pill cocktail

anonymous asked:

Dude. Please show me your headcanons on bipolar Victor. Please..

tbh i need the vent so

  • Victor is all up and ups and ups!! Always pushing himself that extra notch, always losing himself for hours, always going and going even when Yakov asks him when the last time he slept was. The last time he ate, took a shower, STOPPED! 

  • And then the ups stop and Victor lies in his bed numb. He can’t move, he can’t think…has it been an hour? two? Three? A day? He hears Yakov pounding at the door, but the pull to sleep is stronger. The fog is so thick…it’s in his muscles, his blood, he swears even his heart is beating slower. 

  • It comes to a head when he’s doing an interview going on day 5 of 2 hours of sleep.. His eyes hurt, his brain hurts, even his teeth hurt. The interviewer croons about how beautiful he is. Somewhere during it the fog returns so heavily that he slips. Falls out of the chair mid question on live national TV. 

  • “A cold.” Yakov says to the media. 
  • “Type 1 Bipolar disorder.” Says the doctor through too perfect straight teeth. 

  • The year following is a mess, and Victor’s reach for gold takes a backseat to reaching out for balance. Getting his body used to sleeping, to eating, to the constant going going going in his head being replaced by calm. The silence is deafening at first. Boring. He wonders if his body was always meant to be faster than everyone else’s. 

  • A puppy is bought at four am from a breeder 16 hours away. Victor wheedles the keys out of Yakov under the pretense of new skating gear. Makkachin makes a mess out of the car 4 times before he hits Saint Petersburg. 

  • The dog makes him have routine, and makes dates beside practice matter. Makkachin whose first trick is ripping off the covers and nipping at Victor with still sharp milk teeth. Whose yips make him move faster than any alarm ever did. 

  • The alcohol cabinet gets taken out a week after he settles into his own apartment finally tired of the suffocating eye of Yakov who will never get it. Who only sees pills that make him fat, lethargic, and a useless brain in a now useless skater.

  • Chris a week into their second turn at senior together toasts cider to Xanax and Lamictal. 

  • Then Victor is in his 7th year choking through another cocktail of pills wondering what’s going on. He has been up for 2 days when he boards a flight to Japan. He’s burning so bright he wonders if he’ll melt the island when he touches down. Instead he meets Yuuri who cools him down. 

  • Yuuri who toasts xanax in his own way while talking through a mouthful of his own cocktail of stability. 

  • Who calls Victor’s therapist on skype a month after his last missed appointment, and who let’s Victor all shaking energy cling to him as he goes over their new plan. 

  • Sometimes Victor can’t sleep and Yuuri can’t either so they curl up talking until the sun comes up. 

  • Sometimes Yuuris too slow and Victors too fast but that’s ok because Yuuri holds Victor tight enough before he can run into a tattoo shop, and Victor is bluntness kills the anxiety before it sends him into a spiral. 

  • Sometimes Victor and Yuuri get tired of knowing they’ll never be normal. Get tired of carrying this forever weight on their backs…put then they remember they’re not carrying it alone. Not anymore. 

anonymous asked:

some rainy day cuddles as they are getting over an emotional argument

@imagine-2d read this bc I know you’re feeling shitty. I’m love you wifey, hope you like it

Rain patters against the window sill, and you hug your knees as you stare out at it, lost in thought. Typical English weather. You had been planning to catch the first train out of here to stay with a friend of yours yesterday, but the rain had come as suddenly and quickly as it always does, flooding the tracks, delaying and cancelling trains left, right and centre, trapping you in the house.

In a way, it was good. It meant you and 2D had had time to talk over what had happened two nights ago, when he had stumbled in at 4am, drunk off his arse and high as a kite for what to you felt like the last time you could deal with it. You’d yelled and screamed at him, and he’d snapped and yelled back, and then practically collapsed in the middle of the kitchen floor while projectile vomiting half digested pills and foul smelling cocktails.

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I wanna talk about gender confirming surgeries for a second:

There’s a ton of information on the internet for those seeking surgery, but I don’t think there’s enough to prepare a person for the pain, emotional trauma, and sometimes irreversible damage that can be done to a person seeking gender confirming surgery.

I’m an agender AFAB (assigned female at birth) nonbinary person who recently got top surgery and suffered some complications. I developed a hematoma immediately after getting surgery, but this isn’t a rare occurrence (my surgeon told me there was a 1 in 100 chance of this happening). I was warned of complications like these prior to surgery, but now I have realized my dysphoria definitely clouded my judgement of how a complication like this could affect me.

I don’t regret my surgery at all; I’m very happy I did it, but I was caught off guard by the helplessness, the pain, and the emotional trauma I endured to ensure my recovery.

