YOUR ENTIRE PERSONALITY IS JUST A DEFENSE AGAINST PANIC
---
You really thought you “developed” your personality?
No.
You survived into it.
Your traits aren’t choices.
They’re the debris field of what didn’t kill you.
The jokes.
The independence.
The “I’m just a chill person” affect.
The sex drive.
The caretaking.
The brutal honesty.
The need to be needed.
The avoidance.
The rage.
Every single one is a coping mechanism wearing a trench coat.
A trained response layered over panic that got too good at passing for identity.
That thing you call your sense of humor?
Built in the waiting room of emotional neglect.
That thing you call “being productive”?
Panic with a planner.
That thing you call “being a good listener”?
Hypervigilance your body turned into a personality so you wouldn’t look broken at parties.
That thing you call “I just don’t like people”?
Cool story, but you flinched when they left.
That “I always have to be strong” mask?
Fabricated in the ruins of a moment you realized no one was coming.
You are not being authentic.
You are being defended.
It wasn’t your fault.
But it is your story.
You didn’t choose your core traits.
They emerged the moment your nervous system said,
> “We can’t survive this unless we improvise.”
And now you call it confidence.
Or empathy.
Or ambition.
Or stoicism.
But it’s not.
It’s the armor that grew so thick you forgot there was a wound underneath.
A FEW FUN TRUTHS YOUR BRAIN DOESN’T WANT ME TO SAY OUT LOUD:
Hyper-independence is just the adult version of “I got punished for needing help.”
Perfectionism is how trauma says “maybe if I’m flawless, they’ll stop hurting me.”
People-pleasing is emotional bribery with a smile.
Sarcasm is what happens when you want to cry but someone taught you that tears are weak.
Anger? That’s grief that never got permission to land.
Detachment? That’s the nervous system trying to escape a body it still feels trapped inside.
You weren’t born “chill.”
You were just shamed out of emotional range.
So now numbness is your brand.
You weren’t born “funny.”
You just learned that if they laugh, they don’t ask.
And if they don’t ask, they can’t abandon you over the answer.
You weren’t born “strong.”
You were just handed more than anyone should’ve survived and told
> “make it look effortless.”
And now you call it your personality.
HERE’S THE DATA YOU WON’T FIND IN A SELF-HELP BOOK:
🧬 The amygdala — your fear processor — is fully functional by the time you're 18 months old.
But the language center of your brain isn’t online until around age 5.
Translation?
Most of your panic patterns were encoded before you could speak.
You learned how to feel unsafe in silence,
and you’ve been filling in the blanks with personality ever since.
So much of what you call “who you are”
was written by your nervous system under duress.
That “I’m just a loner” aesthetic?
No.
That’s a social nervous system that stopped investing in connection because connection became dangerous.
That “I hate drama” edge?
That’s you dissociating from intensity because no one ever taught you how to regulate it.
That “I don’t cry in front of people” pride?
That’s an attachment injury with eyeliner.
TRAITS VS. RESPONSES:
Do you know the difference?
A trait is an internal truth that’s calm without an audience.
A response is a habit wrapped in adrenaline.
Most of your identity is the latter.
A scaffolding built to hold up a version of you that could survive your worst day.
And then you never took it down.
Because no one told you it was safe to.
Let’s get even darker:
Some of your “best traits”?
They only exist because someone else failed.
Your independence was forged in absence.
Your insight was sharpened by betrayal.
Your empathy was rehearsed in front of people who didn’t listen.
Your silence is a performance you perfected in danger.
Your assertiveness is just fight-or-flight in a pantsuit.
You don’t need therapy to build a personality.
You need it to find out what’s underneath the one you built while bleeding.
YOU’RE NOT FAKING.
YOU’RE OVERADAPTING.
That’s why you crash after socializing.
That’s why praise makes you suspicious.
That’s why love makes you want to run.
That’s why you rehearse conversations you’ll never have.
That’s why you get angry when things are peaceful — because your body doesn’t trust silence anymore.
You’re not toxic.
You’re wired for emergencies that already ended.
A BODY REMEMBERS.
A VOICE ADAPTS.
AN IDENTITY FORMS.
AND A LIE GETS LOVED.
This is how personalities form:
Through the repetition of safety behaviors mistaken for authenticity.
And the real you?
She’s in there.
He’s in there.
They’re in there.
Underneath the timing.
Underneath the jokes.
Underneath the deflections and reflexes and chill and kindness and all those soft boxes you built to hide inside.
But they won’t emerge while the costume’s still getting applause.
THE BIG LIE:
You think you have to keep being what survived.
But you don’t.
You can be what never had a chance to emerge.
That means letting traits die.
That means retiring reflexes.
That means breaking your own performance to meet yourself behind the curtain.
That means admitting some of the parts of you you’re most proud of… were built by terror.
And it worked.
You survived.
But now it’s time to figure out who you are
when you’re not being hunted.
