Pushing back against the discourses of trauma, I argue that a theorizing of traumatic inscription that assumes trauma to be unchanging and immobile, is traumatophobic. Traumatophobia keeps trauma inert, and that poses a problem because trauma that is not inserted into circulation does not wither and disappear: it stalls and it controls us. Trauma, I argue, needs to circulate; it needs to be revisited. I describe this approach, of maintaining a hospitable attitude to the revisitation of trauma, as "traumatophilic."
OK!!! I think I found a name for one of my phobias! I specifically have a fear of temple/head traumatophobia, meaning I have a fear of temple/head trauma.
I drew some of my fears, it was actually pretty therapeutic. However they are pretty gory so I’ll be taging them heavily. I’ve never been good at drawing hands so this was good practice. 
Jesse wakes to a dimly lit room, feeling processing faster than sight. It’s cold and his body, especially his head, throbs and aches. He shivers, hissing at the pain the movement elicits. Hands curl into fists and muscles scream at the tension, but it minimizes the motion.
After awhile, he finds that his body has become more accustomed to the chill. There’s still the involuntary shudders, the longing for warmth, but he allows his fatigued muscles some rest, focuses instead on the way the springs of the mattress are digging into his back.
It’s nothing he’s not used to. He hasn’t had a decent bed since- no. He shakes his head. It’s best not to remember.
His eyes settle on the ceiling, trying to make out the lines of stone, when suddenly the sound of footsteps catches his ears. The pattern of the footfall...was familiar. He frowns.
Jesse tries to sit up, arms shaking with the strain, shoulder shooting pain like a lightning striking. The world spins, black dots consuming his vision. He forgets to breathe.
A hand pushes against his chest, gently. It takes him several seconds to process that he’s laying down, again.
“Wha-”
“Shhh, Jessito,” a gravelly, yet tender voice speaks from the darkness. “I’m here.”
Jesse furrows his brows, confused. He has to be dreaming, because the only person who ever called him that was-
“G-Gabe?”
He tries to twist back up, but the hand pushes, again- firmer this time.
“Settle down. You’re in no condition to be moving right now.”
He registers the familiar rough fabric of a glove brushing against his cheek, and the tickling of a sleeve, much softer, like velvet. He can’t help but lean into it. It’s been a long time since anyone’s gotten close enough to touch him, especially like this, even in his dreams.
“You trespassed onto the Witch’s land,” the voice says. “I found you unconscious in the forest. The blood,” the form gestures, ”is what made me discover you. Someone hit you pretty damn hard, hunter. But they must not have wanted you dead.” The thumb brushes lightly, and Jesse winces as it makes contact with a fresh bruise. “I’m glad,”
“Gabe...is it really you?” Jesse peers up at the shape.
The figure moves, and the light finally hits just right. He widens his eyes.
“It is. Though...I no longer go by that name.”
“What...,” he swallows. “What happened? I thought- this ain’t a dream, is it?”
Reaper shakes his head. “Not a dream. A nightmare perhaps. But not one any of us can wake from.”
There’s a sigh, and then Reaper is looking off, staring at the wall, a frown plastered on his face.
“I’m not sure what exactly happened, after we got separated on that mission. I just remember...dirt. So much of it. I clawed my way out. Never thought I’d reach the surface. When I finally made it, the world was too bright, too much. It hurt. And then...,” he swallows, and even in the dark Jesse can make out the way his hand trembles.
“They were on me. I was too weak, too overwhelmed to fight. They brought me here, to this castle, and the Witch...she made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.”
Eyes, now red, instead of the warm brown he was used to, gaze into his own.
“I wanted to go find you so badly. But it took me so long to learn to control my...urges. I didn’t want to hurt you, mi amor.” A hand reaches out, again, brushing lightly. “And I didn’t want them to hurt you, either.”