Top surgery can be brutal: my whole body is swollen and discolored and my arms have minimal function. The tightness and pain in my chest is constant and my recovery will not be swift. The cocktail of pills I had to take left me extremely weak, sick, and unable to eat. In the first week of recovery I’ve needed help doing everything: using the bathroom, sitting up, sometimes even drinking. The helplessness put my already unstable mental health in danger, and I found myself having some disdain for the chest I’ve desired my whole life.

I still have yet to get a look at my chest as ‘normal’ (due to it having to constantly be covered and when it’s not covered, it’s swollen, bruised, and not too pretty), and I now know it may take months for that to happen. Surgery is very serious business, and while many may have positive experiences, the risk of negative ones is very high.

I want to use my experience to help others who may have some doubts or fears about gender confirming surgeries know they aren’t alone and their feelings are valid. And to those who may not realize how serious and scary it can be to be more aware of how much this decision can impact your life - it’s not just positively.

And to the trans & nonbinary allies: please support your loved ones who decide not to get any surgeries, because they aren’t required to validate any identity and some people feel the cons outweigh the pros.

TL;DR: Gender confirming surgeries are serious and can have complications, so prepare your bodies mentally & physically if you choose to have one. And if you don’t have any: there’s absolutely nothing wrong with that. Your body has nothing to do with your identity. ❤️

After Dawn

Chris: When the nightmares get to be too much, he gives up on sleeping and walks around the house, trying to forget the sound of a head leaving a body as he limps on a leg that never really healed. Guilt fill his mind more thoroughly than newly-prescribed antidepressants, and sometimes he wonders if pressing a gun to his temple would be easier the second time around.

Ashley: Sometimes she can’t remember what really happened - between her friends’ cries of fact and her therapist’s of fiction, she spends her days in a haze from a cocktail of pills. She stares out the windows too much and into peoples ’eyes too little, and slowly forgets the days when she didn’t know what people looked like as they burned alive. 

Sam: During the winter, when the cold seeps into her bones, her hands start to shake and she forgets how to breathe. The scent of burning flesh and blood linger in her mind like an old friend, and only occasionally does she react with an extra handful of anxiety medicine. She takes up climbing and running again as though her life depends on it - often, she forgets it doesn’t.

Mike: He learns to swallow down the pain, the biting remarks and panicked flinches. The battle scars turn into stories to tell at the parties when he’s high as a kite on a mixture of weed and acid, because only then can he pretend for a moment that it’s all okay. The hangovers hurt less than the memories, and it’s easier to sleep with a head full of booze.

Jessica: Sometimes the memories seem clearer than the world around her. She flinches from touch, remembering the feel of claws raking against her skin and the sting of shattered glass in her face. Everything from that night shares a connection in her mind: snow, sex, her boyfriend; she avoids them all. She covers her scars with foundation and on good days, even remembers to smile.

Matt: He forgets what it’s like to sleep in the months afterwards, using his nights to burn himself into the ground. Football practice, jobs, homework, clubs - his 4.0 doesn’t hide that bags carved beneath his eyes, but it tries. He’s okay in the way a war veteran is; his smiles are bright, his laughter comes with ease, but sometimes he finds himself leaning off the edge of a groaning fire tower that no one else can see.

Emily: She learns to embrace denial like a lover, spurning friends and family and offers of therapy like she doesn’t care that they’re offering. Paranoia follows her every step, and she forgets how to love almost as much as she forgets to eat. The smell of meat curling her stomach in ways she doesn’t know how to admit. She learns to wield ‘bitch’ like a shield, and covers herself with in on all of the sleepless nights.

Josh: He doesn’t exist - not really. Nameless, faceless, none of it is real. Hunger gnaws like a blade to his stomach, aching burning, oh god it burns. The world exists only in bursts of light. He feasts. He forgets. He is and then he isn’t. His sister caresses his cheek. He dies as he is born.

That My-Teenyass-Veins-Weren’t-Usuable-So-They-Kept-Fucking-Poking-Me-Until-They-Finally-Gave-Up-And-Conceded-To-Give-Me-My-Cocktail-In-Pills-Of-Prednisone-Reglan-And-A-Muscle-Shot-Of-Toradol brand of #HospitalChic

Also known as, Thank God I’m One Of The Few People Who Actually Sees Results With Oral Metoclopramide

Also known as, Thank God My Medicaid Is Finally Going Through

I swear to the gods of health, at the end my doctor was in so much sympathy pain from the needles and the fact that I had been suffering from a migraine there for five hours (busy night)  on top of the seven hours I’d had it before I threw up and went to the hospital that he was practically begging me to just accept an opioid and be over with it, but I didn’t want to risk a rebound.  We colluded on the above instead

Not seen:  That Burning, Stinging Hole In My Thigh Where They Stabbed Me With Toradol


A little much too put in one drink but I didn’t give a fuck.  I mixed it with a soda an hour ago and it definitely mellowed me out.

