always regretted, one thing that I have literally wished (on shooting stars, four-leaf clovers, birthday cakes, 11:11, dandelions– you name it, I’ve wished on it) that I could change. Of course, I know that happy endings don’t always exist; that reality is hard and cruel and whatever, so supposedly TV should be too. But that never stopped me from wishing that there could have been just one more happy ending out there to give to this story.

Then, about two years ago, something happened. Stars– both astronomical and celebrity– aligned. Whispers like ‘reboot’ and ‘season 5′ floated around, and then suddenly, startlingly, my dream had started looking like a possibility. A possibility that eventually turned into a miraculous definite, the confirmation followed by months of filming and promoting that I promptly did my very best to ignore or hide from, because I was convinced that if I thought about it too much– let myself hope too much– it would somehow all disappear again; would revert to being merely an elaborate fantasy that I’d concocted in my head, a silly fangirl’s headcanon to rectify her OTP’s heartbreak as well as her own.

But tonight, it’s all becoming real. Tonight, for the first time in eight years, I will turn on my TV and see my character-family again; will experience that old feeling afresh. And though there’s certainly always the chance that the new season will somehow be a disappointment, or will only add more pain, it’s a chance I’m so very willing to take.  

A chance that I’m so, so grateful even exists.

So, if you can, tune in tonight (9/8c on Fox). Even if you’ve never watched before, even if you think that frankly I’m probably just overhyping it and it’s actually nowhere near as great as I claim. Do it anyway, and show the network and showrunners that what they have done means something to the viewers out there– to the people like me, who got far more from this show than just a fascinating story, who might have been a very different person today if they’d managed to wrestle the TV remote off of their brothers on that one night a dozen years ago. And who knows; a success for Prison Break now, like with The X-Files and Gilmore Girls before it, could mean reboots– and therefore justice– for even more beloved shows down the line, and even more opportunities for other fans to re-experience the things that helped to shape them into who they are.

And, well, this moment may have been eight long years in the making– but whatever happens, it was worth it.

1o3o1  asked:

Keith listening to Kuron's logs from The Journey.

more logs! haha


The universe delivers Shiro back to them in a tiny Galra battleship. The months past have left their mark on him, but Keith doesn’t care. He brushes greasy hair aside to peer into Shiro’s delirious eyes, and would’ve kissed him right there and then if the man didn’t need immediate medical attention.

Shiro looks tired and empty in the cryopod, Keith thinks, head tucked against his shoulder and long hair falling to cover half his face. But Coran promises he’ll be out in a day. Sighing, Keith takes another look at Shiro’s unmoving form and exits the room.

He’ll return, later.


The familiar corridors of the castle feel a little less empty when he knows Shiro’s returned, but Keith doesn’t know where he’s headed until he finds himself in the main lab, where Pidge is busy dismantling the Galra ship. It lies in tiny fragments in front of her, and what looks like the tail end of the ship is currently plugged in to her computer.

“Hey, Pidge –” She looks up, but Keith is staring slack-jawed past her. “I-Is that Shiro’s voice?”

“Hm? Oh, uh.” She fumbles to switch the speakers off. What she’d heard had been more heart-wrenching than helpful, and if the crazed look on Keith’s face is any indication, it’s best not to rile him up even further.

“It’s just the ship log; there’s not much on there.”

“Really?” Keith takes another step closer, frowning at the setup before them. “What if there’s clues? Helpful information? Give me a copy. I need to know what he’s been through!”

“Uhh –” Pidge doesn’t normally let herself be pushed around, but when Keith’s voice breaks into a shout, she reluctantly thumbs to the series of recordings. “Here. I can copy them to your tablet. And there’s honestly nothing really –”

“Thanks.” Keith’s curt voice shuts her up. She watches, dismayed, as he sprints back out, clutching the tablet like a lifeline.


There are seven recordings on his hard drive. Seven for … seven days, it seems. But Shiro’s been gone for far longer than that … Shaking his head, Keith presses play.