Jesse can feel the contained rage, can sense it in the tension of the hand against his skin. He reaches up, gently captures it in his own, rubs his thumb against the gloved fingers in reassurance, and hopes that is enough as he listens.
It must be, because he feels the way he seems to soften, again.
“So I kept my distance, kept track of you for years. You’ve made me proud, Jesse,” Reaper smiles. And Jesse can feel the tears prickling. He blinks to keep them back, but even through his blurred vision, he can tell Reaper’s eyes mirror his own.
“I thank G-,” he chokes, tightens a fist. And then Jesse’s latching onto his arm, dragging the vampire down until his head is pressed against his aching chest. He combs through the hair, grown-out longer than he ever remembers it being, and feels the way the man he loved, usually so strong and composed, trembles against him.
“Shhh, pumpkin. I know.” He closes his eyes, continues the soothing motion, then lets out a soft chuckle as he thinks. “You know, I could do without these injuries and all, but I’m glad it brought me back to you. It’s funny how fate works, but after all these years, I’ve finally found my way back home.”
"Mmm I have to agree with that sentiment.”
They lay in silence for several minutes, Reaper’s ear pressed to his heart, like he used to do, when they shared the same bed. When they shared a life together.
Jesse is the one to break the silence, to shatter the found moment, so much like a long-lost memory. “Do they know I’m here?”
Reaper tenses, then shakes his head. “Not yet. But I can’t keep your presence hidden forever. As soon as you are well, you’ll need to-”
“No. I ain’t leaving without you.”
Reaper sighs. There’s the stubborn hunter he’d fallen for.
“Jesse, I can’t. I can’t just-”
“We’ll find a way. I ain’t givin’ up on you, and I ain’t lettin’ you go when I just got you back, you hear? Besides,” he says, “I know you’d do the same for me.”
Reaper raises his head and looks him dead in the eye. “You may be right. But we better come up with one damn good plan. We only have one chance at this.”
The corner of Jesse’s mouth quirks up. “Well, it’s a good thing I have the world’s best tactician at hand. But before we get to all that brainstormin’, you happen to have a smoke anywhere, sweetpea?”
Reaper smiles, hesitating for just a second before pressing a kiss to the man's cheek. “Stay put. I still have the last pack you gave me back in my quarters.”
He gently and half-reluctantly pushes himself up and away, and Jesse watches, as much as the darkness allows, as the man he loves slips away. This time, he hopes, only for a few minutes.
‘Lord,’ he silently prays, for the first time in so many years, ‘if this is a dream, let me never wake up. Let me never leave his side, again.’
I don't know why, but I have severe anxiety surrounding the thought of war. Thinking of it puts me into panic mode, and hearing rumbling or my phone's emergency texts makes me feel like the world is ending. I don't know why, it's not the thought of death, more so the thought of never seeing my girlfriend again or accomplishing anything. Is there something I could do? Please tag as Sapph if you can.
Hi Sapph,
I’m really sorry that you are suffering with anxiety, specifically surrounding war and conflict. Unfortunately, it is a very real concern that we are all facing right now, but once the concern turns into an issue which affects your daily life, which it sounds like yours does, this is definitely an anxiety issue which may need further investigation and treatment. Hopefully I’ll be able to give you a little advice about how to start dealing with this <3
I am not a professional, so cannot diagnose you are tell you an exact treatment that would work for you, anything I say is coming from personal experience and/or opinion. Saying that, the first thing that came to mind when I read your ask was Traumatophobia - this is quite simply the fear of war. A phobia is a type of anxiety disorder which causes an intense fear, usually of something irrational. Severe and extreme phobias can cause a lot of disruption to people’s day to day lives as the day is taking over by avoiding things which trigger the phobia, and preparing for the worst case scenario. This is something that I suggest you do a little more research into, does this sounds like something you may be dealing with?
