Nursing precautions needed when administering phenytoin iv

This is going to be fairly long and probably somewhat depressing post, but I've been wanting to share my story even if it's just with the void.
I remember waking up with some pain in my groin area one morning during my senior year of high school. At the time I didn't think much of it at the time since I'm a tall person and waking up with random pains happens to me frequently. So I walked around with a limp, and the pain persisted. It was like that for a couple of weeks. Eventually my mom and I agreed that I needed to see someone about it. Unfortunately I had fell into the dangerous trap of looking up my symptoms online to try and see what might be wrong with me. I ended up convincing myself that I had a hernia, and when I went to see the doctor on Halloween, I was having difficulty explaining my symptoms to him. My answers to his questions all suggested that something was wrong with my groin muscles, I might've even said the words, "I think it might be a hernia." The doctor was sure that wasn't the problem, but thanks to me downplaying my symptoms, he diagnosed me with a pulled muscle. His advice was to not exercise for a week, even though the pain had lasted for weeks at that point, and the only exercise I did regularly was ride my bike to school (roughly 2 miles round trip). I didn't listen to him, in fact that evening I was running around through my neighborhood on Halloween with my friends. One last hurrah for our senior year. Exactly one week later, my leg gave out on me and I collapsed on the floor walking to my next class. The tumor had grown so big, and I ended up shattering my femur.
I instantly knew my leg was broken, and I was rushed to the hospital. They found the tumor fairly quickly, but were unsure how to proceed. Surgery was a given, as the damage to my leg was massive, but they were also unsure whether or not the tumor was malignant or benign. So I stayed in the hospital for a couple of days living off of painkillers while I waited for the results of the biopsy to come in, and for the surgery to begin. It turned out to be a Ewing's Sarcoma, luckily still localized, even if I didn't feel very lucky at the time. I was sent into surgery immediately where they removed the tumor and gave me a prosthetic femur. The recovery process was really difficult for me. I'll never be able to run or jump anymore (which sucks because I love playing basketball). I walked around with a cane for a while; that was one of the most embarrassing experiences of my life. I still remember all of the weird/sympathetic looks I received. And to this day, I still have difficulty with my mobility, and I walk around with a visible limp. It's difficult to make up excuses for when people ask me why I'm limping, I'll usually just explain that I have a prosthetic femur without mentioning the cancer part, since that kills the vibe.
I started chemo in December of 2019, but the typical treatment regiment was thrown off, thanks to me breaking my leg. Usually the doctors will give around 15 weeks of chemo with heavy and quick dosages, followed by surgery, and then another 15 weeks of chemo. The surgery came first in my case. Chemo was the hardest part of my battle. My dosage was a lot, I had to stay in the hospital overnight so that they could keep me attached to an IV the whole time. It was every other week, and for the etoposide and ifosfamide weeks, it was 5 days at a time. What was difficult though was being away from my friends. I was apart of a very tight knit group of guys. We played DND every Friday after school which I missed greatly in the hospital. My friends were still very supportive, and they tried to include me in any way they possibly could. But I was still really lonely. One of my worst memories was crying on my birthday, because my parents wouldn't let me hang out with my friends for fear of getting sick. I was very suicidal at this point, the chemo made me horribly sick, and I hated staying overnight at the hospital. But then COVID came around in March, and I think that sort of gave me my second wind.
Everything moved online, and I was able to talk with my friends nearly everyday. We played games online together, including DND. I remember one of my friends mentioning to me that at graduation it was going to be so awesome when they called my name, and I would be able walk across the stage in front of everyone, hopefully to a loud applause. It was silly, but that was the light at the end of the tunnel for me. I looked forward to being able to stand in front of my classmates, and sort of say look what I've accomplished. Obviously graduation never happened, but I wasn't too beat up over it, since I finished my treatment in June. I was really looking forward to college, and to meet new people, even if I settled on a school that I wasn't really interested in going to. I didn't want my college decision to be a burden on my parents, especially after all I had put them through. Plus it was a good idea for me to stay local so I could still see my same doctors.
College sucked though. I couldn't make any new friends since everything was virtual, and I hated my online classes. I had an image in my mind of what my life post-cancer would look like, and it was nothing like the reality I was living in. My hair wasn't growing back after the chemo, I was stuck at home with my parents, and college sucked. I didn't care anymore at that point. I didn't try in any of my classes, I remember turning in an assignment in which I had done none of the work, instead I just scribbled all over my paper. I received the lowest grade I had ever earned in my schooling career that quarter. Come December, I hated life. I had built up such grand expectations, and my time during COVID was miserable.
In March of 2021, I relapsed, and the cancer came back. My doctors suspected that it returned because we weren't able to properly treat it the first time. It was still localized, but at this point I was convinced I was going to die. I understood that the tumor coming back was a bad sign, and I was overcome with anxiety. The chemo wasn't as bad this time around, they tried different drugs, none of which required that I stay overnight. I still had to come in 5 days per week on treatment weeks, and was still super sick from the drugs, but at least I didn't have to spend the night. I ended up dropping all of my classes that quarter, and thanks to my mom, I decided to take online GE classes at my local community college over the summer. But I had new problems this time around. Since I was first diagnosed when I was 17, I was being treated by the pediatric oncologists, so I got my chemo dosages in the pediatric clinic. Seeing kids with cancer on a daily basis was difficult. I experienced guilt, shame, and was embarrassed to even think that I had it rough. To this day the survivor's guilt weighs heavily on me. I cried nearly every night during this treatment cycle, whether that was because I was fearful of dying, not being able to live the life I wanted, or having to see kids and parents in such pain.
I finished my treatment for the second time in December of 2021. I felt nothing this time around. I didn't know what I wanted to do, I was lost. I stuck with my classes at community college, but I wasn't making any new friends or doing anything that I really wanted to do. I ended up taking all of my credits, and transferring to a different university. I was optimistic this time around, but still disappointed that I wasn't going to get the real college experience. It was around this time when most of my friends from high school were moving out, getting ready to start their new lives. The school that I transferred to was 20 minutes from my house, going anywhere farther was out of the question at this point, since I figured the cancer was likely going to come back any second now. I commuted for my classes, but had difficulty making any friends. For my first semester at this new school, September 2022, I still walked around with a cane, and my hair hadn't grown back properly. I was embarrassed by the way I looked, and still am to this day. I think about not having hair every single day, and have the same recurring dream once a month in which my hair is starting to grow back properly, only to wake up and feel the top of my head. I hate the way I look, and I hate the fact that I can't walk around in public without a hat.
More scans came and went, and they all turned up negative, even though I had a scare recently in which they found some lesions in my liver and had to perform a biopsy. I've been in remission for about 2 and a half years now, but have been stuck in a rut. I'll chat with my high school friends every once in a while online, but I have no social life outside of that. I spend my Fridays and weekends reading fantasy and comic books, sometimes watching movies. I just feel so lonely. I struggle so much with letting my real personality show and am completely socially inept. It feels like I have barriers in front of me that I can't seem to break down. I've dealt with social anxiety nearly all of my life and I think these problems have only been exasperated from the years of limited social contact. Even at my work, it feels like my coworkers think I'm weird and don't want to interact with me.
Writing this I feel ashamed, because I know it could be so much worse. In another world, I died in the battle with cancer. In another world I had to go through all of that without the support system that I had. I truly believe that I wouldn't have been able to get through all of it without my parents, my friends, all the nurses who treated me, and my talented doctors. Sometimes I think that maybe the cancer and my current situation is deserved, punishment for the things I've done in the past that I'm not proud of. I was so convinced that this most recent liver scare was definitely the cancer coming back to finally finish the job since I'm not worthy of all of the opportunities and privileges I've been given. While I was waiting to get the biopsy done, I challenged myself to be the best person I could possibly be, going out of my way to do random kind things that I wouldn't normally do. Just in case if there is a higher power, maybe it would be more merciful, or if I really was going to die, maybe I could try to put some good into the world before I go. But since it came back negative, I've failed my challenge. I fallen back into the same old habits of indifference.
Thanks for reading all of this, if you've made it this far. I want to end on a positive note, since I am blessed to be in the position that I am today. I've fallen in love with my studies and am excited to pursue grad school once I graduate in a year. I love my job as a tutor for my school's learning resource center, and want to pursue a career teaching. I love my family and the friends that I have. Regardless of how difficult things get in the future, I'm still determined to give it all my best try. It would be selfish of me to not give it everything I can.

Hello everyone, i need help. From AB Canada if that gives some context on our health care here.
My mother has some unknown stomach/gastrointestinal condition that no doctor can figure out, she has been to the ER 8+ times since February and has gotten no diagnosis and no help. She is 47 years old, morbidly obese, has Ankylosing Spondylitis, Hypothyroidism, Asthma and an additional unknown breathing issue, likely due to the weight.
In December she was prescribed Ozempic to help her with weight loss because we assume the breathing issues are due to weight, after the attacks started she stopped taking the Ozempic right away and hasn’t taken it since. She’s on an oxygen machine 24/7 because of the breathing issues as well as a Bi-Pap when she sleeps.
In February she woke up with extreme abdominal pain, it comes in waves, sometimes with shorter breaks and sometimes with longer breaks. She says “it feels like an intense squeezing pain in her abdomen where there is a progression to the peak of the pain and then a release” she has compared them to birth contractions before but worse and in her stomach/intestines (she has had chronic pain her whole life, i’ve never seen her cry in pain, she has with this pain). The pain does radiate around her stomach as well as she is usually SUPER distended and bloated during these attacks, her stomach feels like a rock.
She was taken to the hospital, they assumed it was just gastroenteritis and sent her home with some PPI’s (Mylan-Pantaprazole) She has gone back to the ER multiple times since with more attacks. She also gets extreme diarrhea to the point she is just expelling pretty much water with these attacks and vomiting, continuous vomiting to the point where she can’t vomit anymore and “scromits” basically scream dry heaving with nothing coming up, the vomit is also usually completely undigested food, from things she’s eaten days before. One of the last times we went to the ER they finally did some more extensive testing. She has had an abdominal CT with oral contrast, bloodwork and a colonoscopy. But still no conclusive diagnosis or treatment.
Her bloodwork showed an extremely high C-Reactive Protein (74.5, her usual result due to her AS is between 5-20) Her CT said this: "New onset irregular mural thickening of distal and terminal ileum with extensive perienteric inflammatory stranding and a small volume of nonorganized interloop fluid. Appearances are in keeping with acute enteritis. Inflammatory, infectious and slow flow ischemic differentials should be considered. Small volume nonorganized fluid extending into the pelvis."
After that CT she was admitted into the hospital for about a week, they wanted to see if she’d get better and they could do the colonoscopy outside of the hospital or if it would need to be done inpatient. She eventually did get better and they sent her home and she got the Colonoscopy, unfortunately they couldn’t get into the small intestine with the colonoscopy, but in her large intestine they only found one small polyp, removed it, and also found a small lump of fat they left. She has had about two or three more attacks since, two she was able to ride out at home and one she went back into the hospital with, with no help and was quickly sent back home. Her stomach is currently still sensitive and feels tender and bruised but no active contraction pains. Still diarrhea though and is on a mainly liquid low fiber and low fat diet currently.
They’ve tested her for everything infectious that could possibly exist and they’ve all come back negative. The attacks seem to happen more frequently when she has Ankylosing Spondylitis flares as well as when she eats too much fiber. For meds for her other conditions she takes Amitriptyline for migraine prevention, Hydromorphone for AS pain management, Synthyroid for Hypothyroidism and inhalers for asthma. As well as the PPI she takes daily still. The only thing that stops the pain completely during the attacks is IV Hydromorphine or IV Fentynal. (And the doctors/nurses have labeled her as drug seeking multiple times because of this)
We need any advice we can get. Ideas of what this could be, advice for what tests to ask for, literally anything that could help. We’ve brought up the possibility of Gastroparesis or Crohns Disease to the doctors but they haven’t looked further into either of those. She has another CT Enterography booked for June 26.
Sorry for the rambling and large amount of information. Please, any advice or info at all that anyone has would be a massive help!! I just don’t want my mom to be in extreme pain anymore.

I have been trolling this subreddit for months reading anything I could to ease my anxiety. So I hope this post helps someone in the future who is looking for reassurance.
The first time I went in, I wanted to try it awake because 1) my insurance wouldn't pay for anything else and 2) I have high medical anxiety and the IV sedation was scarier to me than the procedure.
Got the shots in my mouth, and received epinephrine for the first time (also no one told me I was getting that). This caused my heart to race/my body to shake and it basically trigger a bad panic attack.
My surgeon basically was like, if you can't calm down in the next few minutes we can't do this. Told me to go somewhere else and go under (changing that bill from 150 to 900!) But also triggering a larger fear. When I asked later if we could try the procedure with carbocaine (Numbing shot with no epi) he said no.
Spent months psyching myself out with occasional pain. Got a consult at a very nice place, but made excuses to avoid going in.
Last week, the infection I had became unbearable, and despite much hyperventilating, I had to go in. It had become an emergency.
I was going to try IV sedation but TERRFIED. Nauseous from panic but also from pain and 5 hours sleep in 2 days.
The doctor I ended up with really listened to my fears and (even though we both knew fears were irrational), he made me feel heard and validated.
In fact, the compromise we made was to try it the way I was comfortable with. He gave me carbocaine to see if it would be enough (IT WAS!! No epi!) and agreed that he thought I could handle it awake. And if I couldn't, we'd stop and put in an IV to finish. But unlike the last place and my family insisting I was so anxious I needed to go under, he understood that my fear was mostly AROUND medication, not the procedure. And he let me try. While I was waiting for the numbness to kick in, the nurse let me test run the bite block since I have a gag reflex/fear around it. I was able to find a comfortable place that worked for both of us.
And I DID IT. The actual extraction ended up being easier than he thought (managed to pull it vs cutting into my jaw). But it made the difference that a team worked with me. I was in zero pain, and despite VERY REAL fear and suffering for days (honestly months) I am on the recovery side. And with antibiotics, not writhing in pain anymore.
And, because of my special brand of anxiety, dealing with my nervousness around the medications I'm taking is more of an issue than physical recovery (which is going well!)
For anyone suffering from extreme fear, you're not crazy. It is torture to be trapped in your mind and I'm sorry you are suffering.
I also believe you'll be ok ❤️ Keep advocating for yourself and find somewhere that will take you seriously and make you comfortable

PS: I am still feeling a bit dizzy from my sedation so there may be some grammar mistakes. Please try to ignore them.
Before my colonoscopy exam, I have seen a lot of people saying “grow up and do your prep” when my stomach was actually twisting and hurting after taking a sip of peglyte. So I wanted to give a tiny bit of hope to people who are going through this. I had my colonoscopy exam today. As it was my first time ever, I was very anxious. But it was not as bad as I thought - I can’t even remember what happened. The only painful feeling you will feel is the pinching feeling when they will inject an IV. It was like taking a 30 min nap. The nurses and the doctor at the clinic were making this a very pleasant experience. Kudos to them! As a prep, I was prescribed Dulcolax and Peglyte. 2 days before my prep, I avoided vegetables and chose low residual foods. The day before my appointment, I did not eat anything until 1pm, but I had a severe headache and almost blacked out (please eat properly before your liquid diet), so I ate a slice of chocolate cake. Then in the evening, I came home late from work and I could not get myself a broth, so my only option was a beef noodle (not spicy). Even though I was not supposed to eat any solids, I was on the verge of fainting, so I ate the noodle (very irresponsible from my side). And after that I started my Peglyte. Peglyte tasted like a gatorade mixed with a salt water. Since childhood, I never liked the taste of gatorades and would always puke it out, so finishing 4l of Peglyte was a torture for me. I would take a sip and straight up vomit and my stomach would hurt. I had to push myself to at least get through the 1/2. After 1/2, my stool was clear but everyone were saying that you had to finish it. I have tried everything: used straws, put it in the fridge to chill, tried to wash down the aftertaste with a lemon water, taking gravol to help with nausea. But nothing helped me, as I was vomiting a lot. So, because my stool was clear I did not want to physically and mentally hurt myself and went to sleep. On the day of my colonoscopy exam, I didn’t eat or drink. I was scared that I might get sent home because I didn’t finish the peglyte but I wasn’t. The doctor was very happy with my prep and the exam went well. In conclusion, it's important to remember that everyone's experience with colonoscopy prep can be different, and what works for one person might not work for another. Don't be too hard on yourself if you struggle with the prep, and don't hesitate to listen to your body and prioritize your well-being. It's okay to make adjustments as needed, even if it means deviating slightly from the prescribed routine. The most important thing is to ensure that you are as comfortable as possible and to communicate any issues with your healthcare provider. Remember, the goal is to take care of your health, and sometimes that means finding the right balance for you.