This powder consists of; 4mg’s Klonopin, 1mg Xanax, 5mg’s Valium, 200mg’s Vistaril, and 35mg’s of Hydrocodone (with Acetaminophen of course).

'They fell in love, didn´t they?' - 'Yes they did.'- Fanfic

Dan x Phil One Shot

The sun is shining through the window, warming his face with what are probably going to be last pure beams of sunlight. It is late autumn and the year is slowly dying, just like he is. He can feel it in his aching bones and muscles and through is fading sight. He takes his medicine, a cocktail of pills and capsules and almost immediately feels a little better. A little relief for his heart which isn´t working properly anymore. He looks outside the window again, watching the last leaves falling of a tree nearby. He feels tired of this life and incomplete since his best friend died. He hears the backdoor being opened and his little grandson comes running into the kitchen.

“Grandpa, grandpa! My car isn´t working anymore.” He yells excited and hands him his Toy RC. The old man takes a quick look at the car through his thick glasses. He turns it on and off again, but the car makes nothing more than a dying humming noise.

“Ah, don´t worry, sweetheart, I can fix this.” He says tenderly. “Just go and bring me my screwdriver from the cupboard in the hallway.”

The boy quickly runs into the hallway and the old man can hear him rummaging in the drawers, followed by a loud bang as he closes them. The boy comes back into the kitchen, holding the screwdriver in one and an old photo in his other hand.

“Grandpa?” he asks curious “Why is there a picture of two boys in your drawer?” The old man slowly walks over and takes a look at the old photo. A big smile brightens his face and brings back a radiant shine to his hazel eyes.

“I´ve once known them! But that was many years ago.” He explains, still looking at the faded photo.

“Really? I want to hear about them!” The boy has already forgotten about his car and urges his grandpa to tell him about the two pale boys.

“Well, let me think for a moment. Where do we begin our story…?” Murmurs the old man more to himself than to the boy, while slowly walking over to his rocking chair in the lounge. The small boy follows him, patiently waiting for the story to begin. He climbs onto an old armchair, while the old man sits on his rocking chair, letting out a relieved sigh. He slowly starts rocking back and forth and eventually starts telling the story.

“Now, I think we have to go all the way to the year 2009. The boys had known each other for a while, skyping for hours, but never met until the 19th of October 2009. It was one of the best days of their life. Finally meeting the person they shared all their secrets with, the person to whom they felt closer than anybody else, the person that understood and accepted their personality with all its flaws and weaknesses. It was the very next day they filmed their first YouTube video together. It was the start of something truly amazing. Some people said, they were like night and day. Well, I´m not sure about that, for all I know is, that when they were together they did shine brighter than the breaking dawn after a raging storm.”

“They fell in love, didn´t they?” the small boy interrupts the old man, excitement and fascination glowing in his eyes.

“Yes, they did.” He replies and he can´t help but smile.

“What happened next?”

“They moved in together. They lived in Manchester for about a year before they moved to London in August 2011. All this time they kept on making YouTube videos. Their community grew more and more over the years and they build a world of their own around them. They hosted a Radio Show, they wrote a book, and they went on a worldwide tour. But they never forgot how they started, how they first met and most of all they never forgot they could never have done it without having their soulmate by their side. And over the year’s life happened. They built a home, got married and started a family. It got a quieter around them and one day, they said goodbye to the internet.”

“Grandpa, you didn´t tell me their names. Who were they?”

“Well, sweet Dil, their names were Dan and Phil.” Says the old man almost ceremoniously. The boy lets out a surprised ‘Oh!’ that is followed by a painful recognition in his eyes. He jumps from the armchair and crawls on the lap of the old man. He hugs him tightly, his short arms not being able to reach around the tummy of the man. “Do you miss Grandpa Phil?” he whispers.

“More than you can imagine, little Dil, more than you can imagine.” He whispers back, while tears slowly run down his face. Dan hugs his grandson and keeps on rocking back and forth, trying to find comfort in the steady rhythm. He thinks about the life he had with Phil, knowing it was a happy and fulfilling one. 


~And will I tell you these three lived happily ever after? I will not, for no one ever does. But there was happiness. And they did live. ~ Stephen King

Endangered (16/25)

Updating these chapter links is starting to become a chore. Also there’s pesterlogs in this one.

Part 16 of a Dirk/AR AU fic where androids are wiping out the human race one at a time. Warning for emotional manipulation, etc.


Chapters: 1/2/3/4/5/6/7/8/9/10/11/12/13/14/15/16/17/18/19/20/21/22/23/24/25

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This is where you fall, this is when you get up, this where it all begins.