However, the thoughts of not seeing your girlfriend again, and the fear of not achieving anything, are really common symptoms of anxiety disorders as a whole. I deal with both of these concerns quite a lot with my anxiety, but something I have started to try and do, as cliche as it sounds, is to just take each day as it comes, and appreciate whatever the day brings. Everyday you get to see your girlfriend, cherish the time you have together and all the memories you have; and everyday, by just making it through another day, you are achieving so much! Maybe not big dreams or plans you have, but they often don’t happen overnight, so I’ve come to accept that every day I am closer to achieving a big dream so therefore I am achieving something by definition. Does this make sense?
If your anxieties are causing you serious concerns, I would really recommend going and talking to a therapist about them - I think a therapist would be a good place to start as they would be able to help you understand the root of the fear you have, and hopefully give you some good coping mechanisms. If therapy is not effective alone and your anxiety continues to have a large impact on your life, then you can go to your doctor - your doctor could offer you referrals to mental health professionals, and/or treatment such as medication. I am linking our page about getting help here.
In addition to professional help, there are a few techniques you can practise yourself to help you control and reduce your anxiety. I suggest you have a look at our anxiety page series, specifically the self-help and calming down pages; some of the information on here might be really useful to you when your anxiety is getting bad and you find your thoughts starting to spiral out of control. I also think grounding techniques might be good for you, for when something triggers a thought of war and your thoughts then start taking you out of reality and into a state of panic. A technique I find particularly helpful is to describe your environment in detail, using all your senses - for example, “The walls are white; the settee is made of leather; I can smell a candle burning…” Describe objects, sounds, textures, colours, smells, anything that you can until you find your mind has been taken away from the bad thoughts and brought back to reality. A physical technique is to run your hands under ice cold water. We have a page of grounding techniques here.
Again, I am really sorry that you are dealing with this, lovely, but I hope some of the advice here will be at least a little use to you. Please know that you are not alone, and do not have to suffer with this in isolation - you can get help and find ways to reduce the impact this anxiety has on you. Please take care <3
I......am nervous about posting this, but this’ll have to do.
Also, McCree’s in his early 20s here, for clarification.
(Also on AO3.)
Gabe looks up from his stitching when he hears the boots approaching. He knows who it is by the jingle that carries on the air.
“Hey, Jesse. Enjoying your day of rest?”
McCree stands before him, rubbing the back of his head, eyeing the wound uneasily. “I’d rather be out there working, Sir. You know that.”
“I know. Every man needs to take a break, though. Don’t want you burning yourselves out.” He winces as he tugs on the thread, nearly finished.
“Uh, Ga- Sir, I reckon you oughta-”
“It’s fine. I’ll be okay.” He ties it off quickly, the ache tolerable. “There. Done with that.”
He makes a grab for the bandages, but McCree steps forward, intercepts.
“Let me do it.”
“If you want to. You don’t have to, though. There’s no obligation. I can do it myself.”
“I don’t doubt that, but I want to do what I can.”
“Okay.” He moves his arms out of the way to give McCree access.
He knows how badly the young man feels the need to prove himself, to feel that he is of use. It was ingrained into Jesse in his youth, in his Deadlock days, that he could not be a burden to others and that it was in his own best interest to make sure those on top were satisfied with his work, with him.
Gabe’s tried to reassure him with words that it’s not necessary, that he doesn’t need to go out of his way for him, that everything’s not a test. Jesse means far more to him than the young man’s skill or what he’s willing to sacrifice or do for him, for this organization. His dedication is admirable, but he likes to stress to Jesse that he has choices, has a voice, just like everyone else.
He thinks they’ve made some progress over the years, but he knows it will take time (if ever) to get Jesse completely to the point where he feels secure with where he’s at. For now he lets Jesse do what makes him comfortable and makes sure he always can back out or speak up.
He’s broken from his thoughts with a question. He can hear the anxiety in the voice.