It’s a long one so sorry.
The following book may be considered sensitive to readers as the book contains shootings and possibly death.
Anyway enjoy the book and I personally don’t think it’s very bad but some may so don’t say I didn’t warn ya
Operation B.O.Bs home The following is an audio transcript from a knock knocker’s helmet camera- captain 1st class “Ice-12”
Ice: so Yak..? How you doing on that engineer exam? Yak: Ain’t too bad, getting 3 distinctions overall. Ice: Not bad, not to flex but I’m getting 2 distinction stars and a bare pass. Yak: So, I’m a jack of all trades master of non? Ice: pretty much, feels like shit ey?... hey don’t be sad at least you can fly a plane. Yak: yeah there is that… say any new ops contracted? Ice: nah, you got gear nearby? Yak: always, it's hidden in the van… You? Ice: yeah, under those coats, I think my helmet camera is still on it doesn’t really matter. rapid footsteps can be heard down the hall Ice: The fuck is that about? Yak: no idea.
a random stranger runs into the room Stranger: hey guys there’s a shooting going on at [REDACTED] college
Ice: what the fuck… alright… Yak… be quick this is important to me under breath I’ll save ya box. Yak: I’ll get the van started while you get ya shit in a bag. Ice: understood
rustling can be heard as Ice packs his tactical gear into a bag, the helmet is placed last where the camera is polished off Ice can be heard running through halls until he stops at a room
Ice: shouting Jay, we got an asset in danger grab ya shit Yak is waiting. Jay: yes sir I’ll be ready in 5 waiting in the car park. Ice: great I’m running one lock picker in the pipe followed by seven standard… Can you also pack his gear? Jay: yeah I’ll bring some spare gear for him.
Ice can be heard climbing into a van several minutes later Jay can be heard climbing into the van
Ice: alright pulls blue coloured shotgun shells out of a bag and places them in right pocket in his cargo pants and then takes out a box of red shotgun shells and empties them into his left pocket… ok lock pickers in the right standard buck in the left. Jay: Mossberg 590? Ice: yeah it’s older but works. What are you running? Jay: standard short barrel rifle and an MP5, basic attachments. Ice: yeah I’ll be running the carbine as well as the shotgun. Can you carry a spare Plate carrier, radio and carbine? Jay: No problem. Ice: pulls his helmet out of his bag and turns the camera off
The knock knockers travel to [REDACTED] radioing for the doctor Rin-5 to meet them
Ice: turns the camera back on alright ain’t too far so welcome back camera. Yak: a few minutes later Alright, we’re here. Ice: ok Yak, you negotiate with the police, Jay you’re with me till we grab our guy. Also how long until the doctor gets here? Yak: yes sir, Rin gets here in about 10 minutes Jay: yes sir. Yak we’ll be on radio give the police our frequency Ice: ok here we go opens the van doors Police officer: who the hell are you guys? This whole place is on lockdown.
Ice: captain 1st class of the knock knockers, our guy is inside so we don’t have time. I'm gonna leave you guys with my corporal Yak who can hopefully smooth things out. If you need to know more ask the MOD and say captain Ice allowed access. Police officer: understood, there isn’t enough of us to stop you anyway. Ice: thanks, cmon Jay we have a friend to save Jay: yes sir
after about 5 minutes Ice and Jay are moving down college hallways walking over bodies checking for ID to see if any we’re box
Ice: still no survivor’s ey? Jay: …fucking ruthless
a shuffling noise is heard up ahead
Ice: hold on stack up behind me. Jay: yes sir readies carbine to a few inches to Ice’s right don’t move right sir Ice: grabs shotgun by the stock and readies it into position and chambers an already chambered round removing a blue shell ok ready Ice: shouting you around the corner come out with your hands up! We ain’t here to hurt ya Random girl: stumbling around the hallway corner ok ok please just don’t hurt me. I haven’t done anything wrong, I tried to help, but they were too close Ice: it’s ok, it's ok you tried, we can help you get out of here but can you tell us where someone named [REDACTED] would be? Random girl: oh yeah, I know him, he would be in engineering right now. Do you know how to get there? Ice: no, can you show us if we keep you safe? Random girl: yeah ok… Is there a reason? Ice: yeah he’s an old friend Random girl: ok, follow me. Ice’s note: the girl was clearly bothered, she hid it well, but we had no choice it was the only way the bring him home alive
Ice: ok what way now? Random girl: go forwards then take a left, that’s where he’ll be. Good luck and thanks but where do I go now? Ice: I’ll send Jay to escort you out. You’ve been helpful and hopefully we aren’t too late for him. Jay: yeah with me maam. Ice: oh Jay, before you go can you pass over your bag with box’s shit. Jay: yeah no problem takes off bag and slides it along the floor Random girl: thank you again. Jay: don’t mention it. Oh and sir… stay on radio. Ice: understood over radio Yak you have Jay and a civilian moving to you now. Yak: over radio understood, I’ve smoothed things over with police, once you have your guy police are moving in. Ice: over radio alright Yak stay safe and tell the police to mind the bang, Ice out. Yak: over radio yes sir. Ice: over radio I’m stacking up on the engineering room door now. loads a blue shell into his shotgun followed by red shells sigh one lock picker.
a loud bag can be heard followed by Ice’s heel landing firmly next to the handle causing the door to swing open
Ice’s note: as I moved down the hall I heard yelling, incoherent at first, but as I got closer is was a fucking shooter calling box’s name
Shooter: oh come on out [REDACTED] why not a game? Box: look you’re out of time, that gunshot you heard was police trying to save me. Shooter: no the police wouldn’t be so careless. It’s one of my boys. Ice: nah, we have a long history together so I wouldn’t try and hurt him if I were you… it may get… bloody vile. Shooter: wait, who are yo…
a gunshot rings out from Ice’s Colt 1911 followed by the wet thump of a lunatic’s corpse falling on the floor like a sack of wet sand
Box: FUCK, WHO THE HELL ARE YOU?!... Ice: 003… it’s me… 012 Box: Ice? Ice: yeah… it’s me box… while you got out of the game… out of the silly documents, you left without telling us… it hurt… I grew up… I stayed in the game… I became a professional… I started the knock knockers… we helped… we hurt… we did what was necessary… but now I ask, if you want to get back into this game… properly… take my hand. Box: … grabs Ice’s hand and gets pulled to his feet Ice: congrats LT… you’re a Knock Knocker now. Here’s ya shit, hands Jay’s bag to Box Box unzips the bag hey do you know what’s in it? Ice: pretty sure it’s a standard m4A1, suppressed with subsonic rounds, there’s also a helmet and body armour with a couple of mags as well as a radio I think. Frequency is set. Box: this means a lot Ice… you saved my life… Ice: no problem, it’s been a while but hey… you got me in this life so you don’t get to leave it quietly. Box: I guess so, got a bali? I know a lot of these people. Ice: oh right, will a bandanna work? Box: getting carrier on yeah as long as it hides most of my face. Ice: yeah no problem throws a multicam bandanna to box Box: slides bandana overhead and pulls it up before placing helmet on Ice over radio ok Yak we have our guy, LT is on the air. Box: over radio thanks Ice and thank you knock knockers. I’m sure this isn’t easy for you guys to hear someone who hasn’t known you guys before, join at a higher rank but I was the one who got Ice into this side of life so he says that we’re even now so… that’s that. Yak: over radio Are you sure about this Ice? Jay: over radio hang on, Box?! Box: over radio wait, Jay… As in pineapple?! Jay: over radio yeah it is, didn’t know you were the asset. Box: over radio well I’m safe now and making way to extraction. Yak: over radio understood sir I’ll alert police to enter now. Ice: alright box we may have some work ahead so saddle up and follow me. Yak: over radio scratch that police can’t enter Ice: over radio how so? Yak: over radio machine gun nest over the entrance, seems to be 2 hostiles. Ice: like I was saying… work. Ice: over radio understood. Jay, stand by I’ll meet ya at the main staircase we passed by near the entrance. Jay: over radio understood sir. Yak: over radio sir a bit of good news, Rin-5 is on site. Right now their administering first aid to wounded police and civilians. Ice: over radio understood, hopefully we won’t need em but it’s nice to have a doctor. Box: ready Ice? chambers his rifle Ice: hopefully. Let’s go. walks out of the room peaking the hallway
the following is from Ice’s diary
So as we moved down the hall I was so happy that I found box. It had been years since I last saw him but there was also a sense of dread… like something was going to go wrong in that gunners nest… but maybe I was wrong it was 2 practically special forces, and someone who is about to be special forces besides there were more of us outside if things went to shit. Jay: watching Ice and box jog towards him alright sirs I have the girl hidden nearby, she knows my voice and we have a code for when it’s safe. But other than that, it's good to actually meet ya box. Box: likewise… taller in real life. Jay: yeah, i get that. Box: yeah no shit. Jay: well Ice, box. Wanna get moving to allow for reinforcements? Ice: yeah let’s find them before they find us.
the footage following is cut out until they’re getting in position to breach the gunners nest
Ice: preparing a breaching charge in his hands ok so this is gonna be a little volatile since I don’t do this often, but hey at least I know the C2 in here is stable. Box: stacked up on the door and how do you know that? Ice: well box, as we used to joke… I made it myself. Box: well that’s… not very comforting. Jay: stacked up on the other side of the door look box, he makes most of our chemical explosive we only order it in large amounts… Anything else is his job. Box: that’s… that’s a lot of work… What did you get on your chemistry? Ice: hm oh a 6… I was busy making the knock knockers. Box: well… are you ready with that? Ice: yeah I’ll arm it on the door, light it and run Box: alright… Jay got a flash ready? Jay: taking a flashbang out of a pouch on his waist yeah… Ice: alright before we go in I’ll say the plan… we split the stack, check… C2, check… flash, check… and criss cross in. Box: alright, want me to light it? Ice: go ahead Box: leans towards the middle of the double door and pulls a string making a spark
the spark travels up the fuse leading to a loud bang followed by a ping then another loud bang
Jay: Flash! Flash! Flash! Ice: Box long clear! I’ll clear the hole! Jay: yes sir! Box: understood!
As the small engagement went on, Ice moved into the blinded shooter's hole. As shots rang out from inside the gunners nest a scream came from the smoke followed by a slump and cries for help
Shooter: NONONO! Wait I’m sorry please I have a family! Ice: a little late to pull a family card he looks down to see a rapidly bleeding hole in the side of his leg ah shit… every single body down those halls have families… had dreams and friends. Shooter: I’m sorry… I swear I didn’t mean it. Ice: you know anything? pulling out an antiseptic bandage from a pouch on his belt Shooter: I swear I don’t… just don’t kill me! Ice: then the cops don’t need you Shooter: wait… if you kill me… a surrendering enemy… you’re as bad as me Ice: I’ve seen the worst of society… killed the worst of society… I kill for money… I have very few morals… There are very few lines… I… no we… won’t cross… but we don’t… KILL… INNOCENT!... children… so never compare us to you… because while we are awful human beings… At least we can call ourselves human… while you’re a fucking monster!
as a gunshot rings out his pistol smokes and the shooter falls to the floor
Jay: running into the room through smoke Was that necessary?… sir? Ice: grimacing as he wraps the bandage around his leg wound he was useless to us… he would only get killed in prison anyway… It was a mercy killing. Box: I would’ve said let him rot… or at least torture him for a bit. Ice: I don’t have the time… I got shot in my right leg… arterial. Jay: How long? Box: a few minutes. Ice: over radio the nest is clear Yak… get the police in here and have Rin ready… I have a few minutes before I bleed out… Yak: over radio understood sir… please don’t die. Ice: alright Jay… I want you to debrief officers. Jay: yes sir! Box: and me…? Ice: I need you to carry me out. Box: alright Ice.
the following footage is cut however there is an extract from an interview from the MOD with box following the operation
MOD officer: so… Box? Box: yes… that’s me MOD officer: what happened after getting out the gunner's nest? Box: Well Ice just got me back… I didn’t want to lose him again… I didn’t want to lose him in the first place… we were brothers in documents after all… but in gear… I felt stronger… I felt stronger with Ice… my brother… but yeah as he was hopping while holding onto my shoulder, I felt bad… it was all my fault… I never got back in touch… made him make the PMC… made him go to the college… made him save me… MOD officer: I understand that but what happened? Box: Well as he hopped and I carried him as fast as we could, down stairs and down the hall we ran past the armed police… until about half way down the path Ice passed out but we met Rin with a stretcher just a few seconds later who placed him on…
from here the footage continues as normal
Rin: good god… ephemeral artery bleed… uh… ok he’s gonna a transfusion Box: what blood type…? Rin: AB+ it’s on his helmet. Box: so… anything Rin: yeah shouts at the paramedics and police get me some blood and a transfusion kit! Paramedic: what blood?! Rin: anything! Paramedic: understood! shouts at other paramedics and runs over to Rin with a medical kit filled with red bags Rin: setting up an IV thanks we’re gonna need an ambulance after we stabilise him… cmon Ice… you’ve saved my life before… I ain’t gonna let your life go now. Box: please… don’t let him die… I didn't get to say sorry Rin: stuffing Ice’s bullet hole with gauze I won’t but this blood isn’t enough to keep him alive so he’s gonna need some of our blood. Box: alright yeah Rin: ok come here… placing a needle into Box’s arm to draw blood this won’t be enough so can you call Yak over LT… you may also be a bit dizzy afterwards Box: looking away from his right arm and grabs his radio Yak I’m gonna need you with Ice… we need blood Yak: over radio alright I see you guys I’m on my way Rin: alright Yak I’m just gonna put this in here and he should have enough blood to keep him alive. Ice: ughh: Box…? Rin…? Yak…? Why are you all standing around me like that? The fuck is this metro exodus? Box: chuckles well at least you got the good ending imitating a Russian accent the dark ones have spared you hahaha Ice: yeah did I tell you I actually finished metro exodus… without slapping Anna Paramedic: placing an anaesthetic mask over Ice’s face while wheeling him into an ambulance cmon sir we have to get you to a hospital Ice: ok… jus… just keep the mask on… Paramedic: ok sir countdown from 10 for me Ice: 10… 9… 8… 7… 6… Ice passes out and the footage ends
Transcript End
Ice: alright box… I’ve got a meeting with the MOD now… a new op by the sounds of it Box: know anything about it? Ice: I heard something about Kazakhstan Box: you gonna need anything in the meantime? Ice: just prepare the guys in woodland gear. Box: will do

Hello all, FTM here, just gave birth on Thursday to my beautiful healthy girl. I had what feels like an insanely traumatic birth that even though I did so much research nothing could’ve prepared me for this. Everyone said to expect period type cramps or camps like my IBS gives me. I have a very high pain tolerance due to my period and my IBS.
Started laboring at 3am with contractions 4 mins apart (my entire labor my contractions were 3-4 mins apart). My prodromal labor was like this for weeks so I was half expecting it. I labored at home until about 3pm (12 hours into labor) that day and headed to my birth center because the contractions were getting so intense I was crying profusely. At this point babe was sunny side up and I was having a lot of back labor.
Once I got there they confirmed I was 3cm and let me soak in the tub to give some relief and then put me to bed with 3 doses of morphine (2 via IV and 1 in the arm) to try and help me sleep. The contractions were still so strong that I couldn’t sleep. My husband was helping me breathe through them and holding me to help alleviate the pressure.
About 15 ish hours into labor they said my water was bulging through my cervix and wanted to break it. As soon as they were going to another mom went into the pushing phase of labor so I needed to wait. It was during this next hour the contractions went from bad to worse. Babe turned the right way around and was very very engaged in my pelvis. Now there was no more breathing every contraction made me make this guttural moan. I was bawling from the pain. They broke my water which alleviated some pressure and put me back in the tub.
At this point my contractions felt like my hips were being torn apart. It felt like someone was ripping my body in half. My husband was bent over the tub holding my hips which helped a lot but I genuinely felt like I was dying. I was wailing and begging for him to help me and to make the pain stop. (As if he could do anything 😭) if he stopped holding me at any point the pain got 10 times worse easily.
At this point I gave in and I got nitrous oxide to help which I think helped but also made me delusional. I remember hearing the midwife and nurse but couldn’t comprehend them. I could only focus on my husband so he again had to help me and coach me. I was just doing everything he said because all I knew in that moment was that I was dying and he was the only one that I trusted to save me.
I was just continually belting in pain switching between saying I can’t do this, I’m dying, begging my husband to help me, etc.. I labored in the tub for maybe 2-4 hours? I was so in and out blacking out in between contractions.
At around hour 20 or 21 they took me out the tub to check what’s going on. I got put on my back and told I was dilated to 8cm. At this point the midwife and nurse I think were sick of me and wanted to see if I wanted to transfer to hospital which was my worst fear. I just remember looking at my husband for help and saying I want the pain to stop. He told me I could do this but it was okay to change my mind. I trusted him and so we continued.
They moved me to the shower on all fours with this big pillow supporting my upper body. My husband continued to switch between holding my hips and pouring water on my back. At this point I fully blacked out. I remember getting into the shower I remember him being next to me. But I don’t remember anything else.
My husband says I continued to scream and wail and I started pushing without getting the okay and the midwife was yelling at me. I was screaming my vagina was going to rip in half. He said I was all instincts at this point. I pushed for 7 or 8 tries and I only remember the last 2. My husband felt our daughter pass through my hips. And the last push she rocket launched herself onto the floor.
She didn’t cry when she came out and I remember asking if she was okay and my husband stayed next to me saying repeatedly she was fine but I knew something was wrong when I didn’t hear her. He later told me she came out purple but was looking around, then she turned fully black and went completely limp and closed her eyes, they had to pump air into her lungs and then she cried.
They helped me to bed, she was on my chest, I passed my placenta and begged for an ice pack for my vagina. Which the nurse/midwife I guess had never seen someone do? Idk about you guys but my vagina was on FIRE how could I not want an ice pack. I somehow didn’t tear through this whole thing and my labor in total was 25.5 hours. With babe being born a little past 4:30am.
All in all I’d say I’m deeply traumatized by birth, as well as my husband. He was horrified seeing me in so much pain and unable to stop it. We are so happy with our little bean, she’s the most perfect human ever and this has brought us so much closer than we could ever imagine. We are both adapting to being new parents much easier than we ever thought (I know we are only a few days in but we have been running like a well oiled machine)
The few I have talked to about my labor all say “oh but don’t worry you’ll forget all about it and have another” we always wanted 1 or 2 babies but after that I can’t imagine another. I feel like my body was NOT made for labor. Having a really rough last month and a half of pregnancy with that labor has me shell shocked.
Our daughter is perfection I love kids but that pain was unreal. I don’t think I would change my labor but I just can’t comprehend willingly doing that again. So I’m heavily considering being one and done (which my husband fully understands and supports). But everyone’s reactions have me doubting myself. As well as her never having a sibling. I know I don’t need to make a decision now but I guess I just want to hear others thoughts.
Did anyone else here want multiple and stop at one? Why did you do it? Any regrets? Are people right that I’ll forget this?
ETA: I see a few people asking the same thing so I figured I’d clarify. Even though I consider my birth traumatic if I could go back in time I would do the same thing again. I don’t have positive associations with hospitals so I could never go to a hospital unless I was dying during labor or something.
My mom almost died during her c-section and the doctor fucked her up so bad that they ended up having to remove some of her reproductive organs (at this point I don’t remember exactly what they removed because this was 15 years ago when my sister was born). She had so many complications it was unreal and traumatic for me to watch her go through that.
Multiple other moms I know got the epidural and they weren’t in tune with their body’s at all and tore horribly. Which led to horrible recoveries they struggled with. I know this isn’t the case for everyone but when it’s the experience of your friends then you can’t help but worry. I however am now 3 days post partum and I’ve never needed a Perry bottle and I have genuinely no pain when pooping. I don’t know if I’m just lucky in that regard but I do give some credit to being able to feel my body through everything. Even if that’s misguided.
I think I really just needed to vent about my labor and I do think I will take some suggestions of going to a therapist that specializes in birth (my midwives offered one i just wasn’t sure how much it could help).

I am a 36F. I am smoker, no drinking & no recreational drug use. I have hypothyroidism, intercystial cystitis, lymphadema in both legs, tmj, degenerative disc disease, raynauds, low cortisol ( havnt figured out why yet ) ,possibly an autoimmune disease ( doctor doesn't know which one yet ), & wad just diagnosed with IIH ( idiopathic intercranial hypertension ). Also neurologist thinks I might have had a spontaneous csf leak.
I ended up having a lumbar puncture done in er because of severe symptoms I had been having including severe head&eye pain/pressure,dizziness, feeling like floor vibrating, ears popping, black areas in peripheral vision, cravkeling/crunching sensation when yawning or eating, & salty fluid dripped in my mouth. Was diagnosed w/ iih & possible spontaneous csf leak. The lp opening pressure was a 21. My symptoms were relieved mostly directly after lp.
However, the day after the lp, I could barely walk, & was in excruciating pain. My lower spine felt as if it was collapsing in on itself, back locking up/spasming, nerve pain shooting down both legs, & almost impossible to lay flat on back, which Is what I was supposed to do to rest & recover.
Day 2 I woke up super early after only being able to sleep for 2 hours due to extreme pain & I almost couldn't walk. Worst back pain I've ever been in. I've had a prior back surgery in 2009 for a herniated disc I had, & the pain from the lp was far worse than my back surgery recovery. I was truly suffering & my back wouldn't stop locking up.
Called er, er told me not a normal lp recovery & to come in. Was given 2 things of iv Dilaudid & spine mri was performed w/&w/o contrast .
All er doctor says was that there was no emergency findings/bleeding on the mri & discharged me. Didn't send me home w/ any meds to help, no instructions on how to keep my back safe from being in more pain, etc..nothing. however, right before I leave, er nurse quietly tells me that I need to see a neurosurgeon bc she looked at my mri results and saw abnormal findings. She didn't elaborate & no referral to neurosurgeon was given.
It's been 2 going on 3 weeks & even though I can walk alot better now, my spine is still super painful, stiff, & if I bend, twist, or try to pick up my toddler, the horrible pain shoots down both legs.
I had to have my pcp refer me to a neurosurgeon. He didn't get to look at my mri report while I was at appointment bc hospital keeps telling me records aren't ready for pick up, even though it's been weeks. My doctor had to get them from er himself to see them after my appointment.
When I asked neurosurgeon office what was on referral when they called to schedule my appt, she said something about multilevel facet hypertrophy, multiple bulging disc's, and a herniated disc at l4 l5. ( l4 l5 was where my prior herniated disc was in 2009 ). Something about nerve impingement & stenosis to.
I had mri done in 2021 & that's when I was diagnosed w/ " mild " degenerative disc disease ". But my back pain was nonexistent before this lp. All of the back pain and types of pain I'm having are new and started directly after the lp.
What can all of this mean? I don't understand what could have happened. The LP itself was the most excruciating thing I've ever experienced and I screamed and cursed during it, which is not like me. It felt like stabbing, aching, severe pressure all at once, & that was with extra lidocaine. I did inform the er doctor that I had a prior back surgery years ago & mild ddd. Lp was done without imaging/guiding & I was sat up when he found pressure point, and told to lay on side afterwards, with knees bent up . When I was sitting up, he asked if I had ever been told I had scoliosis, which I wondered why he asked that.
Was this a normal reaction people can have to a lp? Or is this very abnormal? I don't know what restrictions I should be doing to keep from furthering injuring myself. Please help!

You can see my original story of pregnancies and medical problems in my history.
We found out our son had T21 when we got our NIPT results showing we were high risk. It was confirmed after 4 agonizing weeks with an amino and we set our TFMR for May 22nd, 2024 at 18 weeks gestation.
Since I had so many D&Cs and surgeries on my uterus they opted to avoid scarring or aggravating any vessels from my avm. So L&D was the safe choice for me. I also wanted to hold him and say good bye and I only had that option with this method.
On Monday May 20th we received medication to start the process. I forgot the name but it helps the placenta to become ready for an easy detachment. I was told if I feel contractions before then to go in and they will start the induction early. I was told we would only start contractions if my body was already going to miscarry anyways. (This is just what I was told.)
The morning of May 22nd I was awoken at 6ish by some light cramping and bleeding. We were due in the hospital at 9 am. By the time I showered and got ready to go the cramping had increased and were contractions. I have had two previous deliveries so I knew what I was feeling. They weren’t constant or able to be timed but I knew things had started. This helped my guilt knowing my body may have done this on its own.
We got to the hospital at 9 am and were taken to a room as far from the laboring moms as possible. We were greeted by an angel of a nurse. She would be our nurse for the next few days and explained that we would meet the night nurse later and she would also be assigned to us for the night. I was their only patient as this hospital had a policy for mothers doing termination or known stillbirths to have one nurse per patient. We got my IV set and talked about what was going to happen.
She explained we will have a range of emotions from laughing to crying and everything was normal and to not feel guilty. This woman really was my light and focal person besides my husband. She also explained that things will go from nothing to baby and quickly. We were warned things can happen before the nurse and doctor got there.
I opted for IV meds to help take the edge off but that I was okay otherwise. We ordered some breakfast and waited for that to arrive. this was around 9:45ish and she then inserted the cytotec.
When breakfast got there I got my first set of IV meds and the contractions got intense and close. After another discussion with the doctor I opted to get an epidural in case I needed an emergency D&C or they need to handle bleeding. I finished breakfast around ten and we waited for the anesthesia to get there. They got there at about 10:40ish and started the process. By then I think I hit transition but was so focused by the needle in my back to notice. The pain was back so more meds and I got sick so I got zofran and a bag. While he worked on placement I felt the worst pain in my bottom and I thought he hit a nerve. He said it wasn’t him. I realized the baby was coming and I couldn’t move. So while trying not to move in the awkward position they put me in and trying to push my back to keep my spine open I felt the baby come down en caul. The bag broke under my weight and I just remember yelling in pain and fear and in mourning. It is all such a blur after that.
We got cleaned up and he was pronounced. They took him to be cleaned. My husband didn’t want to see so we opted for me to view him alone. My husband was worried the image of holding his child would be ruined. He changes his mind and we both got to hold him and say good bye. He was a bit bruised but otherwise looked unharmed from the birth position.
They ended up not finishing the epidural but I went numb for a bit as I got a small dose of the meds. They did an ultrasound and made sure I wasn’t bleeding. We ended up going home that night after spending the day saying good bye but I wanted my bed and to be able to hold each other.
I miss him everyday but he was so much sicker than we knew. Owen was born sleeping at 10:50 am.
Fun note I am being highly recommended to induce if I have a successful pregnancy as they are worried I will have a baby on the way to the hospital. I have fast labors. They said they don’t see women have a baby with in the first hour after the cytotec often.
I am healing. Took me a bit to process and not cry while typing this.