This was never going to be a fun trip, exactly. But Clarke didn’t think she’d be quite literally down in the dirt. And yet here she is, her new suede boots sinking ankle-deep into mud, wondering what the hell she was thinking when she decided this was the best way to uphold her Dad’s legacy.

But of course, she wasn’t thinking much at all when she suggested checking out her Dad’s more adventurous investments during the last board meeting – she was acting impulsively, out of anger and irritation and possibly misplaced protectiveness. It’s been six months since Jake Griffin, founder and CEO of Griffin Incorporated, died of a heart attack, and already it seems all his decisions, all his plans and ideas, are up for debate.

And so, after the board of directors spent the better part of an afternoon trying to undo everything Jake has done with the company over the past two decades, they moved on to his slim portfolio of small, harmless passion projects with the clear goal of ruthlessly cutting them off, and that’s when Clarke exploded and snapped that she’d look at the businesses herself.

Which has brought her here, to Middle-of-Nowhere, Montana, with a rented car that she can’t drive properly and clothes that are altogether unsuitable for the wet weather and muddy ground, getting increasingly desperate about this whole pointless endeavour.

It has, at some point, seemed to make so much sense to do this. She needed a break from the city anyway; from running into Lexa in the elevator every other day and functioning only after downing a cocktail of pills and having conversations with her mom that barely extend past questions about the weather and their schedules. Travelling around the country to check up on all the strange investments her Dad made in recent years seemed like a good plan, at the time.

Jake Griffin was never reckless with his investments, but he did always love an underdog. So, apart from the shiny portfolio full of sensible, profitable investments, there was a folder hidden away on his computer with the small amounts he invested on the down-low: in quirky internet start-ups and independent movie production companies, hotels off the beaten track and tiny companies that produce food so healthy and sustainable it’s basically impossible to make a profit off. Those projects weren’t losing the company money, or at least not significant amounts of it, but they weren’t going to make a fortune either. They were his passion projects, Clarke knows, the ones his heart was really in, and maybe seeking them all out is her attempt to reconnect with her Dad, of finally getting a handle on her grief.

So far, she’s not sure how well she is accomplishing that goal. The people she visited before coming here – two start-ups and one health food company, all in the LA area – were all perfectly nice, eager to continue the partnership, but they hadn’t really known her Dad. Apart from one or two short visits, their contact had mostly consisted in Jake transferring money and the companies sending reports.

Her hopes have been higher for the last place, a cattle ranch far, far off the beaten track that her father sometimes talked about. According to the info she’s got, they produce organic meat at exorbitantly unprofitable rates, and it’s pretty clear that, without her Dad’s help, they would have gone under long ago. Clearly, there’s something he saw in that company, and Clarke has been getting more and more excited to see it on the long drive here.

So far, it’s not exactly living up to expectations. As she stumbles towards the dingy little door in front of her, her skepticism grows with every second. Clarke clearly can’t see what her Dad must have seen here. There’s a low wooden building to her right that looks like stables and a squat log house ahead, its tiny windows blind with dust and its scratched door spattered with mud and looking like it’s about to fall off its hinges.

Really, at this point Clarke is hoping she got the address wrong. This place not only looks far from thriving, it looks like she may never make it out again once she sets foot inside. What the hell kind of person is this Bellamy Blake, who, according to her documents, owns the farm?

But she’s here now and she’s not giving up, not when she drove hundreds of miles because the nearest airport isn’t actually that near. Determinedly wading on, Clarke makes it to the house, but just as she ’s lifted a hand to knock, the wooden door swings open with a creak to reveal a brunette woman about her own age, who spots her and promptly starts yelling.

“Bell! Jake’s person is here.” It takes Clarke a moment to understand that the woman isn’t actually yelling at her but at someone inside the house.

“I’m his daughter, actually…”, Clarke tries to interject but is shouted down.

“And she looks kinda scared, probably because your house looks like a serial killer lives here.” Clarke can’t say she disagrees with that judgment.

Finally, the woman seems to be done shouting for the moment and actually addresses Clarke, at a normal volume this time.

“I keep telling him to move the driveway so that people approach the house from the front. It’s much more impressive. But it’s like he doesn’t actually want anyone to come here, ever.”

“That’s ‘cause I don’t.”

A second voice joins the young woman’s from the depths of the house, dark and male and decidedly grumpy.

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Plans for the night.  Don’t care if you have a problem with it

  1. 10 mg’s Klonopin (Clonazepam)
  2. 300 mg’s Vistaril (Hydroxizine)
  3. 20 mg’s Hydrocodone
  4. 50 mg’s Butalbital
  5. 40 mg’s Caffeine unless I choose to take straight caffeine as well.