to shut off my brain

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.

INTJ stereotype vs reality

Most people perception of an INTJ:

super smart, aloof and cold, could probably take over the world, ambitious and strategic

Me an actual INTJ:

*constant internal screaming*, has barely slept in the last week because my brain refuses to shut off, reads every book in skyrim just so I don’t miss out on any important info or lore, *thinks about my wasted potential and lack of a plan for the future and has a panic attack*


Steve x reader 

Notes: Smut, fluff, swearing, just smutty rly. 

A/N: Steve x reader. I know, right? Didn’t know I had it in me (that sounds wrong. So, so wrong), but here we are. And lets be honest. The man is fucking adorable. And.. ever seen him in a suit? Hot damn. Enjoy! x

Originally posted by music-is-love-4ever

“Can’t sleep?”

You looked up from the files in your lap and smiled, Steve stood next to the couch, holding out a mug to you with a similar smile on his lips.

“Never” you answered, only half-joking and took the mug from him with a soft ‘thanks’. “Why are you up, Cap? Don’t you have an early training session with Sam tomorrow?”

Steve shrugged, “Yeah, I do..” he took a deep breath but didn’t seem to let the air go when he spoke, “but sometimes I just can’t get my brain to shut off. And my mom used to say that a bed is for sleeping, not thinking”

You chuckled softly, “Meaning?”

Steve shot you a lopsided smile, “Meaning, if you can’t catch sleep because you’re thinking too much, get out of bed for a while and try again later”

Keep reading

Me: *snuggled in bed about to go to sleep* man I’m almost done with my work week, thank the gods and-



Okay so I'm in a bad mood today and I need to vent so...

Here is a list of things that I want people who don’t have a mental disability to shut the fuck up about when talking to people who do:

1. Our sleeping habits.
Yes you may be able to go to bed at 10 and be able to sleep, but it takes me a minimum of 3 hours on a good night to get to sleep because I have ADHD and my brain can’t just shut off.

2. Our workload.
So you have a full time job and have a pet and kids and have a ton of housework to do? Good for you. I’m exhausted after having one meeting a week and just being able to feed my pet every day is an achievement. I am not lazy, I just don’t have the energy or the mental capacity to put myself under as much stress as you can!

3. Our social skills (i.e. “That’s not appropriate” or “you don’t say stuff like that”)
People with Autism don’t generally know how to be anything other than honest. We also don’t know necessarily what things upset people or worry people because they don’t affect us in the same way and I know from experience I don’t always realise I’ve said something wrong.
Fun fact: the way I compare socialising whilst having autism is to a broken coffee filter. Sometimes it works okay and you get a nice cup of coffee, sometimes it doesn’t work at all and while you may want to and try your very best to make coffee all that comes out is beans and while I know it makes you mad I literally can’t help it, other times it’s sort of in between and it’s a lot of strain to make it and there may be a couple of beans there and your coffee may be goop but it’s close enough to coffee again even if it’s not what you are overly happy with.
Would you shout at your broken coffee filter if it didn’t always work 100%? No, you wouldn’t, because you know that it has a “problem” which causes it to malfunction 2/3 of the time! Don’t shout at us or tell us off just because you don’t get exactly what you expect from us, we’re trying!!!

4. Our effort or commitment
We’re not lazy. I don’t know what it’s like to have OCD or Downs Syndrome, or anything that isn’t Autism and ADHD really, but for me I can’t focus on things and I get pressure headaches when I try, which means I now know that if I’m struggling early on I have to stop and take a step back. I need to finish tasks before I move onto the next one which can be as simple as reading a book, and it will take priority over other, apparently more important tasks. I have a routine that I have to keep to and if I haven’t gotten round to the thing you want done yet it’s not because I’m being lazy or putting it off, I’m just trying to fit it into my regular routine without messing that up. And I’m sure there are issues that people with other disabilities can add to this as to why they can’t do certain things that may be simple to anyone else.

Please just leave us the fuck alone. Not everyone can do the things you can and we feel shitty enough about it without you guys getting on at us for it, okay? 👌

Sometimes I can’t tell if something is real or if I’m making it up in my head

Are those people laughing at me?
Or am I just being paranoid?

Is he mad at me and going to leave me?
Or am I just panicking over nothing?

Do my friends not want to talk to me?
Or am I just over thinking?

Did I say the wrong thing?
Or did I misread the situation that I’ve been over analyzing for hours?

I just want to shut off my brain
Just for minutes of peace and quiet

But instead I go into overdrive
About every little thing

Am I just ruining everything?
Over scenarios that didn’t even happen

—  Chapters from my life

anonymous asked:

hello love, I love your writings and i just thought of something really cute and wanted to see if you could write it for me in an imagine or fluff. anyways could you do one about how the boys notice how harry acts differently when you are around like he acts all cuddly and polite and they tease him about it in which he blushes // i just think it would be super cute thanks! 💛

Okay, first of all, how dare you send me such a cute idea. It’s not like I haven’t thought about this day and night since it popped into my ask box or anything. Second of all, I am sorry how long it’s taken me to get to this; my writers block fucked me and left me for immobile, but I am trying my hardest!

As for everyone else who has sent me requests that I haven’t gotten to yet, never fear! I have them all, but with working full time and getting out of work late, I do most of my writing either late at night when my brain is shutting down, or my two days off during the week when I literally want to do nothing but lay in bed and wallow in my misery.