📜 Archive Protocol: “Your identity isn’t your truth. It’s your armor.”
🩸 Reblog if your personality was built under siege and still gets applause.
🧠 Read more identity scrolltraps, panic-coded trait dissections, and memory reclassification spells at:
👉 https://linktr.ee/ObeyMyCadence
🛡️ Blacksite Literature™
For @whumptober2021 day 21, alternate prompt #15 “anxiety” featuring my chronically anxious son, Kieran Cochran. You may remember him from being Henry Fitzgerald’s half-brother. He’s much younger here, so bear that in mind and enjoy!
tags | no tag list
warnings | therapy session, discussion of child abuse, discussion of adoption, nausea, vomiting, anxiety, anger, panic response
~*~*~
“I don’t want to talk about her.”
“Kieran, we need to. I know it's painful but we’re cleaning out a wound here. An old wound. We can’t ignore this critical piece.”
“Then I’ll just stop talking.” Kieran huffed.
He hadn’t wanted a fight today, but it felt good — really good — to push back. He was still smarting from the first few days back in class, in his apartment; the loneliness stinging inside when Eli simply walked away at the end of class. He’d grit his teeth, set his jaw, and went to prep for his office hours, pretending for the rest of the afternoon that that didn’t mean something. That it wasn’t the image he feared most.
“You’ll just stop talking?” Exasperation was finally working its way into Hawkins’ voice.
Good. Let’s see how angry I can make him. Maybe then he’ll lay the fuck off the Freud shit.
Kieran said nothing, only offering a grim smile to his doctor. They had been having a good back and forth the first fifteen minutes. A good discussion that had come to a screeching halt as Hawkins segued into his birth mother. Kieran hadn’t yet gotten a question he didn’t want to answer. There hadn’t been a topic he was afraid to dig into, pick around and unpack.
Except for this.
This was too much.
Kieran would not do this.
The little kid buried inside his brain was hyperventilating, frozen and frantic. A round-about echo of his first night in Matthew and Uma’s house, hiding in the closet and clutching his raincoat until morning. Panic coursed painfully through his arms and spine, triggering the start of a headache and the faint flavor of bile in his throat.
Kieran had expected it to spiral into a full blown panic attack, complete with the shakes, stuttering, and maybe some vomiting. But it had turned over in his brain, rolling and morphing from the thoughts of a terrified child into the curled, defiant anger he bypassed as a teenager. He didn’t have to answer a damn thing if he didn’t want to. He was twenty-three, he was just fine, and Dr. Patrick Hawkins couldn’t make him do jack shit as long as Kieran didn’t want to.
Well, he wasn’t fine. He’d concede that much, but his point still stood.
He was an adult and he wasn’t going to talk about his mother.
“Kieran, seriously?” Hawkins pressed. “You were doing well today. Are you going to toss out that progress already? You can get through this, I promise.”
“I don’t see why I have to. I’m an adult.” Kieran shrugged. Intentionally antagonistically dismissive. He felt good. “What are you going to do about it, doctor?”
Hawkins inhaled sharply, dropping his notebook and pen to the floor. Rising from his chair, the man tersely excused himself to his next-door office. Kieran smirked to himself, crossing his arms and sinking down until his head was on the chair back. This was what he wanted — what the anger in him wanted. Get the psychiatrist to give up and return with another topic. Pick the scab of a less-scary wound. Kieran had enough to go around. This didn’t have to be the one for that day.
When Hawkins returned, he was holding a decently-filled manila folder. Kieran couldn’t get a read on his expression but sensed he was about to get painted into a corner. Hawkins dropped into his chair, opening the folder and beginning to thoughtfully flip through the pages within.
“What are you doing?” Kieran asked, voice quivering slightly. “What’s that?”
“This, Mr. Cochran, is what I’m going to do about it.” He paused his searching and gestured to the papers on his knees. “You asked in our first session what I knew about you. This is what I know about you, Kieran. Notes given to me by your mother on your childhood therapist, social services, medical info, her own notes and notes I’ve taken since we started talking. I’ve not looked at much of what Uma has given me because I wanted you to tell me yourself.”
Kieran stared at the stack. “What are you going to do? Read it to me?”
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. What’s going on? What did you just do to yourself?
“No.” Hawkins said flatly. “No, I’m going to go through it. I know you don’t want to talk about your birth mother and I want to know why. I’m not going to make you talk because you said it yourself, right? You don’t have to. I can sit here with you and read this and know everything I need to to keep asking you questions.”
“I don’t follow.”
“I’m offering you complete control over the conversation, Kieran. Just like you’ve had in every one of our last three sessions.” Hawkins asked, hand on the folder’s cover. “You’re falling back on being stubborn and silent to control how we move forward. I don’t know why, but you don’t need to. If you’d like me to just read up, that’s fine. If you’d like to tell me everything, that’s fine. So, if you’re an adult, like you said, make a decision.”
