Just found out I’m moving back to my house in a month. For reference, I’m currently living with my family because I was court-ordered to do so after my arrest three months ago. But I had a hearing last week and they’re putting the case on hold for 12 months. If I stay out of trouble, they’ll dismiss the case and drop all charges. As part of that, I can also move somewhere else.
And that didn’t come a moment too soon, because the house I own (in another state) is currently rented out to two people. One of them suddenly told me yesterday she’s going to be leaving sometime next month. I can’t afford to try to find another renter, so… I’m going back. Why the fuck does it matter? Well….
That was the house I relapsed in and used in for 3.5 of the last 4 years. It’s the house in a town where I have three reliable connects. It’s the house down the street from one of those connects. And I’m going back to it with less than three months clean (7 weeks right now).
10% of me feels ready for it - it’s a much needed change from the current situation - but the other 90% is fucking terrified.
Ended up texting the deputy an apology for being a little too much lately. Told him he never needs to feel obligated to respond to my texts or anything, and apologized that one phone call turned into him being my biggest cheerleader on the daily. Said I’m glad he’s in my life but that I know I’ve been kind of overwhelming recently and I didn’t intend for it to become that way.
His response was that I didn’t need to apologize and he’s glad to be part of my journey. Since then he has been asking me most mornings what my plans for the day are and re-engaging in our usual casual convos like we used to all the time. It’s honestly been a relief and has helped significantly with the whole “feeling like a burden” thing.
I never want to push him away like that again. It was pure hell.
On a related sidenote, every time I see a cop in uniform I get turned on. Thanks asshole 😂🤣
I always feel like I’m too much. I talk too much, I’m too loud, I’m too needy. I’m an annoyance to those around me, and I imagine every time I send someone a text or message they sigh and roll their eyes when they see my name on their screen before they reply with irritation. I feel that anyone who is supportive of me and my recovery is only doing so because they feel obligated, not because they want to or actually believe in me. It’s why I rarely reach out to people. And when I do reach out, I feel like such a bother and a burden, I end up feeling guilty about it.
I’m afraid I’ve been so needy that I’m pushing the deputy away. Even though he’s vocalized support the last couple days, I also feel like he’s been pushing for space, and I don’t fucking blame him. When he agreed to call and talk to me a month ago, he didn’t know he was agreeing to talk to me every day or be my biggest support. I know I’m a lot, and I can be exhausting, and I fear I’ve overstayed my welcome. So I’m going to back off. I’ll stop texting him every morning wishing him a good day so he doesn’t feel obligated to respond or engage with me daily. I know he’s tired of it, I can feel it. I truly don’t think I’m imagining it.
And honestly I’m just incredibly sad because I feel like I pushed away the one person who has felt like a friend over the last four weeks of hell. I just straight up enjoy him as a person, and I don’t think it’s mutual. He’s busy, his job is exhausting enough without having to deal with me every day. So… I’ll give him space, and leave the ball in his court. In the meantime, I feel this incredible sadness that runs so deep, it’s agonizing.
I wish I could find someone I could be 100% myself with, and not feel like I’m too much 😔
And this is why he’s my favorite human right now. Told him I was three weeks clean/sober and this was his response. I’m slowly accepting that yes, some cops are actually genuinely good people - or at least I found the one that is.
And it’s the first time I’ve actually WANTED it. Don’t get me wrong, some days are still rough. I wanted to give in SO bad two nights ago, and it was just a phone call away. It would’ve been so easy. But I would’ve lost everything - again. The deputy that’s been super supportive lately - who is also basically my best friend now, which feels fucking weird, because I know how I usually feel about cops - always tells me, “Just keep moving forward.” So even if it’s the tiniest little baby step… that’s what I keep trying to do every day.
I can’t help myself. I used to write so much smut, and now I have this raging crush on the deputy I’ve been talking to, it seemed only fair to write a super short piece about a fantasy I have with him. I’m sorry and… you’re welcome? Enjoy.
Content: NSFW, smut, oral sex, first person police officer x reader, first encounter
You ask me to meet you out front, and I open the front door to you standing there with a grin dancing on your lips, dimples sunk gently into your cheeks, thumbs hooked into the sides of your vest as you cheerfully greet me. “Hey, good morning!” I can’t help but smile, you always make me smile and you’re always too perky for this early in the morning. The sight of you in uniform also never ceases to turn me on. “Want to come inside for a few minutes?” I ask nervously, and you hesitantly say, “Sure, I have a few minutes,” your eyes burning into mine while a quizzical look plays across your face. You and I both know what we hope it will be, but we’re both nervous to make the first move or state things plainly.
You step inside and I close the door behind you, your eyes methodically scanning your surroundings. I motion to the living room and you ease down the steps, turning to face me as you sit back into the couch. You start to make small talk, but you trail off as I gently climb onto your lap, straddling your waist and resting my hips against yours. “Hey, hey, what’re you do-…” you start, but I cut you off by pressing my lips to yours - nervously at first, but after a few seconds of hesitation, you return the kiss, and I no longer try to restrain myself.