I used to make videos. Not to a large following, just little interesting clips about life in a small town and the various people who live there. It wasn’t just content for the sake of content, it was a record to show what life was like in the 2020’s for the folks of Tomskog, Minnesota.
I’d done a couple of videos already. One was about the old couple running the corner pub, one was about a landlord, and another was about the principal of the local high school (and their apparent pool troubles). Long story.
I was doing a shorter video about a woman named Marla. She was a beekeeper who worked with moving intrusive hives. This kind of content gets a lot of views, so I figured I’d do a more compact but better edited video this time around. I’d done my research, prepped my gear, and was rearing to go.

I met Marla on a Thursday morning in late May. We took her pickup, had a gas station sandwich for breakfast, and stopped for a quick coffee. I talked to her a bit about her job, her life, and her aspirations. Small town stuff. She was the kind of woman who was happy as long as she could keep up with her payments and have a bit left over for a Netflix subscription. Wholesome.
She drove me out to the site of the day, talking to the camera as we went. We were turning further and further off the paved roads as the suspension struggled against weeds, rock, and gravel.
“There’s a hive near a walking trail,” Marla explained. “A couple of folks called in about their dogs getting scared. It should be fine, but we’re gonna gear up just in case they’re mistaken.”
“You expect us to get stung a lot?” I asked.
“Not really,” she smiled. “Not if you know what you’re doing. But there’ve been times when folks have called in about a hive and it turned out to be paper wasps.”
“Not as pleasant as honeybees.”
“No,” she laughed. “No, they really aren’t”.

We passed through a section of trees that covered both sides of the road; the branches hanging low enough to scrape the hood of the car. Emerging on the other side, a field opened up to our right. A large, wide-open field, covered from end to end in blue sunflowers; a local variety that is, apparently, sort of rare. I asked Marla about them.
“The blues? Yeah, they were introduced as a sort of gimmick back in the… 1930’s, I think? 1940’s maybe? They’re actually quite invasive. I’m surprised there aren’t more of them around.”
“But bees can make honey on them?”
“I guess,” she nodded. “They’re just sunflowers.”
“Have you tried it? Is it blue?”
“Can’t say that I have,” she laughed. “But I’m sure it’s fine. Ordinary sunflower honey is fantastic. Kinda earthy.”

We got out and suited up. It felt like putting on a tent. Marla shared some interesting bee factoids that I didn’t manage to catch on camera, but I made a mental note to ask her to repeat it later. Of course, I wouldn’t. I’m kinda forgetful.
I hadn’t seen a single bee yet, but Marla was already heading out into the field. The sunflowers reached about waist-high, and there was this strange, almost chemical smell in the air. Sort of a mix of chlorine and ammonia. As we got further out, Marla pointed out a couple of flowers to me.
“Right there,” she said. “Get a clip.”
I zoomed in, spotting two bees chilling on a blue sunflower petal. They were just sort of sitting there. They had a slightly more reddish tint to them than I expected. Marla didn’t seem to mind, or notice.

It didn’t take long before we got to the hive. I immediately started filming as we approached. The buzzing got louder as bees started to poke and prod at my defenses, curiously checking for gaps in my gloves and neck. Thankfully, Marla had helped me secure it. Still, the buzzing kinda gave me the creeps. Never been a fan of bugs.
“Yeah, alright,” Marla laughed. “No wonder there are bees. Someone set this up.”
It was a man-made hive, framed with sheets of mahogany. A series of wooden squares with hollow cork pipes lining the inside. The bees had really taken to it, transforming it into a sturdy hive.
“We usually call these bee hotels,” Marla said. “Some kind-hearted local set it up, but as this isn’t private property we have to take complaints into account. I’m gonna make sure we move it to a better location with more nutrition for our free-bee friends here, where they won’t spook any dog-walkers. And of course, we’re keeping the hive. Someone put a lot of thought into this.”

I got a nice video out of it. How she unsecured the hive, moved the sections one by one, and pointed to interesting pieces for the camera. She found the queen and scooped her up in a separate container. Marla stopped for a moment though; apparently, the queen was larger than she’d anticipated. I didn’t really have a frame of reference, so I had to take her word for it.
We wrapped the hive up under a tarp on the pickup and made our way back to Marla’s property. I was afraid all the bumps in the road would shake the bees loose, but they seemed perfectly content. I guess it helped that Marla was a very calm driver, despite some curious bees making their way inside the cabin. We still had the suits on, luckily.
There was a cute hand-painted sign of a bee as we entered Marla’s land. When you live in the middle of nowhere, most folks can get away with owning more land than they need; especially if they don’t mind having spotty internet or a fair drive to the nearest supermarket. One look at Marla showed that she didn’t mind either of these things.

We took some time offloading the hive, finding a good spot on the eastern side of her property. There were plenty of wildflowers for the critters to feast on, and Marla seemed confident in her choice. There wasn’t much more to it; we set it up, captured a couple of finishing thoughts, and called it a day.
As I packed up my gear and took off my suit, I got a moment to speak with Marla without the camera. She was excited to have a new hive, but there was something about her expression that seemed a bit… off.
“I’d love to try some of their honey,” I said. “I think it’d make a great end to the video.”
“Yeah, I’ll keep in touch,” she nodded.
There was an oppressive silence as she stared into the distance. I tilted my head, trying to catch her attention.
“You alright there?” I asked.
“Yeah,” she nodded. “I, uh… I’m just anxious. New responsibilities, you know?”
“Is there a problem?”
She bit down on her lip, squinting.
“Maybe.”

A couple of days later, I started getting updates. Marla was having some trouble with the hive. It was more aggressive than she’d previously thought, and a lot of the bees had been dying off at alarming rates.
“It happens when you move them sometimes,” she sighed. “It’s rare, but it happens. They can have trouble adapting.”
She managed to get a little honey, but she wasn’t too happy about it. Apparently, it wasn’t as sweet and sugary as she thought it’d be. There was just something off about it, texture-wise. She was gonna make me a little bottle of it either way, for the video, but she advised against eating it.

Returning to my day job, I was looking forward to hearing more from Marla. Out of all the people I’d worked with, she’d been the most eager to contribute to my channel. We kept in touch over the week, discussing future collaborations and other ways we could make content. She suggested making a couple of DIY videos to showcase some neat tricks for would-be hobby apiarists.
The following weekend, we met up again. Another early morning, this time with a light drizzle spattering against the hood of her pickup. The moment she came around, I could tell something had happened. She had these bright red spots on her arms, and she was a lot less talkative than usual. Before I got the chance to talk to her about it, she explained.
“Got swarmed yesterday,” she said. “Never happened before.”
“Those are all stings?”
“That’s just the thing,” she scoffed. “It isn’t. They’re bites.”
“I didn’t think honeybees bit people.”
“They don’t.”
We just looked at one another for a moment. Her marks were pretty nasty, some of them swollen enough to burst. The conclusion was obvious; these weren’t ordinary honeybees.

We made our way back out to the field where we’d found them. I did a little filming, but Marla was self-conscious about her arms. She was scared that it might dissuade people from working with bees, and she kept repeating how it was “her fault” for not handling them correctly. She said it so many times I couldn’t help but to feel she was trying to convince herself rather than me, or an audience.
We made our way out into the field. Marla flipped open a pocketknife and bent down to check on the flowers. Cutting one off at the stem, she examined it for a moment. She held it up for me to see for myself. I looked it over but couldn’t see anything strange – apart from the obvious blue color.
“You gotta touch it,” she said. “Check it.”
So I did. As soon as I touched it, a few petals came loose. The flower was clearly dead and dry.

Checking out a couple more, we came to a startling realization. The entire field was, in fact, completely dead. Bone dry of pollen and sustenance. And, according to Marla, it must’ve been dead for months. I didn’t really understand why that was such a big deal.
“Because,” Marla explained. “The hive flourished out here, in the middle of the field. If they couldn’t survive here, they would’ve migrated, but they didn’t. So what the hell have they been eating?”
“Whatever it was, it’s what must’ve made the honey taste weird.”
“Not just taste,” Marla said, shaking her head. “The smell is the worst. Like stale bacteria and methane.”

Things started to fall into place. Whatever they had been eating out here in the field wasn’t available at Marla’s place; hence why they had been dying and getting more aggressive. Getting back to the pickup, Marla was deep in her own thoughts, drumming her fingers on the dashboard. She couldn’t figure it out. I tried to cheer her up with a pat on her shoulder, which caused her to flinch a little. I probably poked a bitemark.
“Sorry,” I said. “But you know, maybe that’s why they swarmed you.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, maybe they tried to eat you up,” I chuckled, pointing to her arms.
“Bees don’t do that,” said Marla, her face stern.
“I know,” I nodded. “Sorry, bad joke.”
But I could tell I’d planted something in Marla’s thoughts. Something that worried her.

As we went back to her property, she explained that there was indeed a kind of bee that was carnivorous. There was a type of bee called the ‘vulture bee’ that fed exclusively on meat. Mostly carrion though; they weren’t active hunters. They couldn’t be, as they were stingless.
“You think these might be vulture bees then?” I asked.
“They live south of the border,” she explained. “Can’t imagine them just, uh… popping up. And even so, they wouldn’t be this aggressive.”
“Would explain the honey though.”
Marla’s face went pale. Had she been eating meat honey?

I decided to hold off on posting my video. This was turning into something more interesting, and I wanted to see it through. I filmed a couple of shots where Marla got to explain the intricacies of vulture bees. She did it in the frame of an interesting fact rather than a suspicion, but I could tell something had changed. She wasn’t as certain anymore, and a bit of eagerness had run out of her. There was a tangible worry there.
As we went out back to check out the hive, Marla stopped. Her eyes widened.
“Turn off the camera,” she hissed.
Three dead pigeons; covered in bees.

From that point on, I was fully invested. This was something neither of us had seen before; unfamiliar ground. It didn’t take long for Marla to confirm that the honey she’d harvested did, indeed, contain a meat protein. After that, it was just a matter of observation.
Yes, the bees ate flesh. They bit instead of stung. But they weren’t vulture bees.
These were larger, more aggressive, and had a wider abdomen. Their mandibles were longer, and they had a slightly reddish tint to them. It was difficult to tell whether the color was a result of mutation or blood. The dead pigeons were stripped to the sinew in surprisingly little time.
Marla didn’t know what to do. She’d been working with preserving bees since she was a teenager, and this whole situation was testing her. She didn’t want to just kill the hive, but she couldn’t let them spread either. These could be highly invasive.

But she took too long to decide. Just a couple of days later, two of the other hives on her property had been completely decimated. The red bees had killed and devoured all of them; leaving only empty chambers and hollow carapaces behind. When Marla facetimed me about it, she couldn’t hold back the tears.
By now, I considered myself a friend of hers. We’d talked a lot and got along really well, and it wasn’t just about content anymore. I didn’t want to see her like that; she deserved better. I offered to drop by and brainstorm a bit. I figured she needed the company. She’d done at least two dozen of these bee rescues, and the one time someone came to cheer her on it all went to hell. That had to suck.

So I dropped by one day after work. The sun was setting. Dark clouds on the horizon.
I noticed them the moment I stepped out of my car. A handful of red bees climbed the white picket fence outside Marla’s house. A few others were clustered in a particular spot near the edge of the house; no doubt feasting on a small bird or a rodent. I went up to the door and rung the bell, ducking from a couple of curious bees trying to make themselves comfortable in my rough post-work hairdo.
Marla invited me into her kitchen, offering me homemade lemonade. She had these custom-made coasters with cartoon bees on them, along with the logo for her rescue. I could tell she’d taken a couple of sudden precautions. There were tape lining the edges of the windows, as well as a plastic sheet covering the ventilation duct. No wonder the air felt stale.
“No one knows what to do,” she sighed. “I called the Wyatt brothers, South Bound Api… they can’t even believe it. They actually don’t believe that I have what I say I have.”
“And what is that? What is it you have?”
She sighed, scratching her eyebrows. A kind of nervous tic.
“There’s no name, but… I mean, I know what they do. I know now. They’re like the vulture bees, but…”
She threw her arms up in surrender. I could tell she was tired. One of her eyes drooped a little lower than the other. Might’ve been from a bite too.

Marla spent the better part of an hour showing me websites, witnesses to similar bees, drawings, and descriptions. She talked about the application of pesticides, mutations, climate change, GMOs, and microplastics. Hell, at one point, she was bringing up 5G towers as a possible culprit. She was all over the place, and I could tell her heart wasn’t in it. It was all just desperation; grasping at straws.
After a couple of hours, well into the dark of the evening, we’d gone from homemade lemonade to lukewarm, well-nursed beers. We’d run out of ideas and topics. Instead, we just stood by the kitchen window, watching the red bees crawl across the glass. Marla put down her bottle; this time without using one of her cartoon bee coasters.
“Check this out,” she said.
She placed her hand on the window, and the bees outside immediately swarmed to it. Within seconds, there was a cluster of at least 40 crowding around her hand, on the other side of the glass.
“Give them a minute,” she continued. “It’s kinda crazy.”

They started to move in a pattern. A sort of pulse, moving counter-clockwise from a perfect circle into a four-armed spiral. Their wings pattered in unison; a buzzing noise that scratched against the windowpane.
“I can’t explain that,” she said. “I can explain following my hand, or killing other hives, but that?”
She shook her head, not looking away.
“I can’t explain that.”

It got a little bit too late, and I’d had a couple of beers too many, so I decided to crash on her couch. I wrapped myself in a blanket and pulled a pillow up to my ear, so I wouldn’t have to hear the buzzing outside. It wasn’t loud, but it was such a distinct sound that I couldn’t un-hear it. Marla didn’t seem to share the same issue though, she just walked into her room and that was that. Out like a light.
I had an uneasy sleep, falling in and out of surface-level dreams. I remember forcing my eyes open - just to see if I could. I was uncomfortable, and I couldn’t stop hearing that buzzing noise. Even when things were quiet, I kept imagining myself hearing it. I’d see little black spots on the windows as they landed and disappeared, looking for a way in.
Somewhere in the early morning hours, I was finally out cold.

I didn’t notice those first few sounds. How the tapping against the window got louder. How the patterns got bigger and clearer. I was finally asleep, and it was already too late when I woke up.
I was lying on my side as I popped open a single eye, only to see a red bee on my hand calmly brushing itself clean. I didn’t notice the droning noise at first, until I realized the background noise of the room was different. Looking beyond that first red bee, towards the window, I realized something.
The pattern of bees was on the inside of the window.
There were hundreds of bees already inside the room.
But the sound was closer than that. It was all around me, and somewhere in the background, I could hear a breeze. Was the front door open?

I tried to stay completely still, but I could feel something in my chest tightening. I wanted to brush the bee off, but I couldn’t bring myself to move. Something was holding me back, keeping me from just waving my arms around and getting out. There was something more to this.
Seconds later, there was a noise. A rising murmur, like a moving mass. Best way I can describe it is a vibrating burlap bag followed by meaty footsteps. Not loud, but not quiet either. Someone didn’t care too much about waking me.
If there was ever a time to get up, to run, or to fight – that was it. But all I did was lie there, staring at that one red bee on my hand, listening to something slowly approach from behind. It’s as if I knew how badly outmatched I really was.

I could feel something shift as the side of the couch was grabbed. Creaking noises as fingers dug into old leather.
Snapping sounds. Sinew and muscle stretching and realigning under a thin layer of skin. Forced breathing and hissing descending on me from above. Little sniffs – then silence. I held my breath.
“…y o u t o o k m y h i v e.”
Less of a voice, and more of a collision of wings and carapaces. A shaped buzzing. The red bee on my hand looked straight into my eyes. Not a single twitch. Nothing.
“I didn’t,” I whispered under my breath, trying not to move my mouth. “I-I… I didn’t.”

There was a pause. A sudden shift as someone stepped back. A little moving mass came loose, dropping on top of my blanket. A handful of red bees, carefully spreading out to investigate me. Behind me, footsteps – leading into Marla’s bedroom. I could hear her deep breaths from here.
I stayed completely still. I was unharmed. I’d be fine - I just had to wait. Every nerve in my body felt like it was put through a white fire – still, controlled, and desperate to explode into action. As little creatures made their way across me, carefully looking me over, the pores on my skin were screaming at me to move, itch, and shudder. I could feel the hairs on my neck rise; only to be tugged on by eager mandibles.
Then, a scream.

Marla screamed. A bloody, mind-piercing, screech. The kind of scream that you just know means pain. Hearing it was like feeling a physical push, and I couldn’t hold myself from acting any longer.
I rolled off the couch, trying to shake the bees off. The cluster on the window exploded into a disorganized attack, swarming every piece of me, and the room, and the adjoining kitchen. They were inside my clothes, in my hair, in my eyebrows, and they were going to eat their fair share. Every bite was white-hot fire, followed by a sudden stinging cold.
I ran outside. I remember taking off my clothes, waving my shirt around. Shoeless and burned by bites, I ran from her house; making as much space between me and the hive as possible.

There was this blur of buzzing, biting, flailing, and screaming. Some of it mine, some if it Marla’s, in the distance. Little red spots crawling across my waving shirt. I threw myself on the ground, rolling in the grass. I smacked my body with the palm of my hand over and over, ensuring me that the little tickle I felt wasn’t another one of them.
Then I just lay there, panting in the grass. They were gone. A single red bee on the palm of my hand remained, carefully brushing itself, before casually flying off.
I could feel the soothing morning dew on my cheek. I slowly sat back up, leaning against a tree. I could see Marla’s house in the distance as I gasped for air. There was a heaviness to my lungs, like I couldn’t completely fill them.

A man stepped out. Or at least the shape of a man, it was hard to tell at that distance. It was as if he wasn’t completely solid; his silhouette kept shifting even as he stood still. He stopped in the doorway, looked me way, and just sort of… dissolved.

I burst into action.
My phone was still inside, but I had a backup in my car. I wrestled it out of the glove compartment, staining the driver’s seat with spots of blood. My fingertips were bleeding, making it hard to call emergency services. My cheek and tongue were swollen, making it even harder to speak.
I made my way back inside as I frantically explained what’d happened. What would you even call it? An assault? Marla wasn’t in her bedroom, but there was plenty of blood. There was a sound further in. Her shower was running.
She’d made it to her bathroom and dropped into her tub. She’d turned on the water, hoping to keep them off. The end result was her ending up swollen and unconscious in the bathtub; dead bees bobbing in the water around her. Some still twitching.
It was horrifying. She was bitten, and it wasn’t just from bees. There were miscolored marks from all kinds of stings, coloring her skin both a burning red, a pale white, and a faint green. Her neck was almost as thick as her head.
But she was alive.

Emergency services arrived. They managed to keep her alive, but she had to be put on a ventilator. They claimed she’d had a massive allergic reaction. They said something similar about me; completely ignoring the eyewitness account of a strange intruder. It didn’t help that neither me or Marla could say the slightest comprehensive thing about their appearance or identity.

It took some time, but I recovered. Marla too. By the time she got back home, not a single hive was left. Every single one had been butchered and devoured. And the red bees, well, they were just gone – along with their handmade hive.
Not too long ago, I talked to a friend-of-a-friend who worked at the Sheriff’s office. I told them where we’d found that first hive. He asked me at least three times if I was sure that that was the specific spot. Of course I was. I even had a clip of it.
Turns out, that place had been the discovery site of at least half a dozen unidentified bodies a couple of years ago.
Which, in turn, made me wonder. A couple of wanderers in the area had spoken about finding dead animals on the trail, only for them to be gone the next morning. It wouldn’t surprise me if that field was littered with bones. But with the way these things work, there is no telling what else might’ve gone missing along that trail.

That conversation is what spurred me to write this all down. Marla and I will never publish that video, and for all intents and purposes, neither of us will bring it up. This never happened. This couldn’t be real. We can’t move on with our lives if we keep talking about it, because there is nothing we can say that will make it alright.
Instead, she has new hives. She has a new smile.
And for a while, I think we can lie to ourselves just enough to make it.

I have rheumatoid arthritis and my self administered injection is not working anymore, which resulted in me having to get an infusion. I have to go to the hospital and sit for four hours, while nurses are giving me my medication through IV and monitoring me to make sure I don’t have any reactions to it. I check in and then right away I have to put headphones in, otherwise these pesky assholes are all: why are you here, you’re too young to have cancer, as if cancer is selective and has a preference for demented brains and spiteful hearts.
Yesterday I was 3 hours into my session when a boomer “lady” proceeds to sit in the second chair away from me (distance of about 10 feet, in a long room, where people are separated by curtains, with no real privacy), and starts having a LOUD conversation with someone on FaceTime. First thing she said was: do I look like someone who is dying? She then proceeds loudly for the next 20 minutes about her cancer, chemo and dying, as if she was the only one in the room, not to mention all the other poor bastards sitting in a chair, trying to ward off death by pumping their body with chemicals. Talk about tone deaf. I thought I was going to have some peace and quiet during my sessions, away from my 4 boys, but the prospect of doing this for the rest of my life and dealing with fucking boomers fills me with more dread than mangled joints from RA.