“Did you, did you sterilize this proper?” McCree asks, gesturing at the wound,”Maybe we should-”
“Jesse. I’ve been around and injured enough to at least know how to administer basic treatment. I told you, there’s no reason to worry, okay? If it makes you feel any better, I promise I’ll go to Angela if something seems off.”
He hesitantly nods. “Yes, Sir.”
The bandages are rough in Jesse’s hands as he presses them against the bruised skin. Gabe winces, but remains still, patiently waiting as Jesse begins wrapping his abdomen with trembling fingers.
“You know,” he says, after a few seconds, “you don’t need to call me ‘Sir’ when we’re alone, right?”
Jesse looks up briefly, catches the soft, reassuring smile. He nods, again, continuing to wind the cloth around him. “Too tight, Gabe?”
There’s a sense of relief in hearing his name, titles dropped. “No. That’s good.”
With the bandages in place, Jesse feels around for a safety pin. Finding one, he carefully secures the bandages in place.
“There, good as new. Thank you for your help, Jess.”
Gabe reaches into his locker for a clean shirt, pulls it on carefully. As he finishes adjusting it, McCree hands him his hoodie. “Thank you,” he says as he takes it.
“It’s no problem, darlin’.”
While he pulls it on, Jesse stuffs the supplies back into the locker. The door shuts with a clang and a click.
“Hey, If you could keep this whole injury thing just between us, it’d be much appreciated. I respect if you feel the need to do otherwise, but I just think there’s no reason to make people worry over nothing. And you know Angela will be on my ass if she finds out I didn’t head straight for the medbay.”
Jesse laughs. “That sounds about right. But sure thing. You’ll make good on your promise, right?”
Gabe smiles and leans in close to kiss his cheek. “Of course. Never been a promise I haven’t kept. I don’t intend on starting now..” He cups Jesse’s cheek, thumb rubbing slowly, tenderly. “That ease your worries a little?”
He receives a peck on the lips and a grin. “I reckon that’ll have to do for now. We still on for tonight?”
“Pigging out on popcorn and watching movies 'til dawn- wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
“I’ll be sure to sneak us some beers, too. Maybe some of those candies you like so much, too. Still got a few left.”
“Mmmm, that sounds good. But, as much as I’d like to stay and talk over our fine, nutritious meal, I do have a debriefing to get to. Morrison’s probably on the edge of his seat by now.”
“I reckon he can wait a few more minutes. One more kiss for the road...sweet pea?” There’s a boldness there, and Gabe can’t help but love the look in his eyes.
He pulls him forward, careful to keep a small amount of space between the man and his own injury. Their mouths work against eachother, hungry and eager, like it's been an eternity instead of a day.
They reluctantly separate for breath.
Gabe’s hands fall away. “I’ll head back to my room after the meeting. Shouldn’t take too long.”
“i can’t see!! what’s happening to me?” for the prompt thing ♥
A/N: (For the Hurt Meme.)
TY!
I'm thinking of probably continuing this at some point, b/c I had some ideas. If so, I’ll tag you in those posts, in case you wanted to read the follow-up.
(Also posted on AO3.)
The arrows fly with speed and precision, hitting their marks before bullets have time to fly his way. He focuses on the area in front of him, McCree at his back, the sound of gunshots piercing his ears.
He ignores it and concentrates on the task at hand, the wave of enemies becoming smaller and smaller.
He’s drawing back another arrow, about to let it fly when he hears a startled, pained shout, followed by a series of gun blasts.
He takes out the man he’s aiming at, then whirls around.
McCree’s on the ground, Peacekeeper at his side and his head absent of his signature hat. Hanzo watches as he pulls a dart from his arm, tosses it to the side as he winces and pants, body collapsing.
He watches the man try to push himself back up, arms once more giving out. He lays still, chest rising and falling. His face shifts from a display of pain to confusion.
“Darlin’, Han, I- I can’t see. What’s happenin’ to me?”