As we timidly explore eachother’s mouths, I grasp both of your hands in mine and place them on either side of my hips, softly grinding them against you. We continue in near silence, broken only by the occasional soft moan of pleasure and desire. Your hands grip me with a gentle strength, pulling me into you until I begin to feel you swell against me.
I plunge my hips down, intentionally and earnestly dragging myself against your lap. You moan in surprise and pleasure, and I reach down between my legs to caress your growing bulge. I nervously search for the zipper of your pants and tug it down, as your conscience slips through and you start to fumble out a protest. But as soon as I reach in and pull your hardened cock free, your words stop short again.
Our eyes bore into eachother as I gently stroke your full length, the silence broken only by the sound of our heavy breathing. I ease myself backwards and onto the floor, kneeling in front of you as you wait expectantly for my next move. I lean forward and tenderly kiss the tip of your cock, and your head rests back against the couch, your eyes closed. I continue to slowly stroke you, relishing every quiet moan that escapes your lips. After a few minutes, I ease myself down and take you into my mouth.
The pleasured groan that comes out of you sends chills through my body, and I can feel myself getting wetter by the second. I continue to stroke you as I rhythmically move my head up and down, pressing you against the back of my throat and tasting the stream of precum pouring out of you. I close my eyes, moaning softly as I skillfully slide you in and out of my mouth. Your groans and gasps are becoming more frequent, and you reach down to rest your hand on my head, unconsciously grasping my hair and pushing yourself deeper into my throat.
Minutes pass both slowly and quickly as your pleasure builds, and I can’t hold myself back any longer. I earnestly grasp and stroke you with both hands while continuing to taste you, and you return the favor by bringing your other hand to rest against my head as well. The tempo and passion increases until I am furiously plunging you in and out of my mouth, sliding my tongue along the bottom of your cock, feeling it begin to twitch with anticipation.
Suddenly your moans become uncontrollable and you aggressively thrust your hips upward and force yourself deep into me, holding my head down as your cock pulses with pleasure, spilling cum into my throat. You gasp and cry out breathlessly, slowly releasing your grip on my head as I ease myself backwards until you spring free from my mouth.
Sweat glistens on your forehead, your eyes still closed as we both breathe heavily, time seeming to stand still as your member twitches softly in my hand. I push myself to my feet, and reach down to gently return your softening cock to its rightful place within your uniformed pants. I tug your zipper closed and you open your eyes, locking them with mine as we look at eachother in silence. Your dimples once again sink into your cheeks, and we both smile quietly. “I hope that was a good start to your day,” I whisper tentatively, and you laugh and reply, “That was a hell of a few minutes.”
Well, damn… it’s been four years since I posted. I had almost forgotten my love of Jeffrey Dean Morgan/TWD and the amazing community of writers and friends I found here.
Because when addiction takes over, it becomes the only thing your mind will make space for.
Trigger warnings: addiction, drugs, IV drug use, drug abuse, cocaine, overdose, syringes, needles, tracks, track marks
4 years ago - right after my last post - I was diagnosed with a neuromuscular disease called Myasthenia Gravis, or MG. Similar in ways to Multiple Sclerosis and Muscular Dystrophy, MG damages the receptors that allow your muscles to get signals from your nerves. Over time it causes severe muscle weakness and fatigue, and sometimes loss of muscle function entirely.
For me, that meant losing much of the fine motor function in my hands and arms, as well as chronic double vision from the muscles around my eyes being affected. Consequently, I lost my career working as a surgical assistant and I lost my ability to play guitar, which I had been doing for almost 15 years.
MG progresses differently for every person, and mine went from “Start” to “I’m going to take everything you love” in less than five months. For most people, this progression takes years - but mine unexpectedly progressed quite quickly, and that became the catalyst for a very, very dark downward spiral that I still haven’t been able to wrench myself out of almost four years later.
I had dabbled in illicit drugs here and there in the months leading up to my diagnosis, but the day I discovered I could no longer play guitar, I made the worst decision of my life: I picked up a needle for the first time, assuming it would also be my last. I just wanted to escape the sadness for a bit, and I was curious about the effects. But as soon as I pushed that first dose, I knew I was fucked. I immediately wanted more.
It went from 1 or 2 doses a day to 5 or 10, to 20 or 30, until at its peak I was dosing over 100 times a day. Yes, the math is correct - I was injecting every 10-15 minutes, all day, not sleeping for days at a time, not eating for weeks at a time, and not showering for months at a time - simply because I couldn’t stand the sight of the track marks covering my entire body.