Thus, wounded, and less victorious than they might have preferred, but victorious nonetheless, the royal three returned to the Macedonian capital. The army returned to Philopolis in triumph, the trio at their head. Leonidas on a replacement for his slain mare, Cassandra astride a titanic black stallion which was exclusively used for parades, and Seramis in her full diluvian glory. Cassandra might have been disappointed that the battle hadn’t been as decisive as she preferred, but she wasn’t about to miss an opportunity for propaganda.
So the group returned to the cheers of their people, the cavalry shining in the summer sun, and the army marching in strict formation. Trumpets heralded their return. Banners flew from the corners of houses. The men sang bawdy songs, as is the tradition of soldiers. Not a spec of blood or rust nor dust was allowed, presenting the image of a spotless, unconquered army. It was all a magnificent production. It was all a lovely welcome home.
When Seramis had first seen Philopolis and Macedon, it had been a very different place. The realm had struck her as grey, very grey, and a place without much beauty. Then, under the rule of the wicked regent Tyndareus, it was a place of iron and blood, a totalitarian state dedicated primarily to a massive conscript army. The hills had been torn open by great pit mines for iron and copper. The forests had been cut down to fuel the fires of industry. The fields were endless, uniform masses of oats, grain, and hay, worked by uncounted slaves, or landless peasants just a bit better than slaves. Over it all, the ancient fortress of the Alexandrian dynasty had loomed as a great edifice; a leviathan of hewn stone and barred windows representing the absolute military power that held all of it in place.
Now, two years hence, it was more alike to how she had first found it than she would have preferred. But transforming a society was hardly a swift process, and the work done was already substantial. Once the place had been a land of iron and blood, and though industry remained, now the smell of olive oil, the sound of potters wheels, and the hawking of merchants filled the air. The monolithic collective farms had shattered into a patchwork quilt of small holdings. The men working them might still have brands, but they and the lands were their own.
Of course, there were still some great expanses of oats and wheat. Those were Cassandra’s lands. She’d been generous with the lands she’d confiscated from the nobility, and in turn with their wealth which now filled her treasury. But she hadn’t given up any of her own family’s territory, and had expanded them substantially. Something like a quarter of the land in the country was the Queen’s personal fief, and she managed it very carefully. The economies of scale she alone had access to provided much needed stability for staple food prices during the transition from a slave-based command economy to a citizen market economy. Beyond that, the lands also provided a substantial portion of government income.
Said income was further complimented by a wide-scale reform to the tax structure. Rather than outsourcing the work to tax farmers, or to any nobility, as that had been liquidated, taxes were collected from a variety of small, but inescapable requirements. The primary tax was simply the surplus tax, an in-kind tax taken from all production. Farmers gave a share of their produce, potters a certain number of pots for each produced, blacksmiths a certain number of finished goods, and so on and so forth. Only the merchants would return hard currency from the surplus tax, the rest a great cross-section of produced goods. These in turn went into great warehouses, which the government might release from to control prices, or sell abroad to bring in further profits. The majority of currency entering the coffers either came from selling such produce, Cassandra’s personal lands, or a variety of import and consumption taxes. No less than a tenth of the entire bureaucracy was funded by the consumption taxes on oil and salt.
Of course managing all this was a good lead more complicated, not least of which because Cassandra had liquidated the aristocracy. This required a rather extensive increase in the bureaucracy, which brought in quite the expense of its own. Overall revenue was vastly increased from the reign of Tyndareus, and indeed all former kings of Macedon. The problem was that expenses had increased in turn. Macdeon was a military stratocracy, and Cassandra was in the process of trying to reform that into a sort of enlightened bureaucratic autocracy. The amount spent on papyrus alone nearly rivaled the payments to the many new government servants, which were not cheap. Educated men and women, able to read, understand the laws, and understand mathematics were not common, and commanded higher prices.
Cassandra had responded both by working to increase the supply of educated citizens, and cut costs in other areas. Firstly, she enacted a massive increase in education, beginning with the orphans of Macedon’s many wars and educating them. Secondly, she had begun offering to pay for the education of the children of public servants as part of their compensation. This allowed her to cut down on salaries and ensure a future educated workforce. Third and finally, she had begun to subsidize educators throughout the kingdom, and begun work to gather and copy many books and tomes to further improve the kingdom’s educational outcomes. Unfortunately, this was work that would take years to bear fruit.
The second arm of this had been to cut costs in other areas, most notably the military. Under Tyndareus, the Macedonian army had grown to a terrifying, if bloated, leviathan. Between the use of conscription, and counting reserves, the former army could have raised nearly thirty thousand men under arms. Cassandra had slashed that, and abolished conscription for the regular army. After intensive cuts, purging Tyndareus’s loyalists, and serious reforms including the near complete reconstruction of the Macedonian Cavalry Corps, the Macedonian Army now numbered a mere nine thousand, with the ability to call upon a further ten thousand former soldiers, now spread out to create a variety of local militias.
Leonidas had taken charge of many of these reforms, bringing in military advisors from Marathon and Achaea. The young prince, in his role as Minister of War, set to work with vigor to refine the Macedonian army down to its purest and strongest form. His high standards might have earned him ire, if not for the personal virtue and discipline he showed to meet those standards. He demanded the best not only from himself and his soldiers, but even from his suppliers and quartermasters. Most of the Macedonian military exports were those arms and armor he found below standard, though many less discerning customers would gladly accept them.
More than simply focusing on the logistics, Leonidas sought to infuse in his army a certain esprit de corps and moral focus. He drew heavily on the legendary philosopher Aristotle, particularly regarding that philosopher’s education of Iskandar, the famed conqueror king who had defined Macedon for the past two centuries. Outside the direct military applications, the young prince kept an eye on the future, sponsoring the growth of sports leagues throughout the kingdom, particularly a great hunting association. The Hunter’s Guild was a particular passion project of his, and he worked tirelessly not only to cultivate skilled hunters to recruit for his scouts, but also to preserve what remained of Macedon’s wild lands, ensuring game populations remained stable, and dangerous animals were quickly eliminated. The prince’s skill at the hunt had even earned him the right to attend the games at Olympus, though it was his mastery of wrestling that had seen him returned crowned with the ultimate honor of the laurels.
Such participation with the rest of the Hellene world had been part of Sera’s work. The young dragonness had held no official position at first, as Cassandra worked to develop her talents. Seramis had loathed etiquette as taught as a set of rules to be followed, but Cassandra revealed their nature as tools and tricks as part of the great game of politics. Allowed to treat the illusion of statecraft as just that, Seramis thrived. Soon appointed as Minister of State, her talent for gathering information, forming schemes, and comprehending languages saw her unleashed as Macedon’s greatest diplomat. All the while, her true title was one that delighted her greatly. Master of Shadows, she wielded the diplomatic corps and her own personal stable of agents like a scythe, harvesting a hoard of secrets she feasted upon. They became as arrows in her quiver, aiding her as she stood alongside Cassandra to carefully guide the ship of state.
On a much less sinister note, Seramis had engaged in quite public work to revitalize Macedon’s stagnating cultural sphere. The dragoness was chiefly known not even as a diplomat, let alone a spymaster, but rather as a patron of the arts. She courted and drew playwrights, actors, bards, conductors, and composers from across the world, placing a great deal of personal effort into producing a cosmopolitan cultural sphere. Though diplomacy, culture, and her eternal scheming, she worked to put the sword of Iskandar in a flowered sheath, in hopes it would never need to be drawn.
The peak of her work in that regard was a mere week away, a grand festival of the arts such as had not been seen in Macedon before. It would be a great festival as if that of the Athenians, now long brought to ruin. For the first time since the wars of the Diadochi, Hellas would come together to celebrate the arts. Naturally, Macedon would be participating, represented by Sera’s own personal theater company: The Mount Ararat Company.
Seramis quickly moved through her remaining business for the day. She met with the Master of Investigations and also her deputy, who had been working to manage her department while she had departed on campaign. Pleasantries were exchanged, and reports given. There was little new, but there was confirmation that the Latins, a curious people from across the western sea, would come to attend the festival. This would have been of little concern, if not for how they were coming.
A long-standing problem of the western coast had been the pirates of Illyria. These seafaring brigands proved a routine nuisance for not only Hellene trade, but all throughout the seas. Achaea and Macedon had both extended offer to the king of Illyria to come and help remove the pirates, but had been rejected. However when the Latins offered, the king accepted. So, the Latins came in force, bringing with them a four mighty legions of men, and crushed the pirate havens by attacking from the land. The problem was, they didn’t leave. While three of the legions returned to Italia, the fourth remained to protect against the return of the pirates, and to protect their Illyrian allies from Achaean or Macedonian aggression.
This was already a provocative move, as the barbarian army now sat on Hellene soil, diplomatically shielded by the cowardly Illyrian king. However, now the Latins made a further move. They had informed the court at Macedon previously that they wished to send a delegation to observe the festival and improve relations. All this was well and good, and naturally they did request to send bodyguards to protect the delegates. This was agreed, but the unscrupulous Latins had interpreted the mention of bodyguards broadly, and deployed a third of the legion infantry as “bodyguards”. Seramis’s reports indicated that these were in fact the Triarii, the third and strongest line, composed of veterans. The remainder of the legion remained encamped alongside the Ilyrian-Macedonian border.
The presence of the legion was concerning, to say the least. It numbered some four thousand five hundred men, about the size of a Macedonian army. The Macedonians held a local advantage, as they maintained two armies. One was directed northwards, towards the barbarians, and the other towards the east, to ward off their Selucid rivals. So they outnumbered the legion present two to one. However, the problem arose with the Latin’s ability to deploy a further three legions, which would reverse that advantage. With aid from Marathon, the Hellenes could match the Latin’s numbers, and with Achaean aid, they would outnumber them. Unfortunately, the Latins had spent much of their recent war with the Phoenicians of Carthage demonstrating an ability to raise new forces frighteningly quickly. Sera’s analysis suggested that if they wished to, they might be able to triple the might of their armies to twelve legions. The sheer military mass of the Latins would be enough to equal all Hellas, but Hellas was still divided, and some, such as the Illyrians, preferred them as allies to their fellow Hellenes.
The simple arithmetic of war indicated that if the Latins wished to conquer Hellas, they probably could. The simple arithmetic of war neglected to account for the power of dragons. But, Sera had observed, it was rare to lose money betting on the arrogance and avarice of humans. The fortunate side of dealing with the Latins was that for all their military might, they had a peculiar custom. They were permitted by ancient law and religious principle from launching a war of aggression, and so only declared war when they or their allies were threatened. This iron law of ancient Roman kings aught to have kept their swords sheathed, but in practice it often meant that an ambitious man of that city would seek to provoke an attack or aggression, that they might have reason for war. This incident with the “bodyguards” was likely such an attempt at provocation by a glory hound.
So, the trio met, and considered how to deal with this. It was decided that they would monitor the Latins closely, and place forces in such a way that they could not be aggressive, but would certainly be ready. The Army of the North was still recuperating from their recent battle with the Scythians, and would remain on standby in the capital to respond to any moves from the Latins or Scythians. At the same time, the northern militias would be stood up, and reinforced by militias from the south. These southern reinforcements would travel along the roads that would place them directly between the two parts of the Roman Legion, ensuring that if hostilities began, the separated legion would be able to be dealt with in parts. Unfortunately, Leon was unable to deploy as many of his scouts to that region as he would prefer, and Sera’s own intelligence assets were likewise pointed northwards. Better to deal with the actively aggressive barbarians, and then the imminently aggressive ones.
So, it was with great care, and no small amount of tension, that the Latin delegates arrived, joined by some three hundred of their Triarii. This was the first that Sera had seen of the Latins, and her initial impressions were somewhat mixed. They moved with distinct discipline, and were in all senses quite well ordered. The Triarii were older, veteran soldiers, generally more in their thirties. As such, they were somewhat more moderate, and avoided the wicked behavior common to many young soldiers. However, this rendered them with an increased air of unmistakable danger. Be wary of old men, even relatively old ones, in professions where men die young, and particularly of a soldier without an obvious vice.
The leader of the Latin delegation introduced himself to the court with a somewhat imperious nature. It likely would have been more imperious had Seramis not taken on her true form. It is difficult, even for a roman, to remain arrogant when there is a fourteen-foot-tall (measured at the shoulder) dragoness looking down at you. He declared himself as Military Tribune Gaius Mummius, representing the Praetor Lucius Cornelius in command of the IV Legion. Though the head of the delegation, he was simply that by right of his military rank. The actual diplomacy was handled by diplomats, not soldiers, though by their attitudes, Seramis might have taken them for sergeants in fancy togas. However, one who did catch her interest was distinct among the delegation, an old man, and truly old, dressed as a seer. He remained close by the ear of Gaius, and the tribune heeded him. Sera watched him warily, for she smelled magic on him, an old magician, and that would be trouble.
Despite her concerns, the Latins did not cause trouble, not even their old magician. They established a small camp for themselves outside the walls of the city, and largely kept to themselves. They came into the city only in small groups based around some member of their number who spoke Greek. They paid with honest coin, and seemed intrigued by the preparations for the festival. They seemed unusually preoccupied with finding barbers, as they were each clean-shaven, in contrast to the bearded Hellenes. Leonidas found this utterly hilarious, as he had spent more time than he would ever admit trying to find ways of improving his own facial hair. Now that it had finally come in, he spent more time managing his admittedly impressive beard than he ever had dealing with his actual hair. Sera, lacking any hair whatsoever, found the human preoccupation with it utterly confusing.
Bearded or otherwise, Hellene, Latin, and miscellaneous others soon came to attend the great drama festival. The idea of cancelling was briefly considered, and summarily rejected. Continuing to have a great celebration in the face of Latin provocation and Scythian Assault showed not only the power of the kingdom, that its people could act without concern, but also its prestige through mastery of the arts. The fact that many of the participants in the festival were from elsewhere in Hellas was politely overlooked. After all, Macedon had gathered them, and thus got credit.
The festival went on for three days, and proved to be a generally joyous, if somewhat chaotic time. Even the dour Latins eventually became swept up in the atmosphere. While this wasn’t technically a Bacchanalian festival, mostly due to the fact that Bacchus was very dead, it certainly carried some of that legacy. Of course the highlight, at least for men who considered them cultured, was the great drama productions. All manner of productions were put on display, from great recreations of the Athenian classics, to new twists, foreign productions, historical plays, retellings of myths, and of course many a comedic tragedy and initially tragic comedy.
Seramis’s own company had three productions, set into place over three days. The first two were well known, and practiced. Sera’s company had begun expediting the revitalization of the cultural scene with regular performances. Some of these had been well-worn classics, but the Mount Ararat Company would bring none of these to this stage. Instead, they brought two original, but already tested plays, and one of excellent ambition.
The first was a Satire, in the style of The Clouds which Sera had dubbed Tartarus. This piece was set in the depths of the underworld, that darkest pit where wicked men and monsters alike were tormented. These tormented souls took on the role of the choir, being intensely irritated by the antics of the four main players. Those four were of course the three great Greek philosophers: Socrates, Plato, and Aristotle, and their own tormentor; Diogenes. The play largely consisted of the main three wandering through Tartarus, further tormenting the tormented souls with long winded and pedantic arguments about the torments they witnessed. All the while, Diogenes routinely appeared to torment them in turn. The play as a whole made light of philosophies, and generally teased out the problems with focusing overmuch on the world of the mind while actual suffering could be addressed.
This play was well received, for it was humorous and mocked philosophers, which few people cared for. The humor wavered between high and low brow, with both clever jokes sprinkled in amongst the arguments of the philosophers, and cruder humor delivered by the tormented souls and Diogenes. A certain degree of slapstick was involved as well, often involving a great paper-Mache boulder being rolled by Sisyphus.
The second of Sera’s plays was a somewhat grander production, though was likewise satirical. It turned the classic play Oedipus Rex somewhat on its head with The Choir’s Apologia. The original play was an archetypical tragedy, following the story of Oedipus, son of the King of Thebes. Due to a prophecy, his father cast him out to be slain, but he would live, and later unknowingly slay his father, and wed his mother. The play detailed how the gods smote the city with a plague as a result of this kinslaying and incest. Oedipus sought the answer to this, and in doing so discovered the terrible truth, and blinded himself for shame.
The Choir’s Apologia put a twist on this, as the Choir itself determines to get involved. This broke their usual role as mere background singers, and saw them take the stage to try and prevent the tragedy. The play played out as usual, but regularly, the mortal actors would freeze in place before a great event. The Choir would then step to center stage, and petition the gods for redress. First they asked Apollo, bidding him not deliver the ruinous prophecy, for without it nothing would come, but he rejected them. Next they implored Hermes to warn Oedipus against his folly, but Hermes declared he was helpless before Zeus. Finally, the Choir dared to approach Zeus himself, demanding that he cease to punish all Thebes for Oedipus’s mistake.
This proved a failure in the end, as Zeus rebuked them and struck the choir down one by one. The message was clear, that the gods were cruel and arbitrary, delivering unjust judgements. They did what they would, for they were strong, and the choir suffered what it must, for it was weak. At last only Oedipus remained, able now to see Zeus and his murder of the choir. Oedipus and Zeus contested one another in song, and while Zeus struck down the king, it was not before the hero doomed by prophecy delivered a defense and a prophecy of his own. Oedipus defended his record as king of Thebes, how he had overthrown a tyrant, protected his people, improved their lives, and sought their good even at terrible cost to himself. He, the one the gods judged, had been a better ruler than the gods. If indeed the gods would persist in their arbitrary wickedness, then one day this would be their doom, for the world would not abide such tyrants. Zeus struck him down, but went in dread because of the prophecy.
This production produced some degree of controversy. It always had, and such was the intent. It was well understood that the gods were dead, and Olympus was silent, but this play indicated such was not a bad thing. Given it was written by a dragoness, a natural enemy of the gods, the take was not unexpected. Beyond this, its use of another play as a framing device gave it a rather meta feel, and some found it pretentious. Others, by contrast, found the reframing of a classic play refreshing, and enjoyed the novelty of the choir acting as a major character.
The third play was a new production, and meant to be the one to blow the sandals off the audience. It was a bigger, grander, and of much more spectacular production values. All of this was in theory. In practice, it was put on at the end of three days of performances and partying, and became more of a farce than an epic. The Davidiad told the story of the legendary Hebrew king David, of both his rise to power and fall from grace. It was told in three acts, and all three had some manner of disaster.
The first act told of the heroic youth of David before he was king, and how he defeated the giant Goliath. Goliath himself was a complicated costume made by having three already tall men standing on one another’s shoulders. When struck by a sling, he was to topple over onto his army, which would catch the performers and prevent any harm. Unfortunately, due to an earlier scene involving David being anointed with oil, there was a slick patch on stage. Goliath’s lower third slipped, and the towering giant fell flat on his face and collapsed into himself in the middle of a monologue. This was considered absolutely hilarious by the audience, and Seramis, upon seeing this, physically shrank from embarrassment.
The second act saw the conflict between the good future king David and the wicked king Saul. Saul was meant to begin more coherent, but gradually jealousy and fear would twist him into wickedness. Unfortunately, Saul’s actor had been out late, and showed up to the production very hung over. This made Saul’s descent far more predictable and robbed the second act of much of its drama. Unfortunately, the actor in question attempted to remedy this by using a hangover cure involving undiluted wine. This made him less hungover, and more drunk, so Saul went from being scowling and sickly to very obviously drunk. This became a minor peril during a later scene where Saul threw his spear at David. Not only did Saul miss, as intended, but he proceeded to hurl the (thankfully fake) spear into the audience, where it proceeded to hit a man in the chest. He was unharmed, but believed he had been slain and fainted, causing a minor panic.
The third act was nearly canceled, but went ahead anyways. The cursed production continued to be cursed, as a major set piece exploded earlier. The third act was meant to show how the throne gradually corrupted David, and led him to murder a man to cover up an affair with his wife Bethsheba. This would climax with the death of a son produced from that affair, and the collapse of a great temple edifice David had been constructing. The play would end with David weeping, but repentant, and turning to begin rebuilding the ruined temple, representing his disgraced morality. Instead of this, the temple collapsed immediately the moment David and Bethsheba locked eyes, which somewhat gave the game away.
Sera did not bother to see the audience’s reaction when the curtain closed. She’d already left from sheer embarrassment. She was helping the troupe pack up, so the lot of them could scatter to cope with this catastrophe in their own way. Once the curtain closed and the actors departed the stage, she handed Saul his last payment, a polite, if curt, farewell, and departed. She avoided the rest of the festival, marinating in her disappointment at the bottom of a nearby lake.
Eventually, evening did come, and Sera slunk her way back into the city. She spoke briefly with her troupe, congratulating them on the work they did, and laboring to encourage their spirits. The production of the Davidiad had gone horribly wrong, but these were technical and production errors, not fundamental flaws. They would try again, after taking time to rest, recover, and focus on building back up to such a grand production with greater skill and experience. Their reach had, quite simply, exceeded their grasp, and ruin had come because of hubris. They would recover from this, and move forwards.
Much as she managed the speech, she felt like she was having to put on her own performance to manage that. Privately, the failure on such a massive stage hung over the young dragoness. She quietly made her way into the palace, and made her way to where Leon and Cassandra were. Unfortunately for her, the pair were currently in the process of discussing the festival. Glumly, she sat silently, nursing a large bowl of wine as Casandra and Leon deliberated a victor.
“The first step is that we can scratch off any troupes that simply re-enacted an existing play. Those were simply derivative, and giving a victory to that in our first festival sets an unfortunate precedent.” Cassandra remarked, working off a clay tablet listing the various performances. Lines went through about a third of the participants. “We can also do away with anything that tried to relate to Iskandar or my own dynasty, and especially that gods-awful recreation of our little scheme to destroy Tyndareus.”
“I personally found that one funny.” Sera piped up, remembering the comically inaccurate play. “Though they did manage quite the trick with their costume for me, I’ll need to get in touch with their costume department to see how the internals worked.”
“It was funny, mostly because it was inaccurate enough we could probably bring a suit for slander, libel, and slanderous libel against them.” Leon grumbled with arms folded. He had been made the butt of many a joke in that production, with the comedy of the valiant warrior being utterly surpassed by two women being a common refrain. “Beyond that, we don’t want to give the wrong impression about what exactly is acceptable to say about a queen.”
“The Corinthians have something of an irreverent streak, that much is for certain. Unfortunately we can only bring slander, libel, and slanderous libel and not treason, as they are presently foreigners.” Cassandra demurred. “Still, delivering sanctions on the Ember Island Company could be an effective way to get the message across to Corinth that a more peaceful Macedon is not a pushover.”
“With regard to the reproductions, what about The Choir’s Apologia?” Leon asked, throwing Sera a metaphorical bone. She ate literal bones as well, but if Leon threw her one he’d soon find out what it was like to skydive before the invention of a parachute.
“Disqualified as well. It deviates from the standard formula, but relies on you already understanding it. Really, if you didn’t know much about theatre to begin with, at lot of it would be lost on you. It ultimately came off as pretentious, and despite its inherently kind of ridiculous premise, was more depressing than anything. This sort of meta-commentary might work better for the sake of humor rather than trying for serious drama. Trying it here simply made the play exhausting and the sort of thing Tartarus really felt like it was mocking. That said, its pretention and grim character could give a good impression that the Macedonian theatre scene is serious and educated, but then I’d have to watch so many more like it. I don’t have enough absinthe to get through more than about one of those in a single festival.” Cassandra replied to that, and drew a second line through Apologia to emphasize her point. Seramis shrank into her cushions.
“Ah, so you enjoyed Tartarus then?” Leonidas asked in turn, trying to navigate the conversation to something less liable to torment the dragoness.
“Oh I most certainly did, but we can’t give it the win. As amusing as it is, it’s ultimately a very limited production. I like it, but giving it the victory would indicate a degree of “small scale” theatre in Macedon. I don’t want to give anyone else opportunity to degrade the work that’s been done here by suggesting that the Macedonian theatre lacks ambition.” Cassandra said with a sigh, and began crossing out any plays of similar scale.
“Which would be possessed by the Davidiad, but we all know how catastrophically wrong that went, so pray spare me whatever salt you were going to pour into that wound. I know that with all the bacchanalian delights available, you probably have managed to find someone who enjoys being tormented, but I am not that someone. So please, if you’re going to continue trying to murder me with words, use the ones that summon that lightning ball that nearly splattered me across the wall. It was a gentler execution.” Seramis grumbled, finally speaking up for herself.
Cassandra realized she’d gone to far, and put down the tablet. “I’m sorry Sera, I meant to tease, but not be cruel. I actually would agree that the Davidiad’s ambition was most impressive, and if not for some production hiccups, I think it might have had a chance at winning. I do tease, but I really do appreciate all the work you’ve put in to this, not just your company, but allowing this whole festival to go off. So, please forgive me if I’ve stepped too far from jest into mockery.”
“It’s fine, simply a very fresh disappointment. I’m afraid I missed most of the festival as I was busy running things or, well, pouting in a lake.” Seramis replied, waving away the problem with her tail. “So aside from everything you’ve disqualified, what do you think actually won?”
“I do have a personal preference.” Cass admitted, though she seemed a touch embarrassed by it. “The Court of Autumn.” The other two looked at her carefully with that. The Court of Autumn had been a much more romantic retelling of the story of Hades and Persephone, focused on the courtship of the pair, and the conflict that arose from a disapproving and overbearing Demeter. Neither of the pair had expected Cass to favor a romance, and their expressions showed it plainly. Cassandra merely shrugged. “We all desire what we cannot have, and it comes to a question of character whether we become envious of those lucky enough to have it, or delight sorrowfully that another is so blessed, even if they might not realize it.”
“I mean, I can’t deny that it was very well done. If I didn’t know better then I’d say that the two leads actually were a couple.” Leon replied with a nod. “It certainly doesn’t lack for ambition either, nor courage to speak the names of the Dread Queen and Lord With Many Guests so commonly.”
Cass smiled at that. “The fact that they do so is also part of why I like it. Persephone and Hades are dead, all the Olympians are. The reverence shown to corpses is illogical.”
Seramis processed this information, and considered her memory banks. “The company behind it, they’re one of the Theban companies, the Men of the Muses, correct?” She asked, and Cass checked, then nodded. “Ah, then yes, the two leads are actually husband and wife, they’ve got something of a specialty for romances as a result.”
“Write, or as the case may be, act, what you know.” Cassandra said with a shrug. “So we concur, The Court of Autumn is the victor?”
“I can’t argue against it.” Leon replied.
“Nor can I, but that’s more due to the aforementioned lack of context. One can make arguments without information, but I have a bit too much respect for the pair of you to engage in full sophistry.” Seramis admitted begrudgingly.
“Well, that absence may actually work to our advantage, returning from these pleasant distractions to the business of rule.” Cassandra said with a smile. “The Latins were particularly delighted with Tartarus, and actually wished to see the director. Said director was currently indisposed, but they have extended something of an open invitation. I think that accepting would provide quite the opportunity. It isn’t often one has a chance to walk right into the midst of a potentially hostile camp and see what they’re up to under guest-right.”
Seramis rose in interest at the idea, and cracked her neck. Cracking such a long neck was a process, creating a rippling crackling sound as vertebrae popped along the serpentine trunk. She grinned in anticipation. “I’ll melt myself a new dress.”