Kieran wanted to control. He didn’t want to talk, but he wanted control. Control over the narrative. He bit his tongue and glared at Hawkins.
“Fuck it.” He breathed.
“What’s that, Kieran?”
“Can we please talk about anything else?” Kieran tried one last tack. “Please? I don’t want to talk about her because it always makes me sick and I’m done being sick over Christine.”
“Is that her name?” Hawkins’ voice was mild again.
“What?”
“Is your mother’s name Christine?”
Kieran seethed. “Was. Her name was Christine Ennis. She was a bank teller. She was blonde. She was my mother. Past tense. I’ve been pretending she’s dead since I was twelve.”
Hawkins considered him, folder still open. “Good. Good Kieran.”
“I hate this.”
“I know, but I’m here to help you.”
“What else do you want to know?”
“Why do you pretend she’s dead?”
“Wouldn’t you?” Kieran knew he was talking fast. That the scared little boy was coming back to the forefront of his mind. It took his brain too much time to push down the need to clutch at his ribs and tuck his forehead to his knees.“Wouldn’t you? She was my mother but not anymore. It’s easier to say she’s dead than to remember that she’s just in Amherst, living her fucking life.”
“How do you know this?”
“Facebook. I looked her up when I was sixteen. Just to see. She has dogs and a garden.” Kieran spat out.
Everything about the idea screamed it was a bad one. Every brain cell warned him that this was warped and wrong and he didn’t need to know to be okay. The dogs, the garden, the cute little house she had. She was happy. She was finally happy with the world without him.
Because she didn’t have you.
He had slammed the laptop shut and vacated to his bedroom, skipping dinner despite Uma’s pleading. Felix had found him shaking, breathing too fast in their bathroom later than night and gotten their dad. He was home sick for two days.
“How did you feel finding that?”
“Sick, angry. Stupid. I shouldn’t have looked at all.” Kieran squeezed his legs. “I’m safe and loved, but why does she get to be happy?”
“Can you elaborate?”
“She’s happy apparently. Like she never even had me or remembered me.” Kieran cut himself off, stomach flipping uncomfortably. “Can we stop for a minute?”
“Sure. Are you alright?”
“Yeah, gimme a sec.” He shut his eyes and gave up, bending forward to touch his forehead to his knees. He counted four minutes and the nausea subsided, pulse slowed, tears successfully placated.
“You weren’t kidding. She really does make you sick.” Hawkins said, watching him carefully sit up.
Kieran let out a shaky exhale. “Always has. Used to be sick all the time at school when I was a kid. I’d get nervous thinking about going to school and then about going home later. The nurse and I were almost friends I was there so much.”
“What about home and school made you nervous?”
“I didn’t want my teachers to find anything on me, ask me questions. I didn’t have a lot of friends. Then going home was always concerning because I didn’t know what she’d be like, whether it was a good day or a bad day.” Kieran leaned forward again, prepping for when the next wave crept up on him.
“What was a good day like?”
“She’d play music in the car going home. I’d get to pick out what we had for dinner. Little things. It felt normal those days.”
“Were there more good days than bad days?”
“At the end, more bad than good. Mostly bad.”
“What were they like?”
Another wave of nausea. Kieran swallowed it back but still bent forward, deciding it was best to talk this way. “Depended but I never figured out what made the difference. It was mostly yelling, grabbing, pushing. Sometimes she’d throw things but never at me. If she thought I was being annoying, I’d get sent to my room… she’d put a chair in front of the door.”
“What made you annoying?”
“Crying. She didn’t like crying.” Kieran closed his eyes and thought. A memory surfaced — one of him, dressed in a red shirt and doing math problems at the kitchen table, accidentally turning a good day into a bad day with too many questions. “Questions, too. She hated when I had questions about dinner or my homework or the news. I just remembered.”
“Kieran, how are you feeling?”
“Alright. I feel better like this.”
“Tell me if you need a break or feel sick again. I want to keep moving forward because you’re doing well. Is that okay?”
“Yep, fine. Keep going.” Kieran lets out a shaky breath. “I can do this. I can do this.”
Hawkins huffs a little laugh. “Yes, you absolutely can, Kieran. You’re doing well. Did you ever tell anyone what your mother was doing to you? Teachers, classmates, their parents, maybe a neighbor?”
Kieran shakes his head. He didn’t have the words yet. All these years later, Kieran didn’t know how CPS had found out about his mother. No one seemed to care and then, one day in the middle of November, a police officer and a caseworker had shown up at the front door. He had packed a little backpack of clothes, his toothbrush, his homemade first-aid kit, and gotten in the caseworker’s car without letting the woman touch him. He had spent almost a whole week sleeping on her pull-out sofa until Matthew and Uma had come to get him.