He’d thought for a moment about where to go before finally deciding on the privacy of his bedroom. He doesn’t want to look at Shiro until the man stops resembling a broken puppet in suspended animation.

[Pilot log. I am one day out of Thayserix. I've…]

Thayserix. Keith blinks. They’d been there, just recently, and Shiro’s depressed tone is further indication.

[… lost visual and radar contact to Voltron.]

The small ship wouldn’t have had a very powerful radar. Keith wonders if Shiro had been floating, lost, in space. He presses his cheek against the pillow, focusing on the broken words reverberating in his ears.

[I am four days out from Thayserix. No food or …]

Shiro sounds bitterly tired, a sensation echoing similarly in Keith’s core. He hopes there’s an IV feeding nutrients into his body right now.

[… No signs of anyone.]

Keith’s throat tightens. Unbidden, he sees a vast desert wasteland and a single, lonely spot in the distance, the only proof of civilisation. At least Shiro wasn’t alone for long. Just –

[… seven days out.]

Seven days too many, seven days too late sevendaystoo–

At least he’s back, Keith thinks. At least he’s safe, and whole, and. Keith wipes away a sniffle. He has to be presentable for when Shiro finally wakes.

(feel free to send me more fic prompts)

ao3: catpoop

kofi: x

anonymous asked:

Ok now I'm super excited :)my hs au prompt included: smoking behind the gym (or smwhere idk I've never done it), being partners for a project, studying in a library, one late night adventure..But the same problems and past they have in canon..

(AN: same warnings as canon? but no graphic violence. this is the first part of probably three, but i wanted to split it because it’s getting long/i didn’t want to post too much at once. i’ve branched off the prompt a teeny bit by messing with andrew’s backstory a little but i hope you like it!)

Every day that Neil has stuck around in California has been one day too many.

It was too much, in those first few days, to think about leaving behind the memory of his mom and that last, desperate night. He made it to San Francisco, tracked down a family contact, and then took random buses until he stumbled into a seedy motel in Oakland.

But then…he had no fucking idea of what to do next, did he?

Keep reading

I am so angry

I got attacked by a mob once.

I was a kid; sixth or seventh grade, and we were having gym class outside. It was cold, so I wore a coat. Nobody else wore a coat.

The teacher walked away for a minute, and that’s when it happened.

There wasn’t any signal, nobody said anything, but they surrounded me, and somebody forced the hood of my coat up over my head and somebody yanked the drawstrings of it tight so that it covered my face and I couldn’t see, and then they all pushed me around, laughing.

I dissociated. I felt like I was floating, all the fear I was feeling somehow distant.

And then the teacher walked back and they stopped. He must have seen, but he didn’t say anything. None of them got in trouble. I never told anyone about it because I thought it had been my fault for letting it happen. I should have fought back, I thought. I should have been strong enough to stop it. It was my fault.

For years afterwards, I never wore a coat.

I’m grown up now, stuck in the same small town where all of those people still live, and you know what they have? Guns. I’ve seen pictures of the permits, up on Facebook. Concealed carry.

I feel guilty, though, for being frightened. Illinois was a pretty solidly Democrat state—although I think a lot of the democrat votes come from Chicago, and I live in a very rural area.

But it’s not as if I’m visibly queer. I have long hair; I look like a cisgender girl. I’m not dating anyone; I’m only out as bisexual and genderqueer to a few people. I’m white. Logically, I’m relatively safe—as safe as anyone who looks like a woman can ever be.

And it’s not as if I see those people anymore, the ones from the mob. I stay in the house, mostly, and don’t see anyone, really, except my family: grandparents, cousins, aunt.

They voted for Trump.

My cousin has a baby shower coming up this Sunday—how am I supposed to go to it? How am I supposed to look these people in the eyes, these people who say they love me but think people like me are less than human?

I bite my tongue, second guess everything I say.

