This year, we put a 12 on the box

tell the doctor what ails you

psychologyoffear:

It was wonderful to see that trusting look in a client’s gaze. Made his work that much easier. 

“Well, that’s precisely what I’ll be doing my best to prevent this time around,” Crane replied with a nod. “Your condition won’t be deteriorating to the point of hospitalization.”

It certainly wasn’t the first time Jonathan would be assisting someone with withdrawals, he knew what to expect, what drugs he would most likely end up administering. He’d even developed one of his own that seemed to help with the hallucinations, although speaking of which…

“These hallucinations of yours, the ones you drink to avoid, are they visual, auditory, or both?”

He took a long, deep breath, and turned all of his attention to smoothing out the wrinkles his fingers had made in his slacks. 

“Both. Both and… more. Don’t lock me up for it or anything, but… I feel— I hear shit, I see things, and sometimes I feel like I’m being touched. And… in the looping fake memory, he—my arm gets broken. And I can feel it breaking. Over, and over, and…” His voice had gone rough, had cracked a little. 

He went quiet, unwilling to divulge what else he felt, what he saw and what was and wasn’t truth. The lines between them were blurring a bit these days anyway. 

Besides— he didn’t mean to keep comparing them but…Junior knew about everything, and didn’t think he was awful and disgusting for it. If Crane found out and did— he wasn’t sure how he’d be able to deal with anything around him. 

He cleared his throat to try and get himself under control, but still squeaked a bit when he added his attempted very casual,

“It’s been rough.”

Naptime

He didn’t remember his bed being quite so high, or so big, but he couldn’t deny he’d missed its softness, and he was exhausted. 

Seven years old, with no one around to care for him— thoughtless, stupid magic anon people. Probably hoped he’d try and take a bath and accidentally drown or something. 

Hated magic.

But the nap would be nice. 

First time in a long time that he had been able to lay down to sleep without bracing for the terrors he usually knew were coming.

No reason for them now. 

He felt warm.

Because if his body wasn’t messed up, maybe he could just… forget, and none of him would be messed up, at all. He wasn’t sure the last time he’d felt like this… maybe because emotions always seemed bigger, being little… they filled your chest up easier. 

He fell asleep, smiling and feeling… hopeful. 

…that was short lived. 

The dreams still came. The nightmares. The memories. Whatever they were. They were horrible. And the emotions filled his tiny chest easier, and overflowed it, until he was drowning in them. 

At forty three, he’d long since learned how to be quiet, how to deal with waking up from nightmares alone, how to find other things to take his mind off of stuff.

At seven, he lay in shock, crying as only a small child will ever feel free to do, with the abandon of someone who knew there was no one around to hear them. 

At seven, he wanted nothing more than to curl into his mother’s side, or hug his father until his trembling stopped. 

And that urge, and knowing what had come— would have come? Was going to come? —tenses were confusing. Whatever, if he COULD do that, it would just start all the problems all over again. And… that just made it worse. 

So he curled into a ball, a single dark spot in a far too large, far too starkly white bed, in his suddenly cavernous and sprawling and empty— too empty for any words— apartment. 

And the happy warm ball in his chest popped, and let loose a cold trickle to match the ones rolling down his cheeks. 

It ached, and he wrapped his arms around himself, the way he had when he had been this small naturally, trying to give himself some small amount of comfort, trying to pretend that it was enough, that he didn’t desperately wish there was someone, anyone, who was around to give him a hug.

“It’ll be okay.” His whisper didn’t sound so sure, and it broke before he could continue with his empty assurances. He sniffled, and pulled the blankets up around himself. 

“…has to be okay.”