So I do IFT. Anything from non-medical stretcher (basically Uber for people who can't sit in a car or wheelchair for one reason or another) up to and including ALS vent calls with a plethora of meds going.
That said, first call of the day was a bls transport taking a woman to a nursing home for a respite stay. She had some acute complaints so in trying to be thorough I did an assessment, and found her with left sided weakness, arm drift, etc as well as new onset afib rvr between 70-160, and she complained of chest pain and had been taking nitro every few hours since last night. No facial droop, no confusion, no slurring. Admittedly I goofed because I guess I misremembered the 4 hour window and basically thought if it started more than 4 hours ago I didn't need to call it a stroke alert, and it had been over 6 hours since she woke up with the symptoms. Yeah, dumb mistake, I'll be beating myself up for a while for it. That said, and not to make excuses, but this was my first potential stroke pt since I got my medic almost 4 years ago.. But other than that, I think I did well, got the 12 lead and an 18g iv started. Checked bgl, was wnl. Called in report and got her to the ER, one of the rare times they already had a room ready for us and said to go straight there, skip registration, etc. Think I did okay with the handover report to rn and Dr. Dr did grill me a bit over the stroke symptoms and why I didn't call it a stroke alert. I chatted with him afterwards and felt a little better about it. Grateful for getting one of the doctors at this hospital that will talk with you instead of just barking at you.
But I tell this story because.. Life's been rough, man. Wife's got health issues. Hours and overtime cut hard. And the job has been so monotonous lately, and partners have been changing a lot, so I've just been dreading coming in. But after this call I feel like I have a purpose again and I'm actually kinda glad I came in today. Even though I'm bummed I didn't do better, it just feels good that I didn't completely freeze or panic. I'm also glad I decided to take over the call and look into everything the way I did instead of chalking it up to "ehh, old people are always weak and in pain" and generally I'm just grateful for being here today.
Anyway. Just wanted to share. If you're feeling stuck, I hope things work out for you soon. You matter. If you do IFT, brush up on your emergency stuff. Never know when it'll catch you off guard like it did me.

TL;DR My online (ex?) bsf lowkey traumatised me by saying he has 3 days left to live. Idk if I should distance myself or talk again
The lore goes deep on this one, buckle up 🙏 Important: We’re from two different countries with different norms/culture. And if u see quotations, it’s from my notes. But in the main story, it’s his direct texts 🗒️
I met my online bsf 8 months ago, and since then we’re like this 🤞 We have the same views, personalities, humour etc. We also talk to each other almost every single day. Now, here’s where the problem kicks in. We joke a lot, but he goes too far sometimes… he’s also needy??
Exhibit A: First month of talking he pranks me into thinking his friend has a crush on me and wants to chat w me 💀 And says he likes pranks (🤧foreshadowing)
Exhibit B: 2 days after meeting I wrote “We talked till 2:38am, but I got the biggest ick. It’s when they’re so blunt and say shit that’s a double edged sword. It’s clear that we were raised differently. I told him a lot I didn’t tell anyone else.” (He prodded my beliefs & what I’m comfortable with)
Exhibit C: He also says shit like, “you’re boring… I miss the old you, the current u is so lame… you changed…” Then say jk 😵‍💫 but only after I react to him.
Exhibit D: May 2024 (After joking around) “All of a sudden he says that he feels embarrassed all the time, So I comfort him and genuinely believe him. He even took long to respond. I said that I’m here for him… then he replied saying that he’s joking . That he says dumb things all the time. I said you’re hard to read sometimes 🧐 then he said he’s too complicated for me to understand. Tf?? Ofc there are complex people everywhere. And you wouldn’t even let me try to understand you, but I tell you everything. so i dry texted him back and said gn” … “That was such an ick. Literally when I read that message I cried 😞 I got flashbacks to when _____ did the Same to me .” (I even told him before about that friendship and how things ended badly)
Now here’s some crucial detail. Well. He had a crush on me 🗿He confessed to me earlier this year, and said to not be mad at him. Given how much I appreciate him as a friend, I acknowledged his feelings but wanted to stay friends (Idk if that was greedy). then he promised his feelings would fade. Soon later he told me about his rl crush, and I’d give advice on how to rizz her up lol. So we’re both very much friends. But then … he started to get more clingy?? He’d compliment me often and every time I’d roast myself he’d make a wholesome UNO reverse card.
In his words, “I like you more than a friend, but less than a lover.” And He’d often ask me to “say those three words”. I’d avoid it bc I don’t think of him that way, but sometimes I say “love you bestie”. And since we’re exclusively besties I didn’t mind. Note; he’s rlly introverted and shy which is why it’s difficult to talk to his crush. Looking back, he may have been treating our friendship as a pseudo-relationship 😵‍💫
Now the main story 🙁
Preface: So we’re joking around as usual. I like to make sarcastic jokes, but they tend to fly over his head. After me saying ily bestie bc he asked to (Im a yes person 🥲), He said “I thought you hate me” and I said “why would I, ur my friend 🤧 NAHH I HATE U” (the capital nahh was the key 😭). I think that made him do this whole thing… bc he then said “ouch that hurt. Ik it’s a joke but it’s painful… out of everyone why u.” but guess what? he then said that he’s joking?? 🗿 and then “lol no one could hurt me the way I hurt myself” I said don’t gaslight urself … then he said “why does my mood always change when l talk to U”
Now to the response - dm thread
Exhibit E: 3 days ago…. “what if I told you that I’m in hospital rn” Are you administered yourself??? RN ? I NEED UPDATES (atp I think he’s joking) “What if I told you I had 3 days left to live” I’d cry 😭 “No you wouldn’t” Yes I would sends a timed photo of arm with an IV in (Now I fully believed him)
Then he explains that he was in a terrible accident but he’ll be fine. That he’s “ just hoping I’ll walk out alive”, that the doctor said he had a 50% chance of living. I told him that I’m praying for him … he said this might be the last time talking to me. At that moment I started to tear up. I couldn’t believe what was happening. He said that he’d undergo surgery the next day and “if it doesn’t go well ig I’ll text you in the afterlife” and that he’s typing with one hand.
I never lost anyone close to me this way. It really struck me, so many thoughts racing. In a prior deep convo he opened up about his self-esteem problems. That he thought he was a bad person and incapable of deserving love. That he’s been into trouble. So in my mind, a possibility could be self harm. I couldn’t even type messages properly bc of how upset I was. I told him that I’m crying rn… then he replied ..
“Shit! Please tell me ur joking. I’m in big trouble. How long will you stay mad” … “So you really do care about me”
(I DDINT EVEN SEE THAT — so he did do this bc he thought I didn’t care which is stupid)
“IM SORRY ITS A PRANK” sends a screenshot of hospital stock image
I then sent him a long paragraph about how I don’t like when people play with my emotions. That I already told him this. (He’d always ask me what would make me mad at him)
I barely cry and this made me cry sm my eyes were swollen in the morning 😀 so idk .he said he’ll never do anything like that again and spammed me texts but I didn’t respond, except for on tiktok where he asked when will I forgive him & that he won’t text me again till im satisfied. I asked him why he did it. He said, “I was wrong and stupid”
So. Should I keep him as a friend? Or Ghost him? Idk. Tbh I don’t wanna text first atp.
Rn I feel used, like I’m here for his amusement . I’m still not over it. I don’t think I’ll ever forget this? The thing is, I’m holding onto all the good memories we have. He is honestly such a wholesome guy, and I don’t want to lose him… but was this the last straw???

~Rayray~
It felt frustrating in Chongqing. I was rather stuck in Hechuan. I got accustomed to lajiao (spice) there. I was a Midwesterner at the age of 22. I was raised in Illinois. I became a manic—a Ferris wheel on fire—I was hiding under a bed in a hotel. Bold like napalm. Sometimes I can never stop. Even when I was 18 in a ward arguing with staff. Always want to fight things. That’s why I refused the meds and went on a plane from America to China. I was going to be an English teacher. And like a light switch, the change and SSRIs turned me into a mess. It would be my first time experiencing psychosis. My biggest issue. I never imagined I would be stuck illegally in a country suffering a psychotic episode in my early twenties.
Transplanted as pollen. I was left with a backpack and a cellphone. With a downloaded app called WeChat. I had arrogantly quit a university job in a fit. Spent the past months full of energy and not sleeping and neglecting myself, including not eating, to work on a novel. Not considering myself normally religious, I had obsessed over occult ideas during that time. Spending nights reading Aleister Crowley—haven taken a rusty pocket knife to carve a pentagram on my chest for spiritual protection.
I did not have funds to fly home. My visa was connected to my previous job, which meant I had now made it void. I was an illegal resident now in China.
I used a nifty app called WeChat as a messaging app, it allows users to find people near them that are also looking for others. It was like a virtual pond. All kinds of people, including sex workers trying to make things happen.
It could with luck be used to find people looking for people in terms of other kinds of work. It was helpful on many occasions for finding gigs working at English training schools and also finding work as a private tutor for people.
WeChat also works as a digital wallet.
Mania makes me irritable. Enough to tell a boss to fuck off. Thoughts ricochet within me. Bumper cars collide.
Being stuck and angry sucks. I scrolled and scrolled on a Huawei phone.
Absolutely pissed off at this world.
Pissed at the times police wanted to take me away for being a mess.
Sometimes women get pissed. Scrolling through their phones. Angry at their cheating husbands. It really is not that hard to have flair—be a damn white oddity. Like moths to a porchlight. Particles of sand through hands. This is when I first started the habit of it…
I rather go by a rather empty name of Rayray… with further explanation needed but now is not convenient. But I assure it is interesting enough and has some importance.
Habits are various in nature in how they attach to and eat at marrow—like atom bombs flashing as rays evaporating DNA—sets in a way less than human as putting myself in the cage of bad things taken up—my time as a former heroin addict is left as stretch marks on me in various ways. The same goes for the first time I found myself making arrangements with middle aged married women while desperation of waves whiplashed me like sandpaper hands coming at me to leave me in a tiring state of abrasion.
I had spent a night snuck away into a hotel. Found someone on a business trip. Instead of registering I waited to sneak along into the hotel elevator amongst a group of others attending the hotel, as I had no card. I headed to a designated room number. Originally I was sitting in a park. Playing on WeChat and found someone in their mid-thirties. Pictures were exchanged and I said no. She brought up paying for the hotel if I arrived. I agreed and went along.
When I met I washed up after her and we used our phones to awkwardly translate what we would do.
Room service knocked. I found myself hidden under a bed as I was not registered to be there.
It seems unusual that it was around this time I had started working on a story of my life as a heroin addict when I got caught up in my worse manic episode ever experienced during my age of 22. Finished half that story before never going back to it after my manic episode had ended. Now I am here writing about it and wondering if the same can happen again in the process of this work.
It feels extremely cliché I would write a novel about struggles with heroin addiction. It has been done many times. It’s just lame of me.
I feel like my thoughts are bit off. I left the hotel the next morning with the little money I did have on a debit card. Turns out the woman was from Taiyuan. It is a city in the northern part of China in the province of Shanxi—coal country with the worst air pollution in China. She has a colleague in Taiyuan that takes courses at an English training center. I was able to contact this place in the morning via a shared contact on WeChat given to me by the stranger I met that night.
Before I knew it I was sending my information and documents in my backpack at an internet café in a fax—with the intent that the woman agreed to share my information to the training center as she shared my contact to its hiring manager. It would land me a job that day that would help me out of my situation. Things turned not quite out as I expected though. I was shifted like a ball to somebody else to contact for a training center geared to teaching children.
I took what I had and ran off to a train station after taking the public transit. Unfortunately I was shit for money and could not afford a high speed rail pass. The slow train would take thirty-two hours to get to my destination. I would have taken a room with a bed but all I could afford was a hard seat for the travel.
Things were getting better for me in the circumstance considering I had found someone willing to take me for work despite my visa situation.
The thirty-two hour train ride was horrendous in some ways, but mostly I was in excitement despite the circumstances. I’m always giddy when disappointed. I moved up and down the aisle of the train. I could not speak mandarin, but it did not stop me from trying to interact with everyone. I talked many ears off during the train ride. I went up and down the aisle trying to interact as a moth to porchlights—I could not stop even if I had wanted to. I found great enjoyment the times I did get to sit across a table from somebody my age heading to Taiyuan from Chongqing. They were a university student returning to their hometown. Another passenger who sat beside me was an elderly man with hard boiled eggs, he was eating one after another one. I highly enjoyed each and every conversation that I had. It was like my head was a lightbulb wanting June bugs to bang against it with the intensity of Roman candles shot at my mouth of nicotine tinged teeth.

“If you find someone in Shanxi it is practice to pay the family money before you can get married. You would also have to already own a home and a car,” told my new friend across in their seat from me—a university passenger friend named David.

“Not necessarily what I was looking for. When is the next stop for snacks?” When the train stops I am able to get out and to have a walk onto the platform to buy various goods from the vendors to take back with me to eat along the ride to Taiyuan.

I had all my important documents tucked in my bag. This included my health clearance and obviously I made no mention of my mental health diagnosis or history to the doctor who had to evaluate me. My diploma and TEFL certificate were tucked away securely. A TEFL is a certificate that stands for Teaching English as a Foreign Language, it qualifies me to teach English as a second language abroad—it had only took a few months of taking a course online that I had paid for to obtain.
It is easy to be happy when you can trick yourself as your own con artist. Mania can make you deceive yourself. One can be doused in napalm and still not fully recognize what is actually going on. Same goes the flicking of psychosis. Even when I have nothing I find myself in my radiating irritation the most qualified of things—the velocity of my rhythm sets me out of an orbit.
The pressure cooker keeps me moving like a propeller at times. I finally arrived at Taiyuan. I arrived at the station to be greeted by Ryan my manager and his assistant Jennifer. We had our hello and introduction and they helped me get to a taxi that would bring me to my new apartment. I finally had a residence again. Apparently they were desperate for a teacher. The last teacher was from New Mexico and apparently they pulled a midnight run—that is when a teacher in the middle of the night disappears onto a plane back home without any notification of it.
The apartment was okay. On the fourth floor with no elevator, so it was a bit of a climb up a dark stairwell not lit correctly.
My job was a training center that had a location near Yingze Park in the center of the city. I was to be paid in cash via envelopes. I would assist in teaching kindergarten all the way up to high school aged students there in private lessons paid by their parents. I would also be assigned by my company to various primary schools in the city. I would take public buses to various schools paid by the company I worked for to give English lessons as I bounced around to various classrooms and schools in the city. Often I would receive a phone call to avoid going to work that day if my boss got inside input that officials would be doing raids to check foreigners’ visas that day.

A taxi ride would always be a thrill. Caused me nerves at first, but I came to love the flying in dangerous ways along a busy road. I remember a driver beeping their horn away as they drove onto the sidewalk to pass people. They treated the pedestrians as if they were in the wrong. I came flying in front of a primary school at its front gates. I was going to start teaching a first grade classroom and a kindergarten classroom. The way schools are set up is with a wall around the entirety of the exterior of the school. There is a gate at the front where one or two security will be waiting to let people in and out of the complex of the school.