That’s how Kieran remembered it. They had come to get him. The two people who were supposed to be his parents — the woman who was meant to be his mother — finally found him. Uma had been the most beautiful person he had ever seen and Matthew had called him ‘kiddo’, gotten him a brand new backpack. They had buttoned him up into his nice clothes for his court days. Kieran let them hold his hand as they walked in, let them carry him back to the car when the day was over.
After the last hearing, when his mother didn’t show up again and the judge deemed she had given him up for good, Uma had sat on the courthouse steps with Kieran inconsolable in her lap. When he had exhausted himself and they’d gotten home, she had bundled him in dryer-warm pajamas and one of her scarves, gotten him a mango popsicle and made his favorite dinner. They had sat on the couch the rest of the night, Uma reading to him until he fell asleep.
She was everything his mother should have been. Even when he misbehaved.
“Can I ask why you never told anyone?” Hawkins continues gently. “Its okay if you don’t know, Kieran—,”
“I do,” Kieran coughs. “I didn’t know what would happen to me.”
“What did you think would happen?”
“That I’d make her angry and she’d have one of her bad days again. It never seemed all that bad and what if I made it worse?” Kieran focuses on keeping his breathing even, his voice plain. His stomach flips again. He shoves a hand in front of his mouth and swallows hard, the taste of bile coating his tongue. “I mean, she was my mom. She hurt me, she probably shouldn’t have ever had me, but still. She was supposed to be the one to take care of me. I mean I never knew-,”
His stomach lurching and bile getting dangerously close to his lips cuts Kieran off. He clamps his jaw shut, pressing the hand hard to his mouth and keeps his breathing even. Hawkins is fast on his feet, grabbing the small trash can he keeps by the door and setting it at Kieran’s feet. Kieran drops to his knees in front of the chair, tucking his head and letting his stomach finally empty itself onto old sticky notes and patient papers.
Kieran coughs and gags, cold sweat breaking over his forehead. His breath comes in staccato, lungs trying to find normal again. He pushes his glasses up his nose with the back of his hand. He feels utterly miserable.
“I’m sorry,” He whispers. “M’sorry.”
Hawkins crouches down next to him, places a hand on his shoulder. “Kieran, are you alright?”
Kieran nods, taking in a deep breath. “Better, now. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. You said this made you sick, and it did,” Hawkins settles onto the floor. “How do you feel? And I don’t mean in that Freudian touchy-feely way. I mean can you sit up and drive yourself home.”
Kieran cracks a smile and coughs. “I’ll um, I’ll be fine. Just need a minute.”
“Maybe some water too?”
“Yes, please.” He holds back the wave of relief until Dr. Hawkins is out of the room, getting a paper cup of water as he had in sessions before. He hears the door close and he breaks, dropping his head and crying.
Happy tears.
Relief tears.
Hawkins had called these old wounds, had called the work they were doing cleaning them out. Kieran felt ‘draining’ was the better word. He felt drained — mentally, emotionally, physically, the whole gamut. But he felt clean to his core. For the first time in years, Kieran felt like he’d purged some of the worry, the inherited evil he carried around with him. He had cut himself open, poked around, and tore Christine out.
Or, at least, a little bit of her.
Kieran swallows, leaning up away from the acrid smell of his stomach contents. He’s empty now, safe to rock back against the armchair. He leans his head back against the seat, closing his eyes to the ceiling. He pulls one leg up to his chest, a hand resting on his stomach, and he concentrates on his breathing.
In for ten, hold for five, out for ten. In for ten, hold for five, out for ten.
Just the way Uma taught him. He could hear the instructions in her voice, the steady warmth of her hands cradling his face. When he and Felix fought, when he was frustrated, sad and anxious, panicking, scared. Her hands settle on Kieran’s face, her voice low and even.
Focus, moosham, focus… that’s it, now breathe with me. You remember how?
“Yes, mama,” Kieran whispers to the ceiling.
The door closes and Kieran sits back up to Dr. Hawkins settling onto the floor beside him. He hands Kieran a paper cup, then knots the top of the trash bag. Kieran gives him an embarrassed, but no less grateful smile. He takes a few slow sips before Hawkins speaks.
“Who were you talking to, just now?”
Kieran pushes his glasses up to rub his eyes. “Oh, no one… Well, no one here. My mom — sorry, Uma — she did a breathing thing with me and Felix when we had fights. I was doing it now, to calm down, and I could hear her giving me the directions. Sorry, I didn’t know I had said anything out loud.”
Hawkins nods, taking note observationally now. His notebook was still resting where he left it on the other chair. He didn’t look too concerned about retrieving it. “Are you okay to keep going, Kieran? I have a few more questions, but there’s no pressure—,”
“No!” Kieran startles himself with the outburst. “No, I um, I feel good. Let’s get it over with one hundred percent.”
Hawkins takes a moment, but he smiles again. “Alright, great. So, when did Uma Cochran become your mom in your mind?”
Kieran doesn’t hesitate. “The day she came and got me.”