When you guys first start talking, and he hasn’t introduced you to his friends yet, it doesn’t go by them when they notice him on his phone a little more so than usual. They’re probably already used to it with work calls, emails, and the like, but due to the size of the grin plastered on his face, it doesn’t go by them to figure out something is up.

“Who ya textin’, mate?”

“What’s more important than us?”

“Pay attention ya dickhead.”

And they’ll probably try and steal his phone many times throughout the night to send things like “penis” or “cock rocket” or “pussy train”. (After which he would apologize to you.)

After he, finally, tells his friends, “Yeah, I met someone,” and he does bring you around, all of the above only gets worse.

“Mate, quit textin’ ya bird.”

“The game, mate—put ya phone down.”

“Better not be snogging back there!”

You’ll be sat beside him on his sofa, legs draped over his, as everyone is engaged in their own conversations, sipping bear, something random on the telly in the background. But to you and Harry, there might have well been no one else in the room with you. He’s catching you up on his upcoming plans for the week, you tell him about your day, and it doesn’t go unnoticed to his friends the way his arm is swung around your torso, how his free hand lays precariously on your knee, how you’re slowly leaning more and more against him after you’ve discarded your couple beers for the night, how he rubs small circles on his back, and how he—quite literally—can’t take his eyes off of you.

“How about you two get a room.”

It’s a joking remark, after all, the most PDA the two of you have shown is a kiss on the cheek from you when you were left alone in the kitchen grabbing drinks, and his arm slung around your waist just now.

Harry turns to the commentator with a roll of his eye, also jokingly, and says, “Well, we already are, aren’t we?”

“Like her more than us now. We see how it is.”

He wants to make a remark like, “She has a nicer face to look at—amongst other things,” but he’d leave that last bit out, for the sake of his manhood he’d like to leave unharmed for the remainder of the night. But he isn’t wrong, is he? He thinks you’re quite possibly the epitome of beautiful, because his heart isn’t just racing for nothing, is it?”

“She’s nicer to look at,” he replies instead, and ooh’s are heard around the room from the other lads.

“Looking a little red in the face, Styles. You feeling alright?”

He rolls his eyes at that, which only makes his cheeks burn a little brighter, which he then hides in the crook of your neck.

By the end of the night, and the last remaining guests do leave, he about forces you to spend the night with because, “It’s not safe out there this time of night, love. Best safe here with me.” And not before he kisses the inside of your neck and mutters, “I need a cuddle to get to sleep.”

And right as he switches off the bedside light, he phone lights up with a text from one of your earlier quests that reads, “Good to see you happy again, mate. She’s a good girl.” And he can’t help but agree.

I lapsed into my pathetic cut-off period. Often with humans, both good and bad, my senses simply shut off, they get tired, I give up. I am polite. I nod. I pretend to understand because I don’t want anybody to be hurt. That is the one weakness that has lead me into the most trouble. Trying to be kind to others I often get my soul shredded into a kind of spiritual pasta. No matter. My brain shuts off. I listen. I respond. And they are too dumb to know that I am not there.
—  Charles Bukowski
Weak- Cassian Andor (Part Two)

Pairing: Cassian Andor/OC


A/N: This literally took me hours, lol. I’m not even ashamed, I just hope it turned out aright since I’m not normally a smut writer. Also– ft. alternate ending for Rogue One but fair warning, it’s still mildly depressing. It’s not fluff, it’s not angst…it’s like…flangst. I’m also a huge hopeless, romantic sap. Okay I’m done waffling now. #fixitfic2k17


@libsybum @princeofsassgard

Cassian’s grip was tight around my shoulders as we watched the world around us fade away. Fear clutched my heart in a cold, iron grip, making it feel as if my blood had turned to ice. The three of us exchanged worried looks, Cass slung in-between Jyn and I, too weak to stand on his own. Hopelessness began to replace the triumph I had felt only moments before, until I heard the sweet sound of a ship engine. I craned my neck and heard a relieved laugh escape Jyn as a rebel fighter ship lowered itself onto the beach and hovered over the sand. Inside, several rebel fighters were watching frantically at us and I knew we had maybe seconds before Scarif was gone.

Cassian grunted in pain as I helped him climb into the ship, two other pairs of hands reaching from inside to pull him him. Jyn and I followed, hopping in just as the pilot began to pull away from the beach. My entire body ached with exhaustion, but it was nothing compared to the state of my heart as I looked around the ship and saw no other familiar face. I tugged on the sleeve of the nearest rebel fighter. He leaned toward me, turning his head to hear my voice over the road of the engines.

Keep reading

anonymous asked:

The one ask that was comparing the two stydia kisses was so right! Stiles becomes so calm and just at peace when they kiss. his whole face looks concentrated on the kiss but not because of nerves but cuz he's just like yes this feels so right. And Lydia was so frantic and showing so much more emotion than normal in both of their kisses. She becomes so passionate, a lot more than we've seen when she kisses other guys. She is finally feeling what real love feels like and she can't get enough!

I think you really hit the nail on the head with your last line– figuring out what love feels like, real life, made Lydia incredibly eager to discover it more. She wants it. It’s new and she’s… well… thirsty for it, so to speak. Stiles makes her burst into feeling. 

Whereas Stiles has known what it’s like to love like he’s on fire, so when she kisses him, in a way, he’s experiencing this intense calm of being right, being loved, being satisfied. I think you and nonnie are both right that they have these opposite reactions to each other, but it’s exactly what they need, you know? 

Lydia gets woken up by Stiles after she tried to tuck her feelings in a box for so long. And Stiles, who is always antsy and nervous and moving, just lets his brain shut off and his word slow down. 

My kids.