He can sense the rising distress in the cowboy, the way it flickers through his features. And he has every right to be afraid, because, much to Hanzo’s horror, the lacerations along the man’s arm and face are beginning to emit smoke.
Hanzo glances around, quickly checking their surroundings for would-be attackers. Seeing none, he moves toward his partner, kneeling by his side with his bow still clutched tightly in hand, ready to use at a moment’s notice. He spares no time in paging for a medic, then focuses his attention on Jesse.
“McCree, be still.” The words come out harsher than he means and he internally berates himself as he changes his tone. “Do not move. You will be fine.”
The injured man stops his attempt at uncoordinated movements and gazes up at the sky.
“H-Han, somethin’- somethin’s wrong. My arm don’t feel right.”
The way Jesse’s voice trembles around the words, around the nickname, sends a surge of panic through him. The man’s eyes blink slowly, dazed and unfocused. There’s a slight shaking in his limbs as the plume of smoke, dark as a night sky obscured by storm, grows and curls into the air.
Admittedly, he feels more than uneasy over the idea of touching him while he’s in this state. (He’s not really much for physical contact regardless, but...as much as he hated to admit it, the man and his ways had begun to grow on him over the months.) He forces himself to grab onto McCree’s hand, squeezing the metal gently, but firmly, enough so the sensation would register..
He could allow him this small comfort.
“It will be fine. The doctor will be here soon.” He eyes the dart by Jesse’s side. He scoops it up, examines it.
He’s seen poison darts before, but nothing about this screams a content he is familiar with. What could make a human smoke like this?
“Hanzo.” He flicks his eyes back up to the man’s face, the hand clutching his like a lifeline. “I’m sorry that I-”
“Hush. Hush, McCree.” He stares down at him, thankful that the man cannot see the look on his face, the utter concern and fear that must be screaming in his eyes.
“You have no need to apologize.” He should be the one apologizing. He hadn’t protected him well enough, had allowed the enemy to sneak up on them and attack.
He curses himself for this display of weakness. Curses himself more for allowing this man past his walls. Especially so soon.
He does not know how he allowed it to happen. Much like this attack, it seemed to occur without warning, taking over before he could stop it.
He does not understand. But he knows, now more than ever, that he cannot afford to lose this man.
“Han-” The voice tears him from thought.
“Shhh. Be quiet for once.”
A light smile graces the cowboy’s face and Hanzo feels the slight pressure, almost ticklish, of a thumb brushing his hand. “Sure thing, Sweetpea.”
They fall into silence. A breeze blows, cool against their burning skin, hot from action and injury and the beating sun. In the distance is the echo of gunfire and turrets.
After awhile there is the sound of something landing on the roof.
Hanzo quickly yanks his hand from McCree’s grasp, turns, grabbing his bow and readying himself.
He lowers it slightly when he catches sight of the outstretched wings, anxiety twisting for a moment into relief, and then back again.
“The doctor has arrived.”
He moves away from the cowboy, giving Mercy room to work. He nears the edge of the roof, looks out at their surroundings.
In the background he can hear McCree trying to lighten the mood with his words, can hear the hum of the doctor’s staff.
He looks out and tries to distract himself from the memory- the shock and dread written on her face. The look in her eyes that told him that she had seen this before, that the scene before her was like a ghost from the past coming back to haunt.
He grits his teeth, aims his arrow to the ground below, and tries not to think about anything but his motions and the mission as the arrowhead pierces into another skull.
It's ok to hurt and breakdown. You don't have to be strong all the time.....with REAPER76 😉 AND if your feeling brave mchanzo too lol
A/N: (For the Hurt Meme.)
TY!
I’m gonna do one w/ Gabe comforting Jack, too, but I don’t know when I’ll be able to get around to it. I’ll do the McHanzo one, too, at some point.
(Also on AO3.)
The door slams loudly shut and Jack flinches as he jerks his head up.