“No, no no no, I’m sorry, I’m s-sorry Mr. Owen, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, don’t, don’t do it, don’t p-put me in there, please, please, Mr. Owen, sir, I’ll-I’ll do anything, please please no, no!”
If the neighbors hear him begging, they know what he is, and they don’t care. If anyone ever hears him. If anyone can.
Owen hears him, but his eyes are narrowed and sparkling green, furious. His grip on Kauri’s arm will leave bruises, it throbs already where fingernails dig in to Kauri’s pale soft skin.
Kauri digs his heels in to the floor, looks up, puts every ounce of his fear into his eyes. HIs heart beats wildly against the inside of his chest, as though it can break free and escape when Kauri himself is trapped. Tears run from wide blue eyes over flushed skin, his mouth is slightly parted to pant.
He hopes it’s enough.
“M-Mr. Owen, please-... please. I’ll do anything you want, just don’t-... don’t do it, please, I’m so sorry, I wasn’t thinking-”
“No. You weren’t. But you’ll have plenty of time to think now, won’t you?”
Owen shoves him, and Kauri’s legs smack back into the smooth edges of the box he came in, tripping him so he falls backwards into the plush lining along the inside. He scrambles to get back out but he isn’t fast enough, Owen gives him another shove, hand to the center of his chest, and forces Kauri back down.
The cushioning on the inside of the box smells like the cleaner Owen used on it when Kauri arrived, when he chose not to throw it away. It smells like sweat and rank fear, under that.
“Stay,” Owen says, voice flat, his eyes burning into Kauri’s. “And think about this the next time you tell me you don’t want to try something. If you don’t stay perfectly still while I put the lid on, I’ll fucking cut off a finger. Got it?”
Kauri swallows, the whimpers dying in his throat, wiped away by terror. He nods, jerking his chin down once, twice. “Y-Yes, sir, Mr. Owen,” he whispers.
Owen chuckles, but it’s dark, humorless. “Cute.”
The lid slides heavily into place and Kauri is alone in the dark.
The sound of the padlock clicking into place makes him jump, it’s so loud he can’t bear it, and then Owen walks away. Closes the door to the discipline room.
And Kauri is alone.
He breathes, shallow and fast, grateful for the holes that let air through, that won’t let him suffocate. He pushes one finger through one of them, just to feel air moving from the ceiling fan above. It’s not forever. It’s not forever.
It’s not forever.
Owen will let him out when he’s not mad anymore.
Owen will let him out.
He’ll do anything, anything for Owen to let him out, to hold him, to tell him he isn’t alone.
“Please,” Kauri whispers, chokes on a sob, cries harder. The box fits close around him, and he lays in it. He’s locked in, alone. “Please don’t leave me.”
He blinks, the shell around him cracking imperceptibly, lifting his eyes only with effort. There's a wall between him and everything else in the world, every potential loss. He can't lose anything more, anyone.
He's already lost everything, again and again. It took so long, he worked so hard to have even these small things for himself.
And now.
Gone.
Chris's fingers are always cold, and Kauri feels them like icicles on his cheeks, freezing the tear tracks there. Chris is still here, somehow, not gone away in his head.
Not like Kauri.
"Hey," Chris says again, softly. He rubs a thumb over Kauri's cheekbone. His fingernails have little star stickers on them.
Kauri isn't sure how to move his lips.
This is what he gets, for trying to feel safe here. He should have known. He should have known the only luck he's ever had is bad.
"I-I love-" His voice falters. He can't finish.
But Chris shifts forward anyway, arms around his neck, breathing warm against him. The world is cold, and Kauri is cracked, and Chris had always stuck to him like glue.
So, I was being overly dramatic and short-sighted when I said Henry was going into retirement. He’s not and he never ever will, but my brain did need a break for a hot minute to know what to do with him next. And here we are! We’re going back to when Henry was just starting to recover from his second round with Mariana and Alexander. Enjoy!
Warning: bbu general warning, recovery timeline, trauma survivor, trauma recovery, memory loss, memory recovery, paranoia, vomiting/emesis mention, unhealthy coping mechanisms, alcohol mention. Let me know if I missed anything!
~*~*~
“Why are you here, Caleb?” Henry asked quietly, not looking up from his textbook or notebook. He held his coffee close to his chest, pushing the eraser of his pencil into his cheek. There was no exam coming up, no hours-long lab or even a small quiz, but Henry couldn’t seem to break the pattern.
Every Saturday, he sat at that table by the window with a big cup of coffee and studied for as long as his brain could handle it.
“I didn’t want you to be lonely,” Caleb shrugged. He leaned back in his chair, staring out the window at the street beyond. “Carter’s gone home, so I figured you could use the company.”
“Uh huh…” Henry hummed, disbelieving. He took a long drink of his coffee, feeling the caffeine seeping into his nerves. “June told you about the meltdown?”
“No she--.”