I walked in front of the gate to greet the security. It was my first time with an assignment at this school. The guard said they had never seen me before and wouldn’t let me in. Not a big nuisance while I called my boss who then called the school to sort out the situation.

I miss the classroom so much. I ended up teaching in China for five years at various training schools. After returning to Illinois, I still taught as a primary school teacher in a public school.

I often feel extremely ugly from inside to my outside, but something is attractive there. This does not come just in terms of flirting and relationships—mania makes me a genuine lightbulb that flickers in a way that encourages the insects to me—everyone looks like a June bug—this is what I have come to understand about life. But that ugly does kind of stay like rot in a cavity that leaves a bad taste in the mouth that smells foul—hoping nobody catches the smell near me—it must tie into my struggles with bulimia over the years.

The same goes for my years as a teacher—in relation to the whole lightbulb phenomenon—I’m positive it is tied to mania and hypomania. The younger students always were fixated on the information I was teaching to them. I kept over the years methods taught to me and self-taught that I found extremely effective with younger students when it comes to teaching.
Everything was physical in learning in terms of intensity and ambition. When teaching my first grade classroom I would create flashcards for the vocab we would work on and implement in creating new sentences with. We would chant these words together in a way that made me a clown while teaching. Students would yell out the word that I presented with intense enthusiasm. As I walked by students it was expected that while they yelled out the word they would also physically hit the card. Later I would also work on physical gestures and acting out of vocab words and they would follow the actions and phrases with me.
I would often eventually turn the class into two teams. When students got an answer right I would behave comically and full of energy—I would give them a high five and pretend they were so strong with it that it hurt my hand in the process with much exaggeration—the students always seemed to never get tired of this act.
One game I would play involved drawing two stick figures with happy faces on them. Each figure would represent one of the teams for the classroom. I would draw a hungry alligator under the figures. Their faces would also be comical in appearance and full of exaggerations. Each figure had a parachute placed over them and four strings attached. During the game the students would race to say the word correctly represented on the flashcard or the correct word for the gesture I was making. The team that was not the slowest would lose a string on the parachute. If a team lost all four strings they would fall to the alligator who would eat them. The students found it hilarious with my actions involved in it. I would also draw tears and a person praying to represent anticipation and worry of falling down each time they lost a string.
I had a tooth game too. I would draw too large faces for each team. The team that could answer the flashcards and gestures the quickest would have a tooth drawn in their mouth. The team with the most teeth would win and it would look rather funny as the mouth grew and grew with an abnormal and extreme amount of teeth.
I often did other physical and interactive games like having students run to the word I showed a card to or gestured—each word would be attached to a point in the classroom on a wall.
I know it sounds grandiose, but the parents always seemed to think I was great at my job.
The word vulnerable means so many things to me. That word is like the coal to form the generator that makes the guiding energy for the ethics I follow in my life—I hold very strongly to these values that have developed on how to live—I can express it more later but I greatly attach a kind of Christian value system to it, which makes sense considering I was raised in a Lutheran household and always went to church, Sunday school, and went to my courses and went through my confirmation—everyone is a bit of a mop—some pick up clean water and others dirty or a mix of it—waiting to find the people to drain them voluntarily or involuntarily. I was born vulnerable. I walk pigeon-toed and grew up tripping on my feet—I speak with a soft feminine voice. Bipolar disorder makes somebody vulnerable. There was much vulnerability in being eighteen and hospitalized involuntarily for my first manic episode—tied to a stretcher. I have almost a sense of us vs them—the vulnerable and those that harm the vulnerable—take advantage of the vulnerable—I feel this is a very much Christian in the idea of the unfortunate are more holy than the rest of the bunch—children are like that in terms of being born into a cruel existence—a cruel existence I felt at times in my life and so many do—making sure harm does not come to those in need gives the light of purpose to go bright inside like a Christmas tree in my brain—this light of happiness and warmth. I never expected I would fall in love for teaching due to the antidepressant effect provided. It would become my career for a decade. Some grow up wanting to be a teacher, I became one by accident, desperation, and being saved.
Sometimes I inflate on self-hate like a helium balloon that needs to be tied to a wrist to not float away.
In my early teens I started struggling with bulimia and image. I remember when my mother caught me in the act. I was not offered help but criticized. I was called a girl for my problems and threatened to be taken somewhere to be fixed of my confusion. I don’t identify as transgender. I identify as a man that struggles with bulimia and happens to have feminine qualities.
I attribute it to circumstances that happened to me—a justification for the pain at times—an attack on aspects of bisexuality.
After a long day of work I did what my young self often did. I went clubbing with friends. I feel like even if I hide aspects of myself such as being bisexual, people can spot it regardless. I’m extremely secretive about it and not comfortable displaying that vulnerable aspect of myself.
My friend from England went with me. He was about six years my senior. Big guy. Tall. The clubs name was Maoye.
I always enjoyed the free drinks available to foreigners—it was done to attract Chinese clients, as the idea was foreigners being there would attract people.
Amongst the hot and sweltering crowd a man grabbed ahold of me. I felt stuck. I was taken off guard. Pushed and cornered. While on me I managed to push him off. But it all serves as a reminder of the vulnerability of my life.
A nail was placed into my hand—a constant burn and reminder of that vulnerability.

Part 2
From self-hate I can also be so grandiose. I am like a Christmas tree that is lit up. Sparklers so pretty that you cannot let go of them, even if it burns your fingertips and hurts.

From heroin to sex, you can smother the pain. You drain the ocean to fill a void in these times. It ties to mania as well. That restlessness and irritability is extinguished by the paradox of throwing kerosene to everything burning. I’m so grandiose to hide my insecurities, I mistake my misfortune as a mark of something ugly virtuous—the neon of vulnerability pulsating like a star within me. Swelling on a pain.

Bad habits. I want you to judge me and tell me what’s wrong with me. Give me a verdict.
Stress a trigger for mania, and I was stressed from the incident I had experienced at the club. I bloated like a tick to distract from locusts of thoughts that could not shut up with their commotion.
I had been sleeping around more than before. My brain was Christmas tree lights. I accelerated on a generator—I made a mixed episode worse.
Tease a disaster when you are heightened like a blimp. Full of hydrogen. Hoping to burn up ad rain down like napalm.
When the pretty candles on the Christmas tree are left untouched—not looked at like a kettle on burner that has been forgotten—the dry neglected tree will into a house fire.
I’ve had four attempts in my life so far.
When I attempt I don’t cry for help. I feel too vulnerable. I’m afraid.
Hate police and wards.
Downing pills.
My past failed attempts made me aware of everything done wrong before. The sleeping pills alone might not do what I was looking for at that time. I bought an electrical cable. This way if it failed I would still be unconscious and choked out by the cord—fail safe plan to end my life.
The words coming out of my mouth slowed down. I started getting second thoughts. Stuck my face towards the toilet bowl while on my knees. Sticking my fingers down my throat. Leaving blood vessels bursting in my eyes.
Went stumbling outside and waved a taxi down and asked to be taken to the local hospital.
Never expected finding myself checked into a psych ward in a foreign country.
Nietzsche has a quote in reference to chaos in life and how it is needed to create a star—this reference holds so much value to me. Sometimes stars hit together just right to create fate out of the worst of things. The ward lead me to meet the woman made of paper. She would one day become my wife. I would have two daughters with her. Forge together as soldiers to face the obstacles in life. Someone who would save my life during a future attempt when I was found unconscious from an overdose. The smartest and toughest woman I have ever known. Someone to build trenches with.
I liked it when she stuck that needle in me for an IV. It must correlate to being a heroin addict. The pushing of something in my vein correlates to happiness and purity.
The woman made out of paper was my nurse in the ward I was stuck in. What attracted her to the mess that is me I will never understand fully.
The woman made out of paper is named Lilu. She was one year older than me and one of my nurses at that ward in Taiyuan. She was from Zhengzhou—a city in the province of Henan that is based in the center of China. I am sure as the reader it would be nice to know why I call her the woman made of paper.
She struggled with her own demons. She also deserves much praise for her resilience and brains. When she was born she was raised by a family that adopted her and often neglected and abused her growing up. Her biological family is distant from her, even though she has an identical twin—they felt too poor to take care of her and made the choice that they needed to be less of one child as she also has an older sister—her twin got to stay with that family but she was given up and adopted. I am sure this must bother her even if she never will talk about it to anyone in her life—as she is one to refuse ever discussing emotions and feelings, as this is not her personality type—she is very much a fighter. I think most would struggle with wondering why they were the one let go of—it also must hurt her knowing that the family would have a son and keep him.
Despite all these circumstances, she graduated top of her class of four thousand students—Chinese high schools can be quite large serving a large region—they often serve as boarding schools. She was a smart and hardworking student. Circumstances never made her stop trying to be the best and moving forward and she never made excuses for herself. In university she also did well and got accepted at the most studious and hard to obtain nursing position at the number one hospital in Shanxi.
I have already ranted and gone on about my affection and feelings tied to heroin. Drinking of entire oceans to fill voids.
Paper is a void. It asks for calligraphy to be written on it to make braille. This way when fingers run over skin to tell its worth—the reason for its troubles on display—it forms connection through those words of declaration—the whining for why things are the way they are—the filling of a void like a heroin addict needing a cure to cure kicking legs—two papers come together to write upon one another—as a paper I am her typo—I stand as a falling mess with nerves like tripwire, I keep failing and losing my composer, while she stands stronger as a declaration that has been written on me, my very own typewriter—when I was chased I listened to her and joined as one. I wish and intend to always serve the woman made out of paper who has saved my life and has always been there for me, being so strong despite circumstances—amongst the wind of turmoil in life I follow along her path like a sail.
It was love at first sight for her but not for me. I had no interest in dating her at the time. I worked across the street of that hospital in an office building for a training center as a part time job. I would teach adults English who paid for private lessons near to Yingze park in the center of Taiyuan. She signed up for classes for me to teach her and brought me food on almost every other day that she had prepared. Eventually we found ourselves coupled fully.
As paper we write on each other—eat each other.

35F, African American, 5'6, 167lbs. Recent diagnosis of Myasthenia Gravis (LRP4+) and Asthma. GERD. Possible G6PD.
This is a very long post but I am trying to be as thorough as possible as a lot of things seem to be going wrong at once.
I was hospitalized two weeks ago for myasthenic crisis and allergic reactions where I was treated with bipap and 4 days of IVIG along with starting new allergy meds. While admitted the nurses had to use epinephrine three times due to bizzare anaphylactic reactions I suddenly started having to things like eggs, sausage and jello (this began before the hospital admission during may) and worsening asthma. Twice they used the epipen and I was totally fine but last week wednesday i had a secondary episode in the same day and was having stridor and struggled really bad to breathe with my tongue hanging out and unable to say more than 2 words without breathing so a nurse put epinephrine from a vial into my arm IV line and I immediately got the worst headache of my life. 10/10 pain. I was writhing in the bed uncontrollably, threw up, and all i could do was cry and moan until they gave me IV toradol. They said my BP shot up to 200something and they were gonna give me something to bring it down but it went down on its own after a few minutes to the 150s and then lower 20 minutes later. I don't remember the exact amount because I was in a lot of pain. Later that night I got the migraine again while laying in bed. It took 5 hours to resolve as I was treated with tylenol, then buta-acetaminophen-caffine, then iv magnesium sulfate (which is apparently contraindicated with Myasthenia, my neuro is unhappy about that) then toradol and had to wait for an approval from a different doctor for each medication to be brought up from the pharmacy as I was moved to a different building/wing and they had not brought my meds from the other building yet.
Ever since then I have been getting a throbbing discomfort in my head and chest when standing up that goes away after 10 seconds or when I sit down and constant bouts of shortness of breath. 4 days later on sunday morning around 5am I woke up and went to the bathroom to pee and my head felt weird like kinda floaty and everything sounded muffled and I had difficulty concentrating. I grabbed some TP... Then I woke up on the floor of my room by my bed feeling very disoriented, confused, hot and sweaty with a throbbing migraine. I wasnt out for long, a nurse at the desk outside my door heard me fall and called for code fall then rapid response and I realized that I was on the floor before the teams showed up in my room. They didn't know if i hit my head going down as the fall was unwitnessed and I had some delay in responding to questions so they rushed me to CT for brain and spine scans but the scans showed absolutely nothing out of the ordinary. Ekg was normal, BP was normal, heart rate 'elevated', O2 was normal. Bloods were fine.
From that point until yesterday I was on bedrest and the few times I stood up I'd immediately get a migraine throbbing with my hearbeat and fuzzy head feeling like I would pass out. I also get tingly pins and needles feeling in my hands and feet and vertigo. They did BP checks and mine would go from 100/70s laying down flat yo 150/90 sitting up then a bit higher when standing. I was hooked up to telemetry for 5 days which showed tachycardia when standing or toileting but also bradycardia and low BP when sleeping. Chest xray w/o contrast was normal, multiple ekgs were normal, echocardiogram was normal.
Doctors said positional hypertension and to stand up slowly now that I'm home and to walk with assistance for now. My liver enzymes also shot up overnight (like 50 ast 80 alt to 130 ast 230 alt) last week but the doctor thinks it's because of my immunosuppressant and he and my neurologist decided to have me stop taking that and retest again in a week. Immune guys think I may have reactive airway disease being exacerbated by some type of new oral allergy response. They also think I have G6PD deficiency because I am allergic to sulfa medications, mothballs and fava beans. I also have very noticeable muscle weakness especially in my legs, way worse than before I was admitted but I was told it's muscle deconditioning from being in bed for 2 weeks and have been set up with home PT. Since getting IVIG I've hit 50 on the NIV and over 3 on the spirometer when checked twice a day.
I see my neurologist in 3 days, immunologist in 5 days and primary and pulmonary in a week but I'm really spooked that the IV epi messed me up somehow. Or maybe I've developed some other autoimmune issue(s) that's throwing my body out of order. Any ideas?
I'm on quite a few meds if that's relevant:
Mycophenolate 1500mg (ceased due to liver concern)
Prednisone 40mg
Atovaquone 10ml
Albuteral 90mcg as needed
Protonix 20mg
Lovanox and liquid potassium while admitted
While at the hospital I was started on Famotidine 20mg Cetirizine 10mg Montelukast 10mg
And sent home with two epipens.
I used to take Pyridostigmine Bromide 180-270mg daily but ceased due to adverse reactions.
I have a patient portal so I can provide any bloodwork or scan/ultrasound reports from my hospital stay too.

Hi everyone, I'm 25F. I have a few health issues, including inflammatory bowel issues as well as an unnamed autoimmune issue.
I often have diarrhoea. I've learnt to manage it and I have GI scopes often. Normally it only lasts about a day or so and I can manage it well.
A few months ago, I got diarrhoea again and initially I just went with it like I normally do. 3 days went by and it started getting very severe and I wasn't able to keep up with the hydration. I was falling around, struggling to stand up, and my body was in an unimaginable amount of pain. I called someone to take me to the ER.
I explained to the Dr's what was happening but I also DID mention that I have an autoimmune disease which might complicate the situation. For example, I once had a very bad infection but my blood tests were all normal. My primary Dr has said that this is something that happens when you have an autoimmune disease.
The Dr's drew blood and I waited for HOURS upon HOURS. Eventually the Dr came to my room and told me, "You're not pregnant."
What????? I could have told her that. And that doesn't address any of the issues as of why I'm here!! She said they need to draw more blood for more tests. After another few hours, she came and asked me, "you're feeling all better??☺️☺️☺️" I said..... No??? Not at all... And then she said "well, lots of people have diarrhoea right now. I can't give you anything to stop it." And left. A nurse came and discharged me. I was so tired and in so much pain and didn't have the energy to fight so I just went back home.
My situation got worse and the next day, another friend took me to another ER. They were at least a bit more involved, gave me a proper IV, took stool samples etc and offered me pain meds. Eventually they determined that I had a severe camphylobacter infection and gave me medications. I was better within 2 days.
I am so angry. What the hell was up with that first doctor? I don't know if the Drs at the initial ER needs to be reported or of I should just leave it. It was very expensive and they didn't give me anything. If something like this happens again, how can I make sure I get better treatment?
Also, is this bad or am I just over reacting?...

~Rayray~
It felt frustrating in Chongqing. I was rather stuck in Hechuan. I got accustomed to lajiao (spice) there. I was a Midwesterner at the age of 22. I was raised in Illinois. I became a manic—a Ferris wheel on fire—I was hiding under a bed in a hotel. Bold like napalm. Sometimes I can never stop. Even when I was 18 in a ward arguing with staff. Always want to fight things. That’s why I refused the meds and went on a plane from America to China. I was going to be an English teacher. And like a light switch, the change and SSRIs turned me into a mess. It would be my first time experiencing psychosis. My biggest issue. I never imagined I would be stuck illegally in a country suffering a psychotic episode in my early twenties.
Transplanted as pollen. I was left with a backpack and a cellphone. With a downloaded app called WeChat. I had arrogantly quit a university job in a fit. Spent the past months full of energy and not sleeping and neglecting myself, including not eating, to work on a novel. Not considering myself normally religious, I had obsessed over occult ideas during that time. Spending nights reading Aleister Crowley—haven taken a rusty pocket knife to carve a pentagram on my chest for spiritual protection.
I did not have funds to fly home. My visa was connected to my previous job, which meant I had now made it void. I was an illegal resident now in China.
I used a nifty app called WeChat as a messaging app, it allows users to find people near them that are also looking for others. It was like a virtual pond. All kinds of people, including sex workers trying to make things happen.
It could with luck be used to find people looking for people in terms of other kinds of work. It was helpful on many occasions for finding gigs working at English training schools and also finding work as a private tutor for people.
WeChat also works as a digital wallet.
Mania makes me irritable. Enough to tell a boss to fuck off. Thoughts ricochet within me. Bumper cars collide.
Being stuck and angry sucks. I scrolled and scrolled on a Huawei phone.
Absolutely pissed off at this world.
Pissed at the times police wanted to take me away for being a mess.
Sometimes women get pissed. Scrolling through their phones. Angry at their cheating husbands. It really is not that hard to have flair—be a damn white oddity. Like moths to a porchlight. Particles of sand through hands. This is when I first started the habit of it…
I rather go by a rather empty name of Rayray… with further explanation needed but now is not convenient. But I assure it is interesting enough and has some importance.
Habits are various in nature in how they attach to and eat at marrow—like atom bombs flashing as rays evaporating DNA—sets in a way less than human as putting myself in the cage of bad things taken up—my time as a former heroin addict is left as stretch marks on me in various ways. The same goes for the first time I found myself making arrangements with middle aged married women while desperation of waves whiplashed me like sandpaper hands coming at me to leave me in a tiring state of abrasion.
I had spent a night snuck away into a hotel. Found someone on a business trip. Instead of registering I waited to sneak along into the hotel elevator amongst a group of others attending the hotel, as I had no card. I headed to a designated room number. Originally I was sitting in a park. Playing on WeChat and found someone in their mid-thirties. Pictures were exchanged and I said no. She brought up paying for the hotel if I arrived. I agreed and went along.
When I met I washed up after her and we used our phones to awkwardly translate what we would do.
Room service knocked. I found myself hidden under a bed as I was not registered to be there.
It seems unusual that it was around this time I had started working on a story of my life as a heroin addict when I got caught up in my worse manic episode ever experienced during my age of 22. Finished half that story before never going back to it after my manic episode had ended. Now I am here writing about it and wondering if the same can happen again in the process of this work.
It feels extremely cliché I would write a novel about struggles with heroin addiction. It has been done many times. It’s just lame of me.
I feel like my thoughts are bit off. I left the hotel the next morning with the little money I did have on a debit card. Turns out the woman was from Taiyuan. It is a city in the northern part of China in the province of Shanxi—coal country with the worst air pollution in China. She has a colleague in Taiyuan that takes courses at an English training center. I was able to contact this place in the morning via a shared contact on WeChat given to me by the stranger I met that night.
Before I knew it I was sending my information and documents in my backpack at an internet café in a fax—with the intent that the woman agreed to share my information to the training center as she shared my contact to its hiring manager. It would land me a job that day that would help me out of my situation. Things turned not quite out as I expected though. I was shifted like a ball to somebody else to contact for a training center geared to teaching children.
I took what I had and ran off to a train station after taking the public transit. Unfortunately I was shit for money and could not afford a high speed rail pass. The slow train would take thirty-two hours to get to my destination. I would have taken a room with a bed but all I could afford was a hard seat for the travel.
Things were getting better for me in the circumstance considering I had found someone willing to take me for work despite my visa situation.
The thirty-two hour train ride was horrendous in some ways, but mostly I was in excitement despite the circumstances. I’m always giddy when disappointed. I moved up and down the aisle of the train. I could not speak mandarin, but it did not stop me from trying to interact with everyone. I talked many ears off during the train ride. I went up and down the aisle trying to interact as a moth to porchlights—I could not stop even if I had wanted to. I found great enjoyment the times I did get to sit across a table from somebody my age heading to Taiyuan from Chongqing. They were a university student returning to their hometown. Another passenger who sat beside me was an elderly man with hard boiled eggs, he was eating one after another one. I highly enjoyed each and every conversation that I had. It was like my head was a lightbulb wanting June bugs to bang against it with the intensity of Roman candles shot at my mouth of nicotine tinged teeth.