In a year and a half, I went from 290 pounds to 170 pounds, simply from not eating. On the rare occasion I would leave the house and see my friends, they would immediately ask, “Dude, when’s the last time you ate anything?” Most of the time it had been so long, I couldn’t give them an honest answer. My mind and body had ceased to even register the sensation of hunger - the only thing it wanted was more C.
I had a few stints in rehab and might string together a few weeks of sobriety, but I always went back to it. I managed to avoid overdose until this year… February 4th, 2024. It put me into repeated seizures and respiratory arrest, they were able to revive me and I was in an induced coma for 4 days.
I wish I could say it was a wake up call, but I went back to it within hours of being discharged from the hospital. I despise withdrawals, and they just keep getting worse the longer I’m on the shit. Then just over a month later - March 20th - I OD’d again. Once again threw me into seizures and I almost stopped breathing, but thankfully this time the paramedics arrived significantly faster and I didn’t die - again.
I can’t remember the last time I showered, because just the thought of having to look down and see all the scabbed, bruised, and heavily scarred track marks on my arms and hands is sickening. I’ve been wearing long sleeves for almost two years straight - even on 90° summer days - and I put makeup/concealer on the back of my hands every day where the scars are the darkest so I don’t get disapproving looks from family, cashiers, and waitresses. I’ve gotten better at eating, and have managed to get back up to 205 pounds. But that’s the only thing that’s gotten better.
No one wakes up and decides to become an addict. It begins with one small seemingly meaningless choice to escape what’s in our head for just a few minutes or hours, but very quickly becomes an all-consuming downward spiral into our own grave. I wish I could go back and show 29 year old me what I’ve become, and take the needle out of her hand. But I can’t take any of this back, and right now, I still haven’t found a way out.
Sorry for the long post, just needed to vent a bit.
Some shit’s been going on with my health lately and I’m having some more intensive testing done this week.
They think I have MS.
So yeah, I’ve got THAT gnawing at my fucking brain every single waking second now.
I thought I knew what fear and anxiety were before, but... I am now realizing that what I’ve known until now was just a few drops, and now I’m in the middle of a fucking downpour.
This limbo between “so we think you have this” and delayed testing - because FUCK American healthcare & insurance - is exhausting. I just want to know so I can either cope or celebrate.
I have some new and exciting ideas brewing for Long-Awaited Savior. I have been dying to write the last chapter and finish the story for over a year now, and it just hasn’t happened. I know I’m on the verge of accomplishing it though. Part of me doesn’t want it to be over, but a larger part of me knows it has to come to an end. But now with the addition of backstory “flashbacks” for the reader and actually giving her a history, there are some insane twists this final chapter can take, and I can’t wait to write them.
Anyway, this is just me gushing about being excited to write. That’s all. Carry on.
And if you don’t know what I’m talking about, follow the “Masterlist” link on my page to find and read Long-Awaited Savior 😬
I think the best kind of writing is one where the reader is like damn, I wanna create something that makes others feel like how I’m feeling right now.
Good writing, it politely knocks on your door and introduces itself to you like a welcome guest and after it leaves you are forever nostalgic for that fateful encounter you once had but cannot replicate.
Which is good, but…
The best writing is the kind that kicks your door down, leaves you winded and steals your chickens tauntingly as it leaves. It makes you want to go to your neighbors and friends and scream about them, because how dare they make me feel things, dammit? and leaves you heaving and lurching for more, tempting you into trying out some chicken stealing for yourself.
Good writing is complete in itself. But, the best kind of writing inspires and leaves behind a ripple-effect of creation that makes it seem like it was never really gone.
The aftermath of bearing witness to the best kind of writing is an act of creation itself. The best kind of writing makes its audience a verb, a force, a creator.
This is exactly what happened after I read @flames-bring-a-ton-of-ash for the first time. I laid in bed for 6 hours straight reading her slow-burn and other fics, and at the end 1) I wanted more, and 2) I desperately wanted to write even though I had never done it.
Thank you for being the best kind of writing for us, Ash 🙏
Me: So I’m going to rewrite it, add some explanations, fill in some plot holes, whatever. I’m excited.
Coworker: Ooooo, are there flashbacks?!
Me: Like... wait, what? Like to the past?
Coworker: Yeah! Like to the main character’s past and what their life was like before the apocalypse!
Me: Uh... eh... well, no, because I actually hadn’t thought about what her life was like beforehand. I actually... holy shit, I don’t have a backstory for her! I am a horrible writer, I just wrote her present day story and nothing else! Oh my god! She needs a backstory! I need flashbacks! I need to fully build her as a character, my god, this is brilliant!!!
Coworker: *staring at me uneasily due to my sudden excitement* So.... flashbacks. Yeah. Those would be cool.
Guys/ladies/dudes/otherwise, I am WAY stoked to begin building this story and this character even more than I did the first time around!! And also, yes.... one day I will actually write the last chapter, I promise 😬