“She told you why I had to miss my shift, same difference.” Henry looked up from his page for just a second. Just to check Caleb’s features. “Sorry. I’m not mad or anything, but… You don’t have to pretty it up or anything.”
Caleb let out a slow breath and looked sidelong at him. His dark eyes were still warm and even. “Yeah, okay, fine. She told me, but it was my idea to come with. In case you needed someone… in case it happened again. That’s all, kid.”
Henry pursed his lips and nodded. He was a good student, his grades proved it. But it was more work than he thought it was going to be. He could keep all the information in his head during lectures - he even had something that told his professors he was allowed to record them -- but he still couldn’t write as quickly as everyone else. He still read slowly, tripping up over the long strings of consonants that made up 85% of his chemistry books.
The night before, he had opened his book to find that nothing made sense. Not a single word. None of it looked real to him.
“I thought I had gone backwards and I freaked out a little. That’s all,” Henry murmured, turning a page. “I’m fine today, I promise. You don’t have to, you know. Babysit me.”
“Not babysitting,” Caleb shot back without looking.
“Yes babysitting.” Henry rolled his eyes. He twirled his pencil in time to quantum mechanical calculations, pronouncing the three words over and over in his head. “It was just a blip, okay? Like how Gabi has his moments. I’m fine, I don’t need to be supervised or anything.”
“Trust me, you’re not,” Caleb sighed, stretching his back against his chair. “I honestly don’t give a shit what you do right now, Henry. I’m just doing what my wife asked.” He turns fully to Henry, leaning forward onto his forearms, accidentally pushing the textbook. “Seriously, you want to take up your quote-unquote supervision with June. She’s the one that’s worried about you.”
“But, it was just--.”
“Not just about last night, in general.” Caleb cut him off. “She’s been concerned since you decided to quit seeing the therapist.”
Henry squinted, slouching down in his chair and crossing his arms. “That was months ago.”
“And she’s been worrying that whole time. Your fight with Carter and last night’s blip didn’t help.”
“I’m not going back to therapy. It didn’t help, I didn’t like there being tragedy porn again.”
Caleb’s serious expression broke for a moment as he laughed, hiding the smirk behind his coffee cup. “Alright, but then you need something else to fill the gap.”
“But I don’t want to. It’s my life now, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but we have to live with you. So you should take care of it, of yourself, if it means so much to you to not be supervised.” Caleb’s green eyes -- dark enough to be unassuming, but soul-searing when fixed on you -- went a little empty for a moment. He made a little noise to himself, then sat back in his chair again. “I should set you up with Kieran. He knows more about being in front of a therapist than I do…”
Henry exhaled, defeated, and turned back to his notes. “Yeah, sure. Set me up with Kieran. Whatever.”
He pressed the tip of his pencil to notebook paper with half a mind to jam it through. He grit his back teeth together, stifling the snarling frustration turning circles in his chest. He didn’t want therapy, he didn’t want to talk with anyone about therapy, he didn’t want to be watched or fussed over. He was fine, he felt fine. He just needed to get his work done while the words were still there on the page in front of him.
Tilting to his right to write better, he moved the pencil in even, uncertain cursive. Hybridization, first bullet point, math: linear combination of atomic orbitals, little asterisk in the margin, chapter 2 stuff? Review, double underline.
There.
Just like normal.
Perfectly normal Saturday study time.
Henry paused to skim more of the paragraph then stopped completely. The feeling of being watched over took him and he pursed his lips. It still made him nervous -- after a very public split and almost a full year under the radar, people looking at him still set his teeth on edge. He took a shallow breath and kept writing, letting his eyes slide to the side. Get a better look at the person who was looking at him. Force of habit, just in case.
No one.
No one was watching him.
Even Caleb was slowly reading over the morning’s crossword puzzle. If that wasn’t a sign the man was completely bored out of his mind, Henry didn’t know was was.
He shivered in his chair and went back to work. Unfocused, stale sort of work; pure drudgery. His stomach curled. He was forcing it and he knew it. He was trying to prove something to himself -- whether it was his sanity, his stability, something else all together, he didn’t know. He closed his eyes, dropping his pen and massaging his fingers into his temples. He stayed that way for a minute, letting his stomach settle again.
“Kid?”
“Hmm?” Henry looked up at him, trying hard to look like nothing was wrong.
Caleb arched an eyebrow. “You okay over there?”
Henry made an irritated noise. “I’m fine. Calm down.”
“Mhmm, sure,” Caleb exhaled and went back to his puzzle. Henry knew he was watching him, knew he was keeping tabs on him even as propped his feet up on the window sill and pretended not to care. It was one of the things about the older man that irritated him but that he also appreciated. June was warm and inviting, comforting, someone he could fall into and break apart; Caleb was all those things too, but knew when to leave space and let Henry walk into it. He was patient. Henry sniffed and ducked his head back down. He wouldn’t be talking about anything that afternoon.
