Sky? I...really just...need someone to talk to right now. I messed up. Badly.
I'm such a terrible person...
❄️
I'm here. This is... Eira? Right?
Let's not go catastrophizing alright? Come sit down—
Hm.
Well, let's just picture ourselves sitting down together.
Take a deep breath first, and we can see what we can do.
Before anything else, just know that this is a judgement free safe space, alright? My job here is to help you, and help you help yourself, if that makes sense. Not to point fingers or mock you.
Usually I'd also tell you that what's said between us stays between us—with the exception of three things due to my being a mandated reporter—but, well. Bit hard with our situation, so forgive me.
What happened? I've been blocking out the other Voices as much as I can; I want to hear things firsthand.
The other day I went to Therapy. I’ve only been going for a couple weeks now and getting to know each other.
Well I had just gone through some rough stuff with my boss, (See ‘this post’ to read what happened) and my best friend pretty much told me she wasn’t going to be my friend anymore because of personal shit in her life and that I was annoying her by checking up on her. So I laid it out for my therapist.
And what she told me shocked me....
I explained that my boss hurt me, but that I was an empathetic person, and I had worked under someone like him before and she asked, what makes you an empathetic person?
And I had to think for a moment, I had always been told I was empathetic, because I cared for other people. And I told my therapist this and went on to say, “He was just trying to help, he was trying to teach.” And she just kinda gave me this look.
Fidgeting under her look, I went on to explain more, “I spoke with the other nurses and they helped calm me down and I told them I was okay, I understood that the boss was probably just tense.”
And then my therapist told me something I never realized, She went “It sounds like you’re making excuses and internalizing your emotions and others emotions inside you until they have no where to go. Doing this, its not empathy, its just harming you. He crossed a boundary, something a boss shouldn’t do, something no one should do. At the other job where you said your boss did the same thing for a year, did you grow under his behavior? Get a thicker skin?”
I frowned, “Well...no. My friend talked with me everyday and let me vent to her and she told me to stick it out for another day and then a year had suddenly passed.”
And my therapist nodded, “By taking in the harmful words and not processing your own emotions towards them, your not building up any strength to stand up and speak for yourself when someone hurts you. Its okay to depend on your friends, but it sounds like you’ve been so focused on your hurt that you never let yourself heal.”
And didn’t that just feel like a sucker punch to my gut. I thought I was an empathetic and emotional person. But this insight, and her words started to make sense as I looked back on incidences in my life. Parts where I just let people take their anger out on me, and I just accepted it, or when people crossed boundaries and I let them because I didn’t notice they were crossing them. It suddenly made sense. And then my therapist struck the final nail...
“Depressed and people with anxiety tend to see themselves as being empathetic towards others, when they are actually just absorbing the words towards themselves and inflicting the hurt and pain inward until it finally surges forth and hurts them and the people around them.”
Going to therapy is one of my best decisions I ever made because I am slowly learning to stand up at my boundaries and not let people cross them. I’m learning how to rephrase negative thoughts into positive ones. I’m learning how to hold my ground and not turn a conversation into a conflict. It’s a work in progress, like everything in life is...but it’s progress none the less, even 23 years late...It’s working.
John and I continue our sessions the same as always, but something feels different. Off. And I can’t help but wonder if the night I burst into tears when he was at my door has something to do with it.
I have restrained myself from looking at his blog, even going as far as putting a block on it on my laptop, so I can’t view it without removing said block. Which I can do, but every time I’m met with the ‘restricted’ screen, I rethink my choice and back away.
His blog is personal – on a level different than therapy. And there needs to be a difference, so I am staying back and not overstepping any boundaries. As he asked.
Mycroft and I haven’t had a meeting since my little explosion. I wouldn’t call it an explosion, necessarily, but I’ve never actually yelled at him the way I did the last time we had a meeting. And I suppose that’s why I yelled at him. I had been holding all of that back for a very, very long time, and our last meeting just happened to be the time it all came boiling over.
Though, I’m almost entirely certain that my internal battle with my newfound feelings for John didn’t help the situation any, especially not with how Mycroft has been acting.
But nevertheless, there hasn’t been another meeting, only a single text that said he is busy doing some international work, but that the mission remains active.
Which is all basically Mycroft for, “I’m angry with you for your behavior, but you’re obviously angry with me as well, so some time away from one another might be in our best interest.”
I’m not complaining. I could use some time away from the bastard. And if he wants some time away from me, then say no more. I’ll gladly stay away.