Gabe’s leaning against the door to his office, slumping forward, his gloved hand rubbing wearily at his face. Dried blood covers his clothes and chestplate; flecks of it are still splattered on his face.
Jack sets his tablet down, quickly jumping up and moving towards him, worry flooding his system.
“Gabe…..”
There’s a quiet, exhausted sound in response. Nothing more.
He frantically, but carefully checks for wounds, removing the chestplate. To his relief, the worst of the injuries appear to be minor lacerations, all of which were no longer bleeding.
And while he’s glad, the amount of blood on his clothing has him concerned. Just how many people did he have to kill this time? How many men did he lose? How bad had it been?
He grasps his husband’s head in his hands, tilting it up so the man looks at him.
“Gabe, are you okay?”
A hand reaches up to cup one of his own.
“You worry too much.”
There is no smile, no teasing names. Just a look of pure exhaustion and something else that he can’t quite put a name to, but he knows. He can feel it deep down and it makes his heart ache.
He takes his hands away, Gabe’s hand weakly dropping to his side. He pulls the man close, holding him firmly, but trying not to press too hard. Not until he has time to properly check for any more injuries.
Gabriel doesn’t protest. He allows himself to sink into the warmth of the embrace, though it only partially reaches him. He still feels miles away.
He vaguely feels Jack’s hand rubbing his back in what registers as a soothing manner. He takes a deep, shuddering breath, buries his head in husband’s shoulder. He doesn’t want to think right now, doesn’t want to remember.
“What can I do?”
“There’s nothing you can do now,” Gabe mumbles, closing his eyes.
“I’m sorry.” The words are whispered in his ear as he’s pulled closer. “I’m sorry. I should have been there. I should have been by your side.”.
He swallows the lump in his throat, tries to keep his voice steady. “It would have changed nothing.”
He doesn’t want to think about it. He doesn’t want to talk about it. He doesn’t want to acknowledge how draining this job can be. That lately he has spent more time apart from Jack than with him. He doesn’t want to think about how heavily this job weighs on him, how the blood can never be washed away, how he can never find rest.
Most of all, he doesn’t want to burden Jack. He knows the man carries more burdens than he can bear- and in the spotlight no less.
He clenches and unclenches the fabric of Jack’s jacket in his hand and he feels Jack’s own hand continue its’ gentle ministrations. He swallows, again, his throat and chest uncomfortably tight.
He has the sudden urge to flee, but he forces himself not to push the man away. He tightens his grip on the jacket and feels Jack awkwardly quirk his head to kiss the side of his own.
“Gabe, mi sol, you know that it’s okay to hurt and breakdown. You don’t have to be strong all the time.” There’s another soft kiss. “I’m here now. I’ve got you.”
It takes him a few seconds to reply as he tries to keep himself together.
“We don’t have time to breakdown, Jack. We’re leaders.”
“We may be leaders, but we’re only human, Gabe. You can’t leave this all pent up.”
“You’re one to talk.”
Jack gives a weak smile, pulling away, out of the embrace. “I know. I know it’s hard. But I have your back, Gabe.” He gently kisses his lips. “I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
Jack suddenly pulls away walking over to the light and flicking it off. He moves back to Gabe, taking his hand.
“Let’s turn in for the night. The reports can wait until tomorrow.”
Gabriel’s eyes widen and for a second he’s almost smiling.
“Jack Morrison putting off paperwork? Call the press!”
Jack chuckles, slinging his arm around him and pulling him close. He kisses his cheek.
“I meant what I said, Gabe. I’m here for you. We’re going to get you cleaned up and then we’ll rest. And then, when you’re ready, we’ll talk.”
Jack feels his husband lean into him. “What did I do to deserve you, Jackie?”
He smiles. “I wonder what I did to deserve you, too.”
“Te amaré para siempre, mi luna. ”
“Siempre te amaré también, querido.”
They walk together in silence, back to their shared room.
For now they have eachother. Everything else can wait.