“If you find someone in Shanxi it is practice to pay the family money before you can get married. You would also have to already own a home and a car,” told my new friend across in their seat from me—a university passenger friend named David.

“Not necessarily what I was looking for. When is the next stop for snacks?” When the train stops I am able to get out and to have a walk onto the platform to buy various goods from the vendors to take back with me to eat along the ride to Taiyuan.

I had all my important documents tucked in my bag. This included my health clearance and obviously I made no mention of my mental health diagnosis or history to the doctor who had to evaluate me. My diploma and TEFL certificate were tucked away securely. A TEFL is a certificate that stands for Teaching English as a Foreign Language, it qualifies me to teach English as a second language abroad—it had only took a few months of taking a course online that I had paid for to obtain.
It is easy to be happy when you can trick yourself as your own con artist. Mania can make you deceive yourself. One can be doused in napalm and still not fully recognize what is actually going on. Same goes the flicking of psychosis. Even when I have nothing I find myself in my radiating irritation the most qualified of things—the velocity of my rhythm sets me out of an orbit.
The pressure cooker keeps me moving like a propeller at times. I finally arrived at Taiyuan. I arrived at the station to be greeted by Ryan my manager and his assistant Jennifer. We had our hello and introduction and they helped me get to a taxi that would bring me to my new apartment. I finally had a residence again. Apparently they were desperate for a teacher. The last teacher was from New Mexico and apparently they pulled a midnight run—that is when a teacher in the middle of the night disappears onto a plane back home without any notification of it.
The apartment was okay. On the fourth floor with no elevator, so it was a bit of a climb up a dark stairwell not lit correctly.
My job was a training center that had a location near Yingze Park in the center of the city. I was to be paid in cash via envelopes. I would assist in teaching kindergarten all the way up to high school aged students there in private lessons paid by their parents. I would also be assigned by my company to various primary schools in the city. I would take public buses to various schools paid by the company I worked for to give English lessons as I bounced around to various classrooms and schools in the city. Often I would receive a phone call to avoid going to work that day if my boss got inside input that officials would be doing raids to check foreigners’ visas that day.

A taxi ride would always be a thrill. Caused me nerves at first, but I came to love the flying in dangerous ways along a busy road. I remember a driver beeping their horn away as they drove onto the sidewalk to pass people. They treated the pedestrians as if they were in the wrong. I came flying in front of a primary school at its front gates. I was going to start teaching a first grade classroom and a kindergarten classroom. The way schools are set up is with a wall around the entirety of the exterior of the school. There is a gate at the front where one or two security will be waiting to let people in and out of the complex of the school.

I walked in front of the gate to greet the security. It was my first time with an assignment at this school. The guard said they had never seen me before and wouldn’t let me in. Not a big nuisance while I called my boss who then called the school to sort out the situation.

I miss the classroom so much. I ended up teaching in China for five years at various training schools. After returning to Illinois, I still taught as a primary school teacher in a public school.

I often feel extremely ugly from inside to my outside, but something is attractive there. This does not come just in terms of flirting and relationships—mania makes me a genuine lightbulb that flickers in a way that encourages the insects to me—everyone looks like a June bug—this is what I have come to understand about life. But that ugly does kind of stay like rot in a cavity that leaves a bad taste in the mouth that smells foul—hoping nobody catches the smell near me—it must tie into my struggles with bulimia over the years.

The same goes for my years as a teacher—in relation to the whole lightbulb phenomenon—I’m positive it is tied to mania and hypomania. The younger students always were fixated on the information I was teaching to them. I kept over the years methods taught to me and self-taught that I found extremely effective with younger students when it comes to teaching.
Everything was physical in learning in terms of intensity and ambition. When teaching my first grade classroom I would create flashcards for the vocab we would work on and implement in creating new sentences with. We would chant these words together in a way that made me a clown while teaching. Students would yell out the word that I presented with intense enthusiasm. As I walked by students it was expected that while they yelled out the word they would also physically hit the card. Later I would also work on physical gestures and acting out of vocab words and they would follow the actions and phrases with me.
I would often eventually turn the class into two teams. When students got an answer right I would behave comically and full of energy—I would give them a high five and pretend they were so strong with it that it hurt my hand in the process with much exaggeration—the students always seemed to never get tired of this act.
One game I would play involved drawing two stick figures with happy faces on them. Each figure would represent one of the teams for the classroom. I would draw a hungry alligator under the figures. Their faces would also be comical in appearance and full of exaggerations. Each figure had a parachute placed over them and four strings attached. During the game the students would race to say the word correctly represented on the flashcard or the correct word for the gesture I was making. The team that was not the slowest would lose a string on the parachute. If a team lost all four strings they would fall to the alligator who would eat them. The students found it hilarious with my actions involved in it. I would also draw tears and a person praying to represent anticipation and worry of falling down each time they lost a string.
I had a tooth game too. I would draw too large faces for each team. The team that could answer the flashcards and gestures the quickest would have a tooth drawn in their mouth. The team with the most teeth would win and it would look rather funny as the mouth grew and grew with an abnormal and extreme amount of teeth.
I often did other physical and interactive games like having students run to the word I showed a card to or gestured—each word would be attached to a point in the classroom on a wall.
I know it sounds grandiose, but the parents always seemed to think I was great at my job.
The word vulnerable means so many things to me. That word is like the coal to form the generator that makes the guiding energy for the ethics I follow in my life—I hold very strongly to these values that have developed on how to live—I can express it more later but I greatly attach a kind of Christian value system to it, which makes sense considering I was raised in a Lutheran household and always went to church, Sunday school, and went to my courses and went through my confirmation—everyone is a bit of a mop—some pick up clean water and others dirty or a mix of it—waiting to find the people to drain them voluntarily or involuntarily. I was born vulnerable. I walk pigeon-toed and grew up tripping on my feet—I speak with a soft feminine voice. Bipolar disorder makes somebody vulnerable. There was much vulnerability in being eighteen and hospitalized involuntarily for my first manic episode—tied to a stretcher. I have almost a sense of us vs them—the vulnerable and those that harm the vulnerable—take advantage of the vulnerable—I feel this is a very much Christian in the idea of the unfortunate are more holy than the rest of the bunch—children are like that in terms of being born into a cruel existence—a cruel existence I felt at times in my life and so many do—making sure harm does not come to those in need gives the light of purpose to go bright inside like a Christmas tree in my brain—this light of happiness and warmth. I never expected I would fall in love for teaching due to the antidepressant effect provided. It would become my career for a decade. Some grow up wanting to be a teacher, I became one by accident, desperation, and being saved.
Sometimes I inflate on self-hate like a helium balloon that needs to be tied to a wrist to not float away.
In my early teens I started struggling with bulimia and image. I remember when my mother caught me in the act. I was not offered help but criticized. I was called a girl for my problems and threatened to be taken somewhere to be fixed of my confusion. I don’t identify as transgender. I identify as a man that struggles with bulimia and happens to have feminine qualities.
I attribute it to circumstances that happened to me—a justification for the pain at times—an attack on aspects of bisexuality.
After a long day of work I did what my young self often did. I went clubbing with friends. I feel like even if I hide aspects of myself such as being bisexual, people can spot it regardless. I’m extremely secretive about it and not comfortable displaying that vulnerable aspect of myself.
My friend from England went with me. He was about six years my senior. Big guy. Tall. The clubs name was Maoye.
I always enjoyed the free drinks available to foreigners—it was done to attract Chinese clients, as the idea was foreigners being there would attract people.
Amongst the hot and sweltering crowd a man grabbed ahold of me. I felt stuck. I was taken off guard. Pushed and cornered. While on me I managed to push him off. But it all serves as a reminder of the vulnerability of my life.
A nail was placed into my hand—a constant burn and reminder of that vulnerability.

Part 2
From self-hate I can also be so grandiose. I am like a Christmas tree that is lit up. Sparklers so pretty that you cannot let go of them, even if it burns your fingertips and hurts.

From heroin to sex, you can smother the pain. You drain the ocean to fill a void in these times. It ties to mania as well. That restlessness and irritability is extinguished by the paradox of throwing kerosene to everything burning. I’m so grandiose to hide my insecurities, I mistake my misfortune as a mark of something ugly virtuous—the neon of vulnerability pulsating like a star within me. Swelling on a pain.

Bad habits. I want you to judge me and tell me what’s wrong with me. Give me a verdict.
Stress a trigger for mania, and I was stressed from the incident I had experienced at the club. I bloated like a tick to distract from locusts of thoughts that could not shut up with their commotion.
I had been sleeping around more than before. My brain was Christmas tree lights. I accelerated on a generator—I made a mixed episode worse.
Tease a disaster when you are heightened like a blimp. Full of hydrogen. Hoping to burn up ad rain down like napalm.
When the pretty candles on the Christmas tree are left untouched—not looked at like a kettle on burner that has been forgotten—the dry neglected tree will into a house fire.
I’ve had four attempts in my life so far.
When I attempt I don’t cry for help. I feel too vulnerable. I’m afraid.
Hate police and wards.
Downing pills.
My past failed attempts made me aware of everything done wrong before. The sleeping pills alone might not do what I was looking for at that time. I bought an electrical cable. This way if it failed I would still be unconscious and choked out by the cord—fail safe plan to end my life.
The words coming out of my mouth slowed down. I started getting second thoughts. Stuck my face towards the toilet bowl while on my knees. Sticking my fingers down my throat. Leaving blood vessels bursting in my eyes.
Went stumbling outside and waved a taxi down and asked to be taken to the local hospital.
Never expected finding myself checked into a psych ward in a foreign country.
Nietzsche has a quote in reference to chaos in life and how it is needed to create a star—this reference holds so much value to me. Sometimes stars hit together just right to create fate out of the worst of things. The ward lead me to meet the woman made of paper. She would one day become my wife. I would have two daughters with her. Forge together as soldiers to face the obstacles in life. Someone who would save my life during a future attempt when I was found unconscious from an overdose. The smartest and toughest woman I have ever known. Someone to build trenches with.
I liked it when she stuck that needle in me for an IV. It must correlate to being a heroin addict. The pushing of something in my vein correlates to happiness and purity.
The woman made out of paper was my nurse in the ward I was stuck in. What attracted her to the mess that is me I will never understand fully.
The woman made out of paper is named Lilu. She was one year older than me and one of my nurses at that ward in Taiyuan. She was from Zhengzhou—a city in the province of Henan that is based in the center of China. I am sure as the reader it would be nice to know why I call her the woman made of paper.
She struggled with her own demons. She also deserves much praise for her resilience and brains. When she was born she was raised by a family that adopted her and often neglected and abused her growing up. Her biological family is distant from her, even though she has an identical twin—they felt too poor to take care of her and made the choice that they needed to be less of one child as she also has an older sister—her twin got to stay with that family but she was given up and adopted. I am sure this must bother her even if she never will talk about it to anyone in her life—as she is one to refuse ever discussing emotions and feelings, as this is not her personality type—she is very much a fighter. I think most would struggle with wondering why they were the one let go of—it also must hurt her knowing that the family would have a son and keep him.
Despite all these circumstances, she graduated top of her class of four thousand students—Chinese high schools can be quite large serving a large region—they often serve as boarding schools. She was a smart and hardworking student. Circumstances never made her stop trying to be the best and moving forward and she never made excuses for herself. In university she also did well and got accepted at the most studious and hard to obtain nursing position at the number one hospital in Shanxi.
I have already ranted and gone on about my affection and feelings tied to heroin. Drinking of entire oceans to fill voids.
Paper is a void. It asks for calligraphy to be written on it to make braille. This way when fingers run over skin to tell its worth—the reason for its troubles on display—it forms connection through those words of declaration—the whining for why things are the way they are—the filling of a void like a heroin addict needing a cure to cure kicking legs—two papers come together to write upon one another—as a paper I am her typo—I stand as a falling mess with nerves like tripwire, I keep failing and losing my composer, while she stands stronger as a declaration that has been written on me, my very own typewriter—when I was chased I listened to her and joined as one. I wish and intend to always serve the woman made out of paper who has saved my life and has always been there for me, being so strong despite circumstances—amongst the wind of turmoil in life I follow along her path like a sail.
It was love at first sight for her but not for me. I had no interest in dating her at the time. I worked across the street of that hospital in an office building for a training center as a part time job. I would teach adults English who paid for private lessons near to Yingze park in the center of Taiyuan. She signed up for classes for me to teach her and brought me food on almost every other day that she had prepared. Eventually we found ourselves coupled fully.
As paper we write on each other—eat each other.

~Rayray~
It felt frustrating in Chongqing. I was rather stuck in Hechuan. I got accustomed to lajiao (spice) there. I was a Midwesterner at the age of 22. I was raised in Illinois. I became a manic—a Ferris wheel on fire—I was hiding under a bed in a hotel. Bold like napalm. Sometimes I can never stop. Even when I was 18 in a ward arguing with staff. Always want to fight things. That’s why I refused the meds and went on a plane from America to China. I was going to be an English teacher. And like a light switch, the change and SSRIs turned me into a mess. It would be my first time experiencing psychosis. My biggest issue. I never imagined I would be stuck illegally in a country suffering a psychotic episode in my early twenties.
Transplanted as pollen. I was left with a backpack and a cellphone. With a downloaded app called WeChat. I had arrogantly quit a university job in a fit. Spent the past months full of energy and not sleeping and neglecting myself, including not eating, to work on a novel. Not considering myself normally religious, I had obsessed over occult ideas during that time. Spending nights reading Aleister Crowley—haven taken a rusty pocket knife to carve a pentagram on my chest for spiritual protection.
I did not have funds to fly home. My visa was connected to my previous job, which meant I had now made it void. I was an illegal resident now in China.
I used a nifty app called WeChat as a messaging app, it allows users to find people near them that are also looking for others. It was like a virtual pond. All kinds of people, including sex workers trying to make things happen.
It could with luck be used to find people looking for people in terms of other kinds of work. It was helpful on many occasions for finding gigs working at English training schools and also finding work as a private tutor for people.
WeChat also works as a digital wallet.
Mania makes me irritable. Enough to tell a boss to fuck off. Thoughts ricochet within me. Bumper cars collide.
Being stuck and angry sucks. I scrolled and scrolled on a Huawei phone.
Absolutely pissed off at this world.
Pissed at the times police wanted to take me away for being a mess.
Sometimes women get pissed. Scrolling through their phones. Angry at their cheating husbands. It really is not that hard to have flair—be a damn white oddity. Like moths to a porchlight. Particles of sand through hands. This is when I first started the habit of it…
I rather go by a rather empty name of Rayray… with further explanation needed but now is not convenient. But I assure it is interesting enough and has some importance.
Habits are various in nature in how they attach to and eat at marrow—like atom bombs flashing as rays evaporating DNA—sets in a way less than human as putting myself in the cage of bad things taken up—my time as a former heroin addict is left as stretch marks on me in various ways. The same goes for the first time I found myself making arrangements with middle aged married women while desperation of waves whiplashed me like sandpaper hands coming at me to leave me in a tiring state of abrasion.
I had spent a night snuck away into a hotel. Found someone on a business trip. Instead of registering I waited to sneak along into the hotel elevator amongst a group of others attending the hotel, as I had no card. I headed to a designated room number. Originally I was sitting in a park. Playing on WeChat and found someone in their mid-thirties. Pictures were exchanged and I said no. She brought up paying for the hotel if I arrived. I agreed and went along.
When I met I washed up after her and we used our phones to awkwardly translate what we would do.
Room service knocked. I found myself hidden under a bed as I was not registered to be there.
It seems unusual that it was around this time I had started working on a story of my life as a heroin addict when I got caught up in my worse manic episode ever experienced during my age of 22. Finished half that story before never going back to it after my manic episode had ended. Now I am here writing about it and wondering if the same can happen again in the process of this work.
It feels extremely cliché I would write a novel about struggles with heroin addiction. It has been done many times. It’s just lame of me.
I feel like my thoughts are bit off. I left the hotel the next morning with the little money I did have on a debit card. Turns out the woman was from Taiyuan. It is a city in the northern part of China in the province of Shanxi—coal country with the worst air pollution in China. She has a colleague in Taiyuan that takes courses at an English training center. I was able to contact this place in the morning via a shared contact on WeChat given to me by the stranger I met that night.
Before I knew it I was sending my information and documents in my backpack at an internet café in a fax—with the intent that the woman agreed to share my information to the training center as she shared my contact to its hiring manager. It would land me a job that day that would help me out of my situation. Things turned not quite out as I expected though. I was shifted like a ball to somebody else to contact for a training center geared to teaching children.
I took what I had and ran off to a train station after taking the public transit. Unfortunately I was shit for money and could not afford a high speed rail pass. The slow train would take thirty-two hours to get to my destination. I would have taken a room with a bed but all I could afford was a hard seat for the travel.
Things were getting better for me in the circumstance considering I had found someone willing to take me for work despite my visa situation.
The thirty-two hour train ride was horrendous in some ways, but mostly I was in excitement despite the circumstances. I’m always giddy when disappointed. I moved up and down the aisle of the train. I could not speak mandarin, but it did not stop me from trying to interact with everyone. I talked many ears off during the train ride. I went up and down the aisle trying to interact as a moth to porchlights—I could not stop even if I had wanted to. I found great enjoyment the times I did get to sit across a table from somebody my age heading to Taiyuan from Chongqing. They were a university student returning to their hometown. Another passenger who sat beside me was an elderly man with hard boiled eggs, he was eating one after another one. I highly enjoyed each and every conversation that I had. It was like my head was a lightbulb wanting June bugs to bang against it with the intensity of Roman candles shot at my mouth of nicotine tinged teeth.

“If you find someone in Shanxi it is practice to pay the family money before you can get married. You would also have to already own a home and a car,” told my new friend across in their seat from me—a university passenger friend named David.

“Not necessarily what I was looking for. When is the next stop for snacks?” When the train stops I am able to get out and to have a walk onto the platform to buy various goods from the vendors to take back with me to eat along the ride to Taiyuan.

I had all my important documents tucked in my bag. This included my health clearance and obviously I made no mention of my mental health diagnosis or history to the doctor who had to evaluate me. My diploma and TEFL certificate were tucked away securely. A TEFL is a certificate that stands for Teaching English as a Foreign Language, it qualifies me to teach English as a second language abroad—it had only took a few months of taking a course online that I had paid for to obtain.
It is easy to be happy when you can trick yourself as your own con artist. Mania can make you deceive yourself. One can be doused in napalm and still not fully recognize what is actually going on. Same goes the flicking of psychosis. Even when I have nothing I find myself in my radiating irritation the most qualified of things—the velocity of my rhythm sets me out of an orbit.
The pressure cooker keeps me moving like a propeller at times. I finally arrived at Taiyuan. I arrived at the station to be greeted by Ryan my manager and his assistant Jennifer. We had our hello and introduction and they helped me get to a taxi that would bring me to my new apartment. I finally had a residence again. Apparently they were desperate for a teacher. The last teacher was from New Mexico and apparently they pulled a midnight run—that is when a teacher in the middle of the night disappears onto a plane back home without any notification of it.
The apartment was okay. On the fourth floor with no elevator, so it was a bit of a climb up a dark stairwell not lit correctly.
My job was a training center that had a location near Yingze Park in the center of the city. I was to be paid in cash via envelopes. I would assist in teaching kindergarten all the way up to high school aged students there in private lessons paid by their parents. I would also be assigned by my company to various primary schools in the city. I would take public buses to various schools paid by the company I worked for to give English lessons as I bounced around to various classrooms and schools in the city. Often I would receive a phone call to avoid going to work that day if my boss got inside input that officials would be doing raids to check foreigners’ visas that day.

A taxi ride would always be a thrill. Caused me nerves at first, but I came to love the flying in dangerous ways along a busy road. I remember a driver beeping their horn away as they drove onto the sidewalk to pass people. They treated the pedestrians as if they were in the wrong. I came flying in front of a primary school at its front gates. I was going to start teaching a first grade classroom and a kindergarten classroom. The way schools are set up is with a wall around the entirety of the exterior of the school. There is a gate at the front where one or two security will be waiting to let people in and out of the complex of the school.

I walked in front of the gate to greet the security. It was my first time with an assignment at this school. The guard said they had never seen me before and wouldn’t let me in. Not a big nuisance while I called my boss who then called the school to sort out the situation.

I miss the classroom so much. I ended up teaching in China for five years at various training schools. After returning to Illinois, I still taught as a primary school teacher in a public school.

I often feel extremely ugly from inside to my outside, but something is attractive there. This does not come just in terms of flirting and relationships—mania makes me a genuine lightbulb that flickers in a way that encourages the insects to me—everyone looks like a June bug—this is what I have come to understand about life. But that ugly does kind of stay like rot in a cavity that leaves a bad taste in the mouth that smells foul—hoping nobody catches the smell near me—it must tie into my struggles with bulimia over the years.