The print on the back was blurred when he turned his eyes back to the textbook. Blurred and smeared and fuzzy. Pain shot through his forehead and bile rose up his throat in time with his panic.
He clamped his hand over his mouth. He swallowed the pile back and shivered. “So fuckin’ nasty...”
“That’s it, we’re going home.” Caleb’s shoes hit the floor and he stood up. He snatched Henry’s backpack from under the table before Henry could get his fingers around the strap. “Your white as a sheet and turning green. We’re going home before you throw up in your backpack.”
Henry groaned, pulling his textbook and notebook close to his chest. “C’mon, stop. I’m fine!”
“Henry.”
“I’m just fine, Caleb. Just give it back.”
Caleb stood there, throwing the backpack over his shoulder, and fixed him with a stern stare. Henry glared right back at him, stubbornness getting the better of him. He curled up on his chair and opened his textbook in his lap, making a show of settling in to not move.
The words slid to the side again, his stomach rolling again.
Henry gagged and coughed, the bile reaching his teeth. A bit slipped out of the corner of his mouth. He hid his face with his hands.
He heard Caleb sigh and a napkin dropped over the page. Caleb’s empty coffee cup was thrust in his face. “Spit in here. Clean yourself up. We’re going home.”
Henry took both the items and did what Caleb asked. He sunk low in his chair, soaking in his shame before he stood up and followed Caleb out of the coffee shop, books in hand. Out on the sidewalk, Caleb gave him back his backpack. He stayed quiet the entire walk home, marinating in his humiliation. Caleb didn’t try to make conversation, didn’t stop him from going into his bedroom.
He tossed his backpack into a corner and flopped back onto the bed, staring at the ceiling. Something rattled and rolled underneath the bed frame; Henry stayed there for a few minutes before sliding off to investigate. He groped around until his hand wrapped around glass -- a bottle of peach vodka he’d forgotten about; Carter had left it after an impromptu movie night before going out one weekend.
Sitting on the floor, Henry weighed the bottle in his hands. He leaned to the left, glancing out into the hallway. Caleb was on the phone, probably giving June the details of what had happened. His eyes went back to the bottle. He shrugged, then unscrewed the cap and took a drink.
He rolled his tongue around in his mouth, then took another. The sugar tasted good. His mouth didn’t taste like vomit anymore. The warmth in his stomach was kind of comforting, in its own way. He took another drink then twisted the cap back on, tucking it back under his bed. Maybe it would come in handy.
I am LIVING for early days Chris and Jake may we have a little more ma’am, as a treat??
Oh, I’ve been ‘ma’am’d’ up in these parts now
CW: Trauma response including panic and fall back on conditioned behavior, stimming, self-injury (smacking self) repeating internalized derogatory ableist language (brief) - this is mostly fluffy
Jake catches the kid doing a fucking handstand, of all things, in his room. Just... upside down, holding all his weight on his hands, his hair brushing the floor. He just stands there watching for a second as the kid holds himself effortlessly, then simply bends himself carefully in half and stands upright again. He raises his arms up - like someone on the Olympics - and Jake has to hold back kind of a laugh. It’s not a mean laugh but he doesn’t want to ruin the moment.
The kid, arms in the air, simply slides his legs wide apart and slips into effortless, easy splits, right there on the floor, bends over to wrap his hands around the underside of one foot, and rests his forehead on his outstretched leg.
He makes a sound like a sigh of pure contentment.
“Holy shit,” Jake whispers.
The kid jerks around like he’s been slapped, wide eyes finding Jake standing there. He pulls his legs back together and spins them around to get into a crouched position, scrambling back until he knocked into the bed behind him.
“Oh, no, man, no, you’re okay-”
“I’m, I’m sorry, sorry sorry sorry,” The boy says, high and pleading, curled into himself and looking so incredibly small. “Sorry, I, I didn’t, didn’t mean to- you didn’t say I could, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, sir I won’t do do do, won’t, won’t do-”
The kid hits himself in the head with the palm of his hand, and Jake jerks in a horrified breath.
“Stop, stop it, stop stop stop stop, silence is, is better than stammering silence is better than stammering silence is better than-”
“No it’s not,” Jake says, speaking up, not too loud, he doesn’t want to scare him any worse. He steps into the room and the boy flinches, clinging onto the frame of the bed he’s been sleeping in (or under - Antoni hasn’t actually seen him in the bed yet) for dear life.
“I’m sorry, you, you didn’t give permission, you didn’t-... I’m sorry sorry sorry sorry-, I’m, I can’t, I can’t use, my words are wrong, I’m sorry-”
“Your words are fine,” Jake tries, but the boy is hitting his fingers on the floor, again and again, a constant tapping sound, as he hunches into himself even further. “It’s okay, you’re not in trouble. It’s, can you... stop doing that, or...?”