Onto to other business (and things I worry about), today is John’s last session of the month. He normally has another scheduled, but this time he doesn’t. There is no way for Mycroft to force John to keep seeing me as his therapist – Mycroft had to completely rely on Sherlock’s intuition of who John would pick as a new therapist if his old one was unavailable, which Mycroft made sure she was. But since John picked me seemingly on his own, he’s stuck with me. Now that he doesn’t have another appointment scheduled, I can’t help but wonder why. Or what he’s up to, if anything.
Only time will tell, I suppose.
~~~
John’s session time comes quicker than I want it to. And as I suspected, John’s behavior is different. Nervous, almost.
“How are you doing today, Dr. Watson?” I jump right in, sitting comfortably in my chair as he gets himself settled, but he’s stiff.
“I’m alright.”
And no question to me, so he’s definitely being strange.
“Alright,” I echo, nodding slowly. “Is there anything you’d like to talk about first?”
He nods his head, his eyes studying me, almost fondly – but I can’t tell if that’s my stupid head making that up, but regardless, my heart is hammering in my chest.
After what feels like forever, he speaks. “Do you remember what you said to me? The first time we met?”
I frown, shaking my head. I said a lot of things, so I’m not entirely sure what he’s referring to. Especially not with how he’s already acting. I can’t tell if he’s about to go off on some tangent or what.
“You said, ‘Mad dog and an Englishman.’”
I sigh, remembering now. “Yes, I’m sorry. It was a poor joke on my part and a frankly inappropriate time to try to make jokes. I apologize, still.”
“No, it’s fine,” John chuckles, smiling now. “I liked it. You called me a fool – indirectly. It made me laugh later when I thought about it again. And now it just…” He pauses, shaking his head. “You clocked me before I even clocked myself.”
A nervous laugh escapes my lips. “I’m not sure I understand…”
“What I’m about to say might make me a fool, but I’m going to say it anyway.” He takes in a deep breath, and then he says, “I want to see a different therapist.”
That? Seriously? That’s the reason he’s acting so strange? We aren’t working well enough together, so he wants to see someone else. That’s what’s wrong with him?
I almost feel stupid for suspecting something else.
“John,” I chuckle. “That hardly makes you a fool. I want you to get the best help possible, and if that means seeing a different therapist, then I understand. I’m not going to call you a fool for that.”
“Okay,” he nods. “Then maybe call me a fool for this.”
“For what?”
“I want to see you,” he pauses. “Not as my therapist.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I want to take you to dinner.”
And in this moment, what he’s implying becomes crystal clear. I sigh, letting out a little laugh as I set my pen down. “John, I…”
“I’m a fool, I know, but I’ve got nothing left to lose and ever since I saw you I just…” He shakes his head again. “Ever since I saw you, I’ve thought about kissing you, and if that makes me a fool, then I’m fine with being a fool.”
I furrow my eyebrows, sliding his file off my lap and onto the table beside me. I stand to my feet, hoping to gain some control over this situation. “Listen, John, I can’t date one of my patients. I’m really sorry.”
But he stands with me, so we’re back on even ground. “I know, it’s unethical. I’m a doctor, too, remember?”
“Yes, I remember.”
He takes a step closer, almost too eager about explaining this to me. “But if I see someone else, then I won’t be your patient anymore.”
“Oh,” I laugh. “You’ve properly thought this through, haven’t you?”
“I have,” he replies, suddenly serious about this. “I have because…I really want to see you.”
If his face didn’t look as sincere and genuine as it does, and if his voice hadn’t gone as quiet as it has, then I probably would’ve told him to leave. I probably would’ve shown him the door and told him to see a new therapist and that I decline his offer.
These are all things I probably should’ve done.
“You’re serious about this.”
“Of course I am,” he shrugs, stuffing his hands nervously in his pockets. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“You’re not just saying all this so you can get my license restricted and reputation ruined?”
“I’m a doctor, too,” he repeats. “If I wanted to do that, I don’t think I’d be standing here, asking you out to dinner, no longer as your client.”
I think it over – and I absolutely hate myself for thinking it over, but I am, and I can’t help it. I also can’t help the butterflies that are swarming in my stomach, the ones that I try to calm by wrapping my arms around my torso, shifting my weight on both my feet as we look at each other. Him, pleading; me, contemplating.
Is this really a good idea? I agreed to be his therapist and his therapist only. I never agreed to being anything more, but then again, I never thought of him as anything more. Not when I saw pictures of him to get acquainted with his face, so I’d recognize him when he came for his first session. Not when I opened the door and saw him the first time. I never thought of him as anything more than a patient until…well, until he walked with me in the rain that day. Almost a month ago now.