The same goes for my years as a teacher—in relation to the whole lightbulb phenomenon—I’m positive it is tied to mania and hypomania. The younger students always were fixated on the information I was teaching to them. I kept over the years methods taught to me and self-taught that I found extremely effective with younger students when it comes to teaching.
Everything was physical in learning in terms of intensity and ambition. When teaching my first grade classroom I would create flashcards for the vocab we would work on and implement in creating new sentences with. We would chant these words together in a way that made me a clown while teaching. Students would yell out the word that I presented with intense enthusiasm. As I walked by students it was expected that while they yelled out the word they would also physically hit the card. Later I would also work on physical gestures and acting out of vocab words and they would follow the actions and phrases with me.
I would often eventually turn the class into two teams. When students got an answer right I would behave comically and full of energy—I would give them a high five and pretend they were so strong with it that it hurt my hand in the process with much exaggeration—the students always seemed to never get tired of this act.
One game I would play involved drawing two stick figures with happy faces on them. Each figure would represent one of the teams for the classroom. I would draw a hungry alligator under the figures. Their faces would also be comical in appearance and full of exaggerations. Each figure had a parachute placed over them and four strings attached. During the game the students would race to say the word correctly represented on the flashcard or the correct word for the gesture I was making. The team that was not the slowest would lose a string on the parachute. If a team lost all four strings they would fall to the alligator who would eat them. The students found it hilarious with my actions involved in it. I would also draw tears and a person praying to represent anticipation and worry of falling down each time they lost a string.
I had a tooth game too. I would draw too large faces for each team. The team that could answer the flashcards and gestures the quickest would have a tooth drawn in their mouth. The team with the most teeth would win and it would look rather funny as the mouth grew and grew with an abnormal and extreme amount of teeth.
I often did other physical and interactive games like having students run to the word I showed a card to or gestured—each word would be attached to a point in the classroom on a wall.
I know it sounds grandiose, but the parents always seemed to think I was great at my job.
The word vulnerable means so many things to me. That word is like the coal to form the generator that makes the guiding energy for the ethics I follow in my life—I hold very strongly to these values that have developed on how to live—I can express it more later but I greatly attach a kind of Christian value system to it, which makes sense considering I was raised in a Lutheran household and always went to church, Sunday school, and went to my courses and went through my confirmation—everyone is a bit of a mop—some pick up clean water and others dirty or a mix of it—waiting to find the people to drain them voluntarily or involuntarily. I was born vulnerable. I walk pigeon-toed and grew up tripping on my feet—I speak with a soft feminine voice. Bipolar disorder makes somebody vulnerable. There was much vulnerability in being eighteen and hospitalized involuntarily for my first manic episode—tied to a stretcher. I have almost a sense of us vs them—the vulnerable and those that harm the vulnerable—take advantage of the vulnerable—I feel this is a very much Christian in the idea of the unfortunate are more holy than the rest of the bunch—children are like that in terms of being born into a cruel existence—a cruel existence I felt at times in my life and so many do—making sure harm does not come to those in need gives the light of purpose to go bright inside like a Christmas tree in my brain—this light of happiness and warmth. I never expected I would fall in love for teaching due to the antidepressant effect provided. It would become my career for a decade. Some grow up wanting to be a teacher, I became one by accident, desperation, and being saved.
Sometimes I inflate on self-hate like a helium balloon that needs to be tied to a wrist to not float away.
In my early teens I started struggling with bulimia and image. I remember when my mother caught me in the act. I was not offered help but criticized. I was called a girl for my problems and threatened to be taken somewhere to be fixed of my confusion. I don’t identify as transgender. I identify as a man that struggles with bulimia and happens to have feminine qualities.
I attribute it to circumstances that happened to me—a justification for the pain at times—an attack on aspects of bisexuality.
After a long day of work I did what my young self often did. I went clubbing with friends. I feel like even if I hide aspects of myself such as being bisexual, people can spot it regardless. I’m extremely secretive about it and not comfortable displaying that vulnerable aspect of myself.
My friend from England went with me. He was about six years my senior. Big guy. Tall. The clubs name was Maoye.
I always enjoyed the free drinks available to foreigners—it was done to attract Chinese clients, as the idea was foreigners being there would attract people.
Amongst the hot and sweltering crowd a man grabbed ahold of me. I felt stuck. I was taken off guard. Pushed and cornered. While on me I managed to push him off. But it all serves as a reminder of the vulnerability of my life.
A nail was placed into my hand—a constant burn and reminder of that vulnerability.

Part 2
From self-hate I can also be so grandiose. I am like a Christmas tree that is lit up. Sparklers so pretty that you cannot let go of them, even if it burns your fingertips and hurts.

From heroin to sex, you can smother the pain. You drain the ocean to fill a void in these times. It ties to mania as well. That restlessness and irritability is extinguished by the paradox of throwing kerosene to everything burning. I’m so grandiose to hide my insecurities, I mistake my misfortune as a mark of something ugly virtuous—the neon of vulnerability pulsating like a star within me. Swelling on a pain.

Bad habits. I want you to judge me and tell me what’s wrong with me. Give me a verdict.
Stress a trigger for mania, and I was stressed from the incident I had experienced at the club. I bloated like a tick to distract from locusts of thoughts that could not shut up with their commotion.
I had been sleeping around more than before. My brain was Christmas tree lights. I accelerated on a generator—I made a mixed episode worse.
Tease a disaster when you are heightened like a blimp. Full of hydrogen. Hoping to burn up ad rain down like napalm.
When the pretty candles on the Christmas tree are left untouched—not looked at like a kettle on burner that has been forgotten—the dry neglected tree will into a house fire.
I’ve had four attempts in my life so far.
When I attempt I don’t cry for help. I feel too vulnerable. I’m afraid.
Hate police and wards.
Downing pills.
My past failed attempts made me aware of everything done wrong before. The sleeping pills alone might not do what I was looking for at that time. I bought an electrical cable. This way if it failed I would still be unconscious and choked out by the cord—fail safe plan to end my life.
The words coming out of my mouth slowed down. I started getting second thoughts. Stuck my face towards the toilet bowl while on my knees. Sticking my fingers down my throat. Leaving blood vessels bursting in my eyes.
Went stumbling outside and waved a taxi down and asked to be taken to the local hospital.
Never expected finding myself checked into a psych ward in a foreign country.
Nietzsche has a quote in reference to chaos in life and how it is needed to create a star—this reference holds so much value to me. Sometimes stars hit together just right to create fate out of the worst of things. The ward lead me to meet the woman made of paper. She would one day become my wife. I would have two daughters with her. Forge together as soldiers to face the obstacles in life. Someone who would save my life during a future attempt when I was found unconscious from an overdose. The smartest and toughest woman I have ever known. Someone to build trenches with.
I liked it when she stuck that needle in me for an IV. It must correlate to being a heroin addict. The pushing of something in my vein correlates to happiness and purity.
The woman made out of paper was my nurse in the ward I was stuck in. What attracted her to the mess that is me I will never understand fully.
The woman made out of paper is named Lilu. She was one year older than me and one of my nurses at that ward in Taiyuan. She was from Zhengzhou—a city in the province of Henan that is based in the center of China. I am sure as the reader it would be nice to know why I call her the woman made of paper.
She struggled with her own demons. She also deserves much praise for her resilience and brains. When she was born she was raised by a family that adopted her and often neglected and abused her growing up. Her biological family is distant from her, even though she has an identical twin—they felt too poor to take care of her and made the choice that they needed to be less of one child as she also has an older sister—her twin got to stay with that family but she was given up and adopted. I am sure this must bother her even if she never will talk about it to anyone in her life—as she is one to refuse ever discussing emotions and feelings, as this is not her personality type—she is very much a fighter. I think most would struggle with wondering why they were the one let go of—it also must hurt her knowing that the family would have a son and keep him.
Despite all these circumstances, she graduated top of her class of four thousand students—Chinese high schools can be quite large serving a large region—they often serve as boarding schools. She was a smart and hardworking student. Circumstances never made her stop trying to be the best and moving forward and she never made excuses for herself. In university she also did well and got accepted at the most studious and hard to obtain nursing position at the number one hospital in Shanxi.
I have already ranted and gone on about my affection and feelings tied to heroin. Drinking of entire oceans to fill voids.
Paper is a void. It asks for calligraphy to be written on it to make braille. This way when fingers run over skin to tell its worth—the reason for its troubles on display—it forms connection through those words of declaration—the whining for why things are the way they are—the filling of a void like a heroin addict needing a cure to cure kicking legs—two papers come together to write upon one another—as a paper I am her typo—I stand as a falling mess with nerves like tripwire, I keep failing and losing my composer, while she stands stronger as a declaration that has been written on me, my very own typewriter—when I was chased I listened to her and joined as one. I wish and intend to always serve the woman made out of paper who has saved my life and has always been there for me, being so strong despite circumstances—amongst the wind of turmoil in life I follow along her path like a sail.
It was love at first sight for her but not for me. I had no interest in dating her at the time. I worked across the street of that hospital in an office building for a training center as a part time job. I would teach adults English who paid for private lessons near to Yingze park in the center of Taiyuan. She signed up for classes for me to teach her and brought me food on almost every other day that she had prepared. Eventually we found ourselves coupled fully.
As paper we write on each other—eat each other.

Species: cat
Age: 11
Sex/Neuter status: Female, neautered
Breed: half persian
Body weight: 5,4kg
History:-
Clinical signs: nausea, not eating, drooling
Duration: ongoing 3rd day
Your general location: Estonia
Hei,
My sweet furball Bella (11F), has been unwell since Thursday. We don't have any new plants at home, no new chemicals, etc. I did switch her quickly over to a higher quality of kibble within the last week. She has never had any problems with quick food changes/ substitutions before. Bella has not eaten since Thursday evening.
Thursday: She threw up 6 times in 1 hour. Before she threw up she meowed in way that you can hear that something is hurting her. I got her into the vet, an hour after she last threw up. She got two shots there, one for antinausea and I don't rememeber anymore what the other one was for. When we got back at home she had appetite and ate little by little the kibble vet suggested. And we gave her probiotics. She threw up again that evening around 9 o'clock.
Friday: I woke up and saw that she is drooling, something she has never done before. She is avoiding human contact, which is very unusual for her (when she throws up a fur ball she wants cuddles afterwards), is lethargic and doesn't eat. She made two painful meows. I went back to the wet, they gave her some IV fluid for hydration, again antinausea shot, something else again, bloodwork done which was normal and sent for an x-ray (don't know these results yet). The vet also gave us for at home treatment tablets of Clavaseptin and two anti nausea shots to administer at home. I gave her one tablet of it yesterday evening and through out the day continued with the probiotics as well.
Saturday: Bella is still avoiding contact, drooling even more than yesterday, still doesn't have any appetite. What to do, because the medication does not seem to have an affect on her? What could I do to help her to get back at least some sort of appetite?
\I can visit the emergency vet today if needed, my own vet opens again on Monday.*

About a century ago, if you looked at a map, twenty-five percent of the world would have been colored in one particular shade of red. At its peak, the British Empire ruled a quarter of the world's surface. It was, indisputably, the most powerful polity in the world. In just a few short decades, that empire fell to pieces; today, the British have been confined to Europe with the exception of a few island territories too small to be worth mentioning and the ceremonial posts some of the more motivated colonies. Why did the British Empire fail in a changing world? Simply put: It was impossible to rationalize the centuries-old model of direct rule from London with the rise of regional nationalism. A Kikuyu tribesman in the Kenyan highlands has different priorities to a Welshman in Cardiff; one simple model of democracy, elected to a central parliament in one city, is incapable of dealing with all the issues it faces. Alexander Hamilton wrote in the Federalist papers that a large Republic would protect against the dangers of faction, yet the British Empire demonstrates that too large of a republic would fail to procure any faction at all; an unhappy union, such as those they attempted to establish in Central Africa, where all power is diluted into deadlock and, ultimately, collapse.
In this regard, the Unified Earth Government is probably the stupidest polity ever invented in fiction.
The Unified Earth Government administers itself directly, as well as hundreds of colony worlds. Some, such as Reach, have developed to a similar level to Earth itself; others are sparsely-populated and are mostly frontier posts and, presumably, refueling and refuge points for ships on long journeys. To understand why this is idiotic, we have to consider the terminology in use here. The UEG is a representative democracy, meaning that its mandate for governance - or "legitimacy" - is entirely based on the consent of the governed, unlike the Covenant, where the right of the prophets to rule is derived based on divine right. However, the UEG is strictly an Earth-based government; therefore, it only represents the interests of Earth in it. The clear, fatal flaw with this is that it leaves some billions of humans completely and utterly unrepresented by a government whose mandate originates from the people. What legitimacy does the UEG have to these planets subject to its authority and rules, but not granted a spot on the social contract? The answer: None at all. Why would Earthborne politicians, who are only supposed to represent their planet-side constituent body, care about famine on some far-flung outer world, when that plays no relevancy into their next election?
And herein lies the paradox: The UEG, in its current state, is fundamentally flawed; it does not represent 'colony' worlds who require greater attention and care than can be offered by the Earth government-- yet simultaneously, the UEG is impossible to reform without becoming little more than a suggestion.
As mentioned before, when a democracy swells too large, it fails to accurately represent the interests of each of its component sections. This leads to political deadlock, frustration, and eventually, motions for independence. The UEG suffers from this problem a thousandfold; not only does it have to represent the wide variety of interests people living in different climates, different cultures, and different regions on Earth, it also has to do the same for every planet under its authority. Can you imagine the political effort required to get anything done?

A law is proposed into the Assembly. The Delegates from Harvest stand up and proceed to filibuster for two hours requesting appropriations to help clear the enormous fields of glass over the wheat fields. The Delegates from Chi Ceti IV stand up and proceed to filibuster for another five hours against the funding and instead asking for money to develop new MJOLNIR production facilities. The Delegates from Cote d'Azure stand up and proceed to filibuster for another three hours for their own independence. [...] Finally, discussion ends about 72 hours later. The law fails to pass because nobody cares enough about what it was going to do when all of their planets have major issues to attend to.

Any government would need an ungodly level of patience and compromise to push through even the simplest of laws-- and that's assuming that any parliamentary government would be able to form. The mere idea of building a coalition is completely impossible in this context; the gaps in interests between each planet are too broad to even begin addressing. This would be an absolute behemoth of a government, and one so unwieldy that it would more than likely completely collapse any sense of human unity, except if the confederal system was loosened to such a point that any Assembly of all the planets was little more than a diplomatic gesture with no authority. And this is what the Insurrection is trying to accomplish. They understand that it is fundamentally impossible for the UEG to deliver democracy in a unitary model to planets under one authority, and that as far as government authority goes, a planet is, in traditional human conceptions of the authority of government, about the maximum possible size which it can be applied to. Frankly, it is a miracle that the U.E.G. survived long enough to be able to face the Covenant without collapsing flat on its face - but that's because despite all the flaws of the UEG, its corruption and failure to acknowledge that a centralized state is fundamentally impossible to maintain across the vast distances of space, the Covenant is somehow even worse at governing its territory.
In conclusion, the U.E.G is stupid, and is probably going to collapse if it tries to extend its authority. I need to get laid-- this is not good for my mental and physical health.

Today was my surgery day, so I wanted to write out my experience to the best of my memory!
I woke up at 7:30, changed out my metal earrings for little plastic ones I bought online so my piercings couldn't close up. Then I took a shower with some antibacterial soap. I had already packed my bag with stuff I thought I might need (but I didn't really need any of it, or have time to use any of it.)
Once I checked into the hospital, I waited about 30 minutes to be called back. Then they took my weight, had me pee in a cup, and showed me to my room. I answered some questions, signed some paperwork, and spoke with the anesthesiologist. The nurse did a quick pregnancy test right there that of course came back negative.
Once we got through the questions, the nurse left so I could wipe down with some wipes they gave me and change into my gown. The wipes left a kind of sticky feeling on me, which I didn't like. Not unbearable, but it was such a weird feeling on my hands especially. The nurse came back a bit later, and was going to get me hooked up to my IV but my doc showed up to do my markings. So the nurse let him do that first so the wires wouldn't be in the way. He marked me up, took some measurements, and talked with me again about the sizing I wanted and such.
Then the nurse came back once he was done and brought another nurse so they could wire me up. I got some sticky electrode things on my back and side, and my IV was placed on the back of my hand. The nurse said I had a really good vein there for it. I was a little scared about the IV, but it didn't hurt too bad. She also took a small amount of blood that she warned me about. I told her I tend to get lightheaded during blood draws, but she talked me through the whole thing and I didn't feel lightheaded at all. It was a really tiny vial of blood though, and only one.
From there, things started happening really quick. My family was allowed to come back, but within 10 minutes there was another nurse, my doctor, and the anesthesiologist in my room explaining what was happening next. I don't remember much of what they said if I'm honest. The only thing I remember was asking if I could put my underwear back on before going back to the OR. They said I could, but I also asked if I would be covered down there the whole time anyway and they said yes, so I decided not to worry about it since trying to get up with all the wires on me seemed complicated, haha. So I was completely naked during the surgery. The anesthesiologist went behind me and pushed something in my IV, and I don't remember anything else after that.
When I woke up, I was in a different room for recovery. My husband was there already, and a different nurse than any of the ones I had met before. I woke up absolutely freezing. Literally teeth chattering. My husband said my face was super pale and my lips were blue. The nurse put some extra blankets over me for a few minutes, and also gave me some percocet because I said I was in pain. Once the color started coming back into my face though, she started working on getting me out of the room. I honestly felt a little bit rushed, which was kind of upsetting. I was still super cold and my teeth were still chattering. My husband helped me get my clothes back on. The nurse got a wheelchair. The two of them helped get me in it, and the nurse pushed me out to where my mom was waiting because only one person was allowed in the recovery room with me.
My husband went and got the car, and then I just remember the nurse pushing me outside (still freezing, even in the heat) and she and my mom helped get me in the car. The nurse left, my mom put the mastectomy pillow I brought over me so the seat belt wouldn't hurt and asked if I wanted any food since I hadn't eaten since yesterday. I asked for a chocolate milkshake and fries from McDonald's, haha.
My husband took me home and helped me get in bed. My mom showed up with my food. They both sat with me for awhile while I ate. I was eating really slow, and kept having to lean my head back and close my eyes because I was getting really tired. One thing I noticed was my forehead felt really dry and flaky? But I wiped it with a wet washcloth and it came off, so it must have been from something they put on my head. My skin doesn't feel dry now. My mom left after awhile and I took a nap.
I just woke up an hour ago, just in time to take my next thing of oxycodone. I only took a half pill. About 30 minutes later I started feeling really nauseous, so my husband gave me some Zofran the doctor had prescribed in case of this. But about 15 minutes ago I threw up. Now I'm trying to eat some soup and crackers.
One thing I was worried about was my throat bring sore afterwards, but it's really not. And the pain I'm feeling on my chest is mostly just some light stinging on the spots where my incisions are, and a bit of tightness from the ace wrap they put on me.
I know that was super long, but I was trying to write everything I can remember! And honestly there might be things that come back to me so I'll edit as needed.
Edit to add: My surgeon took 450 grams from one side and 950 grams from the other. That's how asymmetrical I was before! It's so crazy to me that it really was that big of a difference!

CW: guts, scary health stuff, rambling. Throwaway for personal details.
So. I was recently diagnosed with a genetic condition that makes your heart explode. And then immediately found out I already exceed criteria for preventative surgery to replace the part of my heart that's about to explode before it does so and takes me with it :')
I cannot put this surgery off for obvious reasons. But aside from the ~8+ hours I'm about to be unconscious, cut open, and relying on machines for respiration and blood circulation,,, I also need to stay in the ICU for 1-2 days immediately afterwards, and then I'll stay hospitalized another 5-7 days for recovery and monitoring. (If everything goes well.)
My partner and I already do everything we can to protect ourselves. I'm not worried about what else we could be doing because we really do take every precaution available to us.
Our concern is mostly- as dangerous as COVID is to two people who are already vulnerable, it might actually be more dangerous for me to piss off my doctors and nurses by asking them to pretty please not kill me via plague. Like. If they write me off as a hypochondriac on day 1 they could literally kill me by overlooking something going seriously wrong (complications are common and usually fixable, but not if they ignore them on purpose!)
IDK. We both know firsthand that healthcare workers are no less biased than the general population. And I don't necessarily think they're going to intentionally harm me, but there are already multiple reasons someone might discriminate against me and I don't know if I can afford to give them another. I'm undergoing an extremely invasive procedure that takes a minimum of 3 months to recover from. It took NEARLY A DECADE between my partner saying 'hey I think you have this specific genetic condition' and a doctor agreeing to test for it. I think my mistrust is warranted. I don't trust them to protect me. And I swear I'm not giving in to fatalism yet or minimizing the risk of COVID itself, I just feel like if they were willing to protect their patients they'd already be doing it. I don't trust them to wear a respirator properly (if at all). I can't even trust the shared air. I'm worried that all a request for masking would accomplish is a team of nurses who have the exact same risk of infecting me... except now they also hold a weird grudge against me for imposing my entitled, delusional little needs upon them.
Of course we plan to use N95s or better the whole time along with every other precaution we can afford. We're not compromising on our end. But honestly I'm terrified of receiving worse care when I'm already going to be so physically vulnerable and powerless. We're only 24 and mostly alone in this.
Apologies again for length but thank you for reading. If you or someone you know has had any kind of similar experience to share (major surgery, recent hospitalization, etc), I'd like to hear about it. Whether it's reassurance, a warning, whatever. At this point, anything would help me feel more prepared and even if it's not super encouraging, I'd really appreciate hearing anything that might help us know what to expect.