“Right, right, right right right.” The boy goes still, and Jake regrets every fucking word all at once. There it is, the awful stillness he’s held since he got here. Jake is beginning to understand why. “Stillness is better than what i do, silence is better than stammering, is, is is is-... no, no no no I’m sorry, I’ll be good, I’m sorry-”
Jake can’t think of anything else to do. He just drops to the ground and sits, putting himself at the kid’s level, maybe even a little below it. The boy is so surprised by this that he shuts off like a radio, blinking, wide-eyed and fearful at the tall, muscular man simply sitting on the floor a few feet away.
“I’m sorry I interrupted you,” Jake says, calmly, carefully. “I was really impressed at what you can do.”
“You’re... sorry?” The boy watches him, looking like he’s ready to bolt, to run, with nowhere really to go.
“Yeah. Hasn’t anyone ever apologized to you before?” He says it jokingly, but the look on the boy’s face reminds him that, well, probably no one ever has, in the kid’s memory. “Well, let me be the first, I guess. I’m really sorry I spooked you. But all that stuff... is that what they taught you?”
The boy is silent, considering him, and he slowly nods.
Jake takes a breath against the anger curling inside him. Some version of it is always there, but right now it feels deeper than ever. “Okay. Well all of that’s bullshit, so put that on your list of stuff that’s just not true. We’ve been hoping you would talk more.”
“Y-you have?” The boy seems to relax a little, sitting on the ground instead of crouching, leaning over to watch Jake. His fingers start their rhythm on the floor again, but more calmly this time, a little softer.
“Yeah. You can talk here, man. This is going to be a safe place for you, okay? Do you understand where you are?”
“Shelter. I’m, I’m, I’m a rescue. I was rescued.”
“Great, good, so you get that. You stay ‘til you’re ready to go back out into the world. But... but if you want to do handstands and shit in your room, you do that, okay? No one’s going to stop you.”
The boy licks at his lips, a kind of brightness entering his eyes. He looks more alive than he’s looked since he got here. “Re-... really?”
“Really really. D’you... maybe want to show me a handstand? Show me how you do it?”
The boy hesitates - seconds ticking along - and then he nods all at once, almost frantically, and pops up to standing like a Jack-in-the-box. Jake watches him bend his entire fucking body in half to put his hands on the floor, and simply lift his feet up into the air until he’s totally upside down again.
“Holy shit,” Jake says again, and then he applauds, watching the boy nearly fall over in excitement when he gets a positive response.
“Did, did, did did did do you like it?” The boy asks when he’s rightside-up again, hands worrying at each other.
“Man, of course I did. What else can you do?”
The boy’s mouth opens, slightly, and his eyes are so, so bright. “You, you, you wanna see?”
“Fuck yes. Show me.”
The thing about rescues is you have to find them where they are, first, and let them grow from there. Jake and Nat have been despairing over where to find this new kid, silent and still as death, hiding behind his bed or watching them all with fear in his eyes.
Jake thinks privately, as the boy shows him some kind of complicated yoga pose that involves all his weight resting on one leg with his arms all pretzel’d around himself, that he’s just found the way to open the door.
The culture in American schools can be kinda crazy ngl, I just saw I could’ve gotten a 79% on an important assignment and had a genuine panic response. Like, cold and numb fingers, couldn’t breathe, nauseous level reaction. What are we even doing
So. I just wanted to say a thing and I’m known for making controversial comments when I talk about what I actually think and feel, so I’m mentally preparing myself for some Bombardment. But. This is something that I think needs to be said. For myself if for no one else.
People have panic responses.
And all those responses are different. The whole fight-or-flight-or-freeze thing. They’re panic responses. We learn these, we are born with ‘em, they’re a delightful combination of nature and nurture. I don’t make the rules, I just glare at ‘em sometimes.
So when you worry someone big-time, that induces a panic response. Fight, flight, freeze, and there are a million ways to do each.
I, personally, have worked really freaking hard on my panic response. I’ve had to condition myself to wait a little bit, to try and think things through. And it’s worked on the lower tier stuff, but on the higher tier stuff, my first instinct is still to fight like hell.
When people fall back on their panic responses, it’s not to make you miserable or to make your situation worse. They aren’t thinking. They’re fighting in a way they know how. Or running in a way they know how. Or freezing in a way they know how. Whatever situation is going on, they’re working through it as best they can.
This doesn’t mean you can’t rely on people who are close to you, but it does mean that there should be some understanding when you drop some huge bomb shell on them. The more you’ve prepared for a bombshell, the less the panic response should be.
But if you drop something on someone with little to no warning, expect a panic response for about a minute or so at least. This is human nature. And we can overcome our panic, but it takes some time.
So... yeah. People panic. Especially when a bombshell is dropped. It happens. It’s not an attack. It’s a response. It’s not an excuse (they still gotta make up for whatever they did during the panic), but it is something to keep in mind.
Just... yeah. Panic responses. They’re annoying and I hate them but they’re there and we gotta deal with ‘em somehow. And they are not. A. Friggin. Attack.