And I know myself. If the feeling isn’t there, it isn’t there. No amount of interest shown by the guy will make me consider anything. But if the feeling is there, if the feeling is subconscious, pushed down by something else – example: I’m his therapist – then the moment interest is shown, the feeling comes out. It rears its head, it yells, “See! I was right! There is something there!”
“It’s just dinner?” I ask tentatively, taking a deep breath.
John nods. “Just dinner. And after that – Well, we’ll take it one step at a time.”
One step at a time. I like that. That’s not something you normally hear a guy say. He’s not being overly arrogant or cocky. One step at a time.
“Okay.”
I swear, the way John’s eyes widen is almost comical. “Okay?”
“Yes,” I laugh, letting my arms hang down by my sides. “Yes, I will let you take me out to dinner.”
“You’re serious?”
“Don’t ruin it, John.”
“Right.”
“Does this mean you want my personal number now?”
“Uh, it might help, yes.”
I shake my head as he pulls out his phone, opening up a new message and handing me the phone. I type in my number and send a text, and he smiles when he hears my phone ding from the kitchen.
“There,” I smile. “You’ll text me the details, I presume?”
“Yes, I will.”
“Good. Now get out.”
“What?”
“You’re not my patient anymore and I barely know you, so get out of my house,” I point toward the door, but I can’t contain my teasing smile. He sees it after a minute and then he breathes a sigh in relief, chuckling to himself.
“You got me.”
“I saw,” I smirk. “I’ll at least walk you to the door.”
I walk with him to the front door, pulling it open for him and holding it as he steps out. He gets to the front step before he turns around, coming back inside only halfway.
“Can I kiss you?”
My reply is instantaneous. “Take me on a date first, Dr. Watson.”
“Message received,” he nods. “I’ll see you later.”
“See you.”
I shut the door and lean my back against it, my eyes widening.
Everyone thinks of acceptance as a final destination to arrive and set camp at, but it is more like a pendulum. Some days acceptance is easier and other days it is impossible - and it is always in motion, swinging back and forth.
Talks with my occupational therapist when being asked the question ”how does it feel to think this is going to be the rest of your life?” for the first time since my diagnosis.
Hey, Sky. Sorry, I just need a... a friend(?)... to talk to. I'm not even sure what I'm going to say. I always have a hard time deciphering my emotions.
I feel a bit... useless. I don't know. I'm trying my best to keep things organised and helpful, but half the time when I say things it feels like nobody is listening. Am I being conceited? I am, right? I shouldn't care if people don't seem interested in what I have to say. That's why I write, usually. Fewer... expectations.
As long as things turn out okay... as long as nobody is hurt... how much I bring to this strange 'team' shouldn't matter.
*Sigh.*
I'm sorry. I don't mean to make anything about me. Practically everyone else here has a tragic backstory or a violent death they can remember. I don't think you do? If you've mentioned your own origins, I can't remember it.
I'm really sorry. Here I am calling you a friend when I don't even remember that about you with the 'knowing things' ability I seem to have.
-📕
Oh Russell. You're alright. You're just a kid, aren't you? And teenagers have the roughest time of any age group out there, even without the whole... Well. Disembodied voice thing.
You aren't useless. You're trying so hard, I can see how much effort you put into doing whatever you can. And your efforts aren't for nothing; we've learnt so much from you. You're not conceited for wanting attention or validation; that's what all humans seek. And no matter the odd situation we're in, that's what we are, isn't it? Human.
Your struggles are real. You're not making anything about you and you never have. You're just seeking help right now, advice and comfort from an adult. I'm sorry you feel the need to apologize. You really don't. You're just as important as everyone else, and your struggles are just as real.
Comparing trauma isn't productive or helpful, isn't it? Sure, you might think that others struggle more, or have faced heavier losses, but that doesn't change the fact that you're hurting too. You're hurting, and it's okay to address it. It's okay to want to feel better.
Puberty is quite possibly the worst time to be going through... All this. And you've been doing so well and you've been incredibly brave so far. We might have to unpack the whole deal you have with tying your sense of self-worth to what you can provide for others another time.
But you've been doing incredible. And I acknowledge your bravery in reaching out like; I know it couldn't have been easy at all.
As for my origins, no. There's nothing there for you to recall, dear, since I don't know any of it myself, so you're alright there too. I have bits and pieces, but nothing concrete.
I'm really proud of you, y'know?
*An moongate appears. It's covered in vines, wisteria dangling over the top. Through the arch, there's a glimpse of dazzling green and pinks. It seems to open into a peach garden.*
^^ooc: if that doesn't mesh well with your rp plans, feel free to ignore it!!
Another part will come tomorrow (or later tonight) since this one is short and I’ve written ahead a ton xx.
