My therapists are doing a great job, I promise.
I have read probably a million words of various Sterek fic over the past three days to try and distract myself from being suicidally depressed and, guys, let me tell you, this is working. I don't watch the show and I don't often read the fic but this coping mechanism is working so well that I even ate breakfast today. (FYI: breakfast was delicious.) I'm even tempted to try a bit of lunch.
--
Yesterday I surrendered my cat back to her shelter. It was the best possible option for both of us (she needs attention; I work too much; she licks all the things, all the time; I'm a light sleeper; she wants cuddles; I have issues with touch; she's chatty and loud; I get migraines) but it still makes me feel like a failure. Can't take care of myself, can't take care of a cat, what the fuck. No one woke me up when I was sleeping last night, though, and no one will be demanding anything from me when I go home after work, so.
(No one will be upset with me if I go straight to bed when I get home and read more Sterek on my phone until I fall asleep.)
--
Our internet went down at 3.30p on Tuesday and didn't come back up until after I left work yesterday. No one could get mad at me for reading fic when there was literally no work I could use as a distraction. So I read fic. I read a lot of fic. I nearly started writing a new GF fic but the opening was going to go something like:
Dean has been dead for five hours. Sam's sitting in the Impala's passenger seat and every time there's movement out of the corner of her eyes, her heart skips a beat, tells her to look, that she imagined everything, that it was all a dream but -- it wasn't. It was real. The person behind the wheel is Bobby. Bobby's driving. Bobby's got salt-tracks down his cheeks but he's the one driving.
It's not Dean. Because Dean is dead. Dean has been dead for five hours and Sam is riding in his car, letting someone else drive his car, because everytime she moves, she feels -- everything. She feels everything.
Dean is dead. Dean has been dead for five hours and Sam can't seem to summon the emptiness she felt when the Trickster -- for all those Tuesdays. She's desperate for emptiness. She would kill -- anyone, she'd kill anyone to feel blank and cold and hard and empty.
She feels everything. Because Dean is dead. Dean has been dead for five hours. Sam feels enough for both of them. If only she could've beaten Lilith with feelings. If only she could've found a way. If only she could've saved Dean.
But she couldn't. And Dean is dead.
And no one needs that when they're already down.
--
Yesterday I surrendered my cat back to her shelter. It was the best possible option for both of us (she needs attention; I work too much; she licks all the things, all the time; I'm a light sleeper; she wants cuddles; I have issues with touch; she's chatty and loud; I get migraines) but it still makes me feel like a failure. Can't take care of myself, can't take care of a cat, what the fuck. No one woke me up when I was sleeping last night, though, and no one will be demanding anything from me when I go home after work, so.
(No one will be upset with me if I go straight to bed when I get home and read more Sterek on my phone until I fall asleep.)
--
Our internet went down at 3.30p on Tuesday and didn't come back up until after I left work yesterday. No one could get mad at me for reading fic when there was literally no work I could use as a distraction. So I read fic. I read a lot of fic. I nearly started writing a new GF fic but the opening was going to go something like:
Dean has been dead for five hours. Sam's sitting in the Impala's passenger seat and every time there's movement out of the corner of her eyes, her heart skips a beat, tells her to look, that she imagined everything, that it was all a dream but -- it wasn't. It was real. The person behind the wheel is Bobby. Bobby's driving. Bobby's got salt-tracks down his cheeks but he's the one driving.
It's not Dean. Because Dean is dead. Dean has been dead for five hours and Sam is riding in his car, letting someone else drive his car, because everytime she moves, she feels -- everything. She feels everything.
Dean is dead. Dean has been dead for five hours and Sam can't seem to summon the emptiness she felt when the Trickster -- for all those Tuesdays. She's desperate for emptiness. She would kill -- anyone, she'd kill anyone to feel blank and cold and hard and empty.
She feels everything. Because Dean is dead. Dean has been dead for five hours. Sam feels enough for both of them. If only she could've beaten Lilith with feelings. If only she could've found a way. If only she could've saved Dean.
But she couldn't. And Dean is dead.
And no one needs that when they're already down.