What a gorgeous woman, I say, when an actress comes onto the television screen, and then I wince.

I flinch when people use the wrong pronouns for me.

My mother says she has so much trouble remembering because she has to call me she in front of our family.

Just tell them, she says. What’s the worst that can happen?

My grandfather used to take me for boat rides when I was a kid.

He has a Trump sticker on the bumper of his truck.

They love you, my mother says.

My cousin taught me to ride a bicycle, to tie my shoes.

Voting Trump, she said on Facebook. Who’s with me.

He tells the truth, my thirteen-year-old cousin said.

What truth is that? The truth that people like me should be given electroshock? Or the truth that little girls like you are old enough for grown men to fuck them?

I am so angry.

Our family has lunch together every Sunday. At one of the lunches a couple of months ago, they had a discussion about how ‘homosexuals’ had ‘ruined’ the words gay and queer.

And there I am, in the corner, shaking.

I don’t go to those family lunches very often anymore.

They love you, my mother says, it’s not as if they’re going to disown you.

But I don’t want to be their fucking exception; I don’t want them to have to ‘overlook’ my queerness or ‘forgive’ me for it. Love the sinner, hate the sin—what sin, the sin of my existence?

I am so angry.

You act paranoid, my mother says, you act like you’re afraid for your life.

And maybe she’s right. Maybe I am paranoid. Logically, I know, I’m relatively safe, but I can’t help but feel that the teacher has walked away for the next four years.

I know the rules now, though: don’t wear a coat, if nobody else is wearing one. Smile when they call you she. Don’t glance at pretty girls. Bite your tongue. Present as your assigned gender.

The thing is, I don’t want to have to do that anymore. I want to be visible; I want to feel like I exist. Do you know, I didn’t even realize it was possible to be queer until I was twelve fucking years old? I learned it from a fantasy novel. I thought it was a misprint, at first, the main character and the love interest having the same pronouns. I had no queer role models growing up, because everyone I knew who was queer was closeted.

I am so angry.

I am tired of hiding; I am tired of feeling afraid.

I am so angry. 

I am so very angry.

In the Water

Hi!  rueli suggested a souharu aquarium au and I went a little overboard. 

In which Sousuke is a custodial worker and Haru is obsessed with fish. 

ao3

About 8k.  Thanks to sittingbesidetheriver and pride-of-storm for helping me with typos and stuff!

After graduating high school, Sousuke Yamazaki dropped everything and left the country on poorly planned journey to find himself, much to his parents’ chagrin.  Armed with the money he’d managed to save working part-time jobs all through high school, he made his way from Australia to Europe, working odd jobs when he could and taking in the various cultures, while struggling to learn the languages.  

But that could only last for so long, and at some point, Sousuke had to come home.  

He doesn’t regret the decision he made to leave Japan after high school. College has never appealed to him.  The people he’d met, the places he’d seen, and the things he’d learned; all were invaluable experiences.  But that doesn’t change the fact that now he’s a broke twenty-one year old without any actual goals for his future.

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colossalmass  asked:

What is intern year like? I find it difficult to picture due to shows like Grey's Anatomy and Scrubs. :) I once started to read a book called The Devil Wears Scrubs... but I've decided I would really like to hear an actual personal account of someone who's been through it. Please & thank you. <3

Lucky for you I have an Intern Year tag (see also: July 2012-June 2013 in the archives) for you to peruse and get a little taste of what my intern year was like.

But let’s do a little timeline, shall we?

July: You are clueless. You did not realize quite how clueless you really are until now. Two months ago when you got that lovely piece of paper with your name in calligraphy you thought you were the jam and you had this whole doctoring thing down. Now you know the truth. You are clueless. Everyone around you thinks so.  You aren’t dumb, but you have no idea what you are doing here. No one taught you how to fill out prior authorization forms or how to write a prescription for a handicapped parking tag. Your EMR makes no sense. You feel that you will never be as smart or as confident as the second or third year residents. But you will. 

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