Ryan Guijarro

✦ Ryan is Mexican-American, born and raised in Texas!

✦ She attended UT Austin for her undergraduate career and Columbia University for her medical degree!

✦ Ryan is bilingual in English and Spanish!

✦ Her birthdate is 11/14, she is currently 27!

✦ She is a first year resident looking to specialize in orthopedics!

✦ Ryan was born with an extra finger and had it amputated at a young age, sparking her interest in bones!

✦ She is looking to do research on orthopedic abnormalities with an emphasis on South America!

✦ Horror fanatic!

More headcanons to be posted.

Mod is 19! All NSFW content follows a strict closed door policy and to be 18+.

Wednesday, 7PM. Ryan's day off. All this free time.

Maybe spent resting? Catching a movie? Grabbing dinner with friends?

No. None of that, actually. Wednesday evenings were reserved for sitting in an empty community college classroom with strangers forty-five minutes outside of Pittsburgh.

The fluorescent lighting is harsh, unforgiving. Ryan's nose crinkles at the mild, but present, stench of bleach and stuffiness. She grips a cup of lukewarm coffee, leg bouncing uncontrollably. Outside, a piece of paper on the door, held up by flimsy tape, reads 'Depression and Bipolar Support Alliance'.

She's doing her best to listen to the woman speaking. Maria, and when she realized she hit rock bottom.

Fuck. Or was it Melissa?

A tinge of guilt seeps into Ryan. She should've been listening, that was the whole point of this. To hear people's stories, to know you're not alone.

Yet, despite the circle of bodies, she feels outside of herself. Maybe this type of thing wasn't for her. Support groups, group therapy, whatever you wanted to call it. Maybe this was a bad idea.

Engrossed by her thoughts, Ryan hardly notices people staring at her until she looks up.

"Hi, friend. It's your turn to share," Maria/Melissa says.

The cup of coffee almost slips out of her hand. Is it too late to leave?

"Oh." Ryan feels a lump in her throat. People are looking at her. Waiting for her. Fuck.

Setting the cup down besides her chair, she clears her throat to get rid of the lump. Still there.

"Uh," Ryan rests a hand on her bouncing leg to stop it. That doesn't work either. "Rock bottom, for me, was last week. After that, I started looking for things like this."

Empathetic nods. Keep going, she guesses.

"I, uh, struggle with my moods a lot. I'm either way up or so unbelievably low. And when I get like that, I just have the urge to leave. This need to suddenly be so far away from where I'm currently at. A-and then I do go and I never want to stop. Like it was an addiction."

Her hands feel clammy but cold. There's no direct eye contact. She's somewhere between the floor and the broken clock on the wall.

"Um, last week, I went to Texas and - I'm originally from Texas, rural Texas - I made stupid choices. I left Pennsylvania at two in the morning and just kept driving. I went to my childhood home, which is never a good idea, right?"

Bitter and sympathetic laughs scatter around the room.

"The night before, I had gone drinking at some bar near the motel I was staying at. I went alone, because that's all I had. Myself. But, I met some people. I met some guys. We drank together." Her gaze fixates on the ground.

"It was just, y'know, drink after drink. Shot after shot. I remember how the whiskey in my mouth tasted, and how the music sounded, and how my clothes suddenly felt so tight, and how I had started feeling so tired."

Pause.

"And then I stop remembering after that. It just....it kind of just goes dark. The next thing I know, I wake up in some motel - and it's not the one I had been staying at. I remember, now, how fucking badly my head hurt when I woke up. I remember looking over and seeing some man sleeping there. And that I was naked."

She clears her throat. Brows furrowing.

"I-I remember looking under the sheets and I was bare. My clothes were on the ground in piles. I had these bruises? T-t-they were on my thighs and my arms. I couldn't remember how I got them - I still don't know. I also couldn't find my phone, or my keys, or my wallet. I don't know how I got there. I don't know at what point in the night I left, who I left with - I don't know anything."

Ryan glances up briefly. People are still staring at her. She looks down again.

"I got up and put my clothes on and I got the fuck out of there. I didn't really know where I was, so I just kept walking. I remember seeing a gas station a mile, maybe half a mile away? So I just, y'know, I decided to go there. And I was so fucking sweaty because July in Texas is shit."

A laugh or two.

"When I got there, I didn't really know what to do. I remember it just felt so nice to be in AC. I end up asking the cashier for a phone so I could call someone. He passes the phone over to me and I pick it up...."

Ryan can feel tears form in the corner of her eyes.

"I, uh, pick it up....just to put it back down. I didn't know who to call to get me out of my own mess. No one could undo what I already did, no one could save me from my own bullshit. And no one should have to. That's the other thing about me - I'm an asshole. A really big fucking asshole of a human being. I got so used to making my bullshit other people's bullshit. This was just another one of my milestones - to see how far I could fucking push it and not die and see how many people would just forgive me.

Normally, I'd celebrate or brag about it like a fucking idiot. But I got too close this time. Stupidly close. A-and it's not like I'm afraid of it. I'm not scared to say 'death' and see her.

But I'm just not ready yet."

Her hand moves to her face, rubbing at the soreness in her jaw from clenching.

"Sitting in that gas station with that headache and without underwear on underneath my jeans and with the fact that I couldn't remember anything from last night......I realized I needed to do something.

I needed to change. I couldn't keep doing this. I....I didn't know how much longer I'd live by being myself. For twenty-seven years, I've sort of just excused this as a fun quirk. That changing wasn't necessary if you could have a fun life. That recognizing change was also recognizing damage, and hurt, and pain, a-a-and guilt, and shame. But that realization hit that morning.

What if there wasn't going to be another morning? What if I don't wake up one day because I disappeared to another state, drank too much and went home with a strange man again?

I guess this is one of my first steps towards change. And being sober. I don't - I really don't know how to exist without pain. Or if it's even possible.