The Legacy of a Genius
Whose responsibility is it to look after the legacy of someone like Sherlock Holmes? Is it his fans? Is it you, reading this right now, is it yours?
Is it mine?
It’s a question I’ve been asking myself since yesterday afternoon in therapy. I’m seeing a therapist again, for better or for worse, I guess.
I wasn’t going to continue writing on this blog with Sherlock not around, but my therapist thought it might be a good idea. To keep Sherlock’s legacy alive and to share any stories that I haven’t yet.
It’s important for me to say that I was close to abandoning the blog not because I wanted to abandon all of you that have kept up with it for the past year, but because I wasn’t aware of how personally some of you might have taken Sherlock’s suicide. I forgot that in writing about him on this blog, I had given you all a way to connect with him. Abandoning this blog would abandon you all, people in need, and as a doctor, I can’t bring myself to do that.
That being said, you lot can expect regular updates on this blog from now on.
For the time being, here’s quite an old story about the time Sherlock came home—
I stop reading there, realizing the story is one John has already told me before in one of our recent sessions. And that I technically did promise John that I wouldn’t read his blog. So, I did break that promise loosely, but only to see what he’s writing about.
And now that I know he’s only going to use it to share stories about Sherlock, I think I have nothing to worry about, so I’ll respect his wishes now and I won’t read it anymore.
I sigh heavily, closing my laptop and pushing it away. I promise, John. I won’t read it anymore.
~~~
It’s hard to keep my promise.
I find myself wanting to go back to John’s blog every single day, just to see if he’s written anything new, but I always stop myself. He asked me not to read it, and I told him I would respect his request, so I should continue to do so.
But I do begin to wonder why I even told him I would respect his wish in the first place. I’m already lying enough to him, what’s one more?
An undercover agent with a guilty conscience, Sherlock said. Quite the pair.
He’s right. It is an unordinary pair for me. An unconventional life I lead.
But for some reason, I keep finding myself stopping my hand. I close my laptop when I get too curious. I walk away. I tell myself it’s not my business. As a therapist, it’s not. But as an undercover agent, I feel it is.
I am supposed to be both, and yet I can’t bring myself to act as both. I can only bring myself to be his therapist, possibly his friend, who is respecting his wishes that I do not read his blog unless he wants me to – unless he brings something in.
I finish making my cup of tea, taking the steaming mug out on the patio as I listen to the birds sing. It’s far too early in the morning for my liking right now, but I couldn’t sleep. And John is coming in today for another session, just not until the afternoon, as usual.
He’s only supposed to be my patient, and yet, as an undercover agent should be acting, I suppose, I can’t seem to get him off my mind.
I’m always thinking about him. Always curious about the blog. I find myself wondering, too, if he’s gotten a new job now, closer to his new flat – as if he won’t fill me in during our next session. And I find myself worrying about him, hoping something hasn’t happened, because while he does seem to be getting better, I know there are bad days. There’s always going to be bad days. It’s not something I can control, even as a therapist. We don’t seek to eliminate bad days, only to help with ways to ease the pain on the bad days when they do arrive.
Then why am I so worried about wanting John to never have a bad day?
~~~
“Are you alright, doctor? You look tired.”
I chuckle, placing my pen in my lap. “I’m your therapist, John, you don’t need to ask how I’m doing.”
“Okay,” he nods. “So you are tired.”
I decide to humor him. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I am. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking.”
“Oh, about what?”
“About you, about that blog of yours.”
“Have you read it?” My face gives me away. “You have!”
“Only part of the one you just posted,” I defend. “I swear, and that’s all. I just wanted to see what you were going to use it for.”
“What did you think I was going to use it for?”
“I don’t know!” I counter, laughing awkwardly. “I just wanted to be sure you weren’t…” I shrug, finally just spitting it out. “I wanted to be sure you were alright.” I pause, trying to explain myself because the look that’s crossed John’s face is one I can’t read. “I know things are difficult to talk about, and that you’ve been avoiding talking about a lot of it, and I—I got worried, that’s all.”
John smirks.
“But now that I saw you were going to use it to share stories, I promise to not read it anymore.” I can feel how red my face is and it doesn’t help that John looks entirely amused by my rambling. I give him a firm look. “No more of that. We need to get back to you. So, do you think the blog has been helping?”
John decides to humor me and begins talking about his blog. He still doesn’t believe me (I think) when I say I haven’t read any more of it, but it was a nice surprise to hear he’s written a couple of entries since the one I read. He gave me brief descriptions of what he wrote because I have no clue, even though he’s still (and probably will forever be) suspicious.
