#depression ts

129 dollars for a month's worth of a generic fucking medication I can't function without!

Luckily the pharmacist told me about GoodRX and it should be more like $30 with that, but Jesus the cost of trying to take care of yourself in this country is disgusting.

Like, I know people with other chronic conditions pay far more than 129 a month, I really feel for them. When you know what minimum wage is (I'm lucky to make above that,) and people are out there trying to survive. The healthcare plans on healthcare.gov are pretty expensive even with tax credits for lower income people.

I better not go into a full rant with this, suffice it to say I am very lucky to have had healthcare under my stepfather's job until now, and to be getting employer paid healthcare soon.

@skeleton-richard 

When Bushy wakes up it’s bright, but grey; the branches on the trees outside his window are being shaken about by the rushing wind. 

He rolls over and hides his face in the pillow, pulling the cover over his head. It’s warm and cozy in bed, and he has no intention of getting out of it, ever. There’s nothing else he cared to do today. Normally the prospect of a day of lounging around, maybe going riding, or whatever took the King’s fancy- normally the prospect of any day whatsoever- fills him with joy and excitement. But some days...and today is one of them. He fully intends to spend the rest of the day hiding from the world. Maybe the rest of the week. Or...month. However long this mood lasts.

Of course, that’s not his decision to make. Nothing that goes on  in his life is really his decision, and Bagot and Green burst in to his room not twenty minutes later, dragging him out of bed with cries of “ C’mon sleepyhead’ and “The King wants us!” and Bushy feels like smacking the pair of them. He doesn’t, though. He acts out the part they've assumed for him, yawning and grumbling as he tries to snatch the covers back, making them laugh, which is good, he supposes. He gets dressed, splashes a bit of water on his face, and tries to look cheerful because it’s clear from the moment he lays eyes on Richard that the King is not in a very good mood. He’s smiling, but it’s the sharp, bitter kind of smile he gets when he’s angry at everyone and everything just for existing, and the rest of them had better suck it up and try and seem happy because any slight aggravation could be the spark that sets off an explosion, and when  he’s nothing infuriates the King more than someone else having a bad day at the same time as him.

This is the thing: Bushy loves his King. He loves Richard. Richard doesn’t love him back, not in the same way, but that’s alright- Richard cares for him, and Green, and Bagot, in his own way, and that’s enough  Richard is...Richard is...

Richard is Richard. Usually, that’s a wonderful thing, but today is one of the days that Richard being Richard means that he’s difficult, acerbic, on the verge of being cruel. Or slightly over the verge of being cruel. He won’t settle on anything- he gives orders to saddle the horses and then demands to know why anyone thought he’d want to go riding in such sweltering weather, wilfully ignoring the fact he’s been complaining of being cold and has a shawl wrapped around the shoulders.; he barely picks at the food he sends for, and nobody can do anything right. Least of all Bushy. It seems that he’s not doing as good a job at pretending to be happy as he thought he was because the King suddenly whirls around and snaps: “And what’s wrong with you, anyway?”

“Nothing, your majesty?” Bushy tries to reassure him, only it comes out as more of a question and Richard’s eyes flash.

“Well cheer up then,” he says caustically. “Or get out.” And because Bushy’s feeling down anyway, the words cut straight through him; his eyes widen and his lower lip wobbles treacherously as he tries not to burst in to tears. “Get out,” Richard says again, “You’re of no use to us in this state, get out!”

Bushy flees.

He spends the rest of the day curled up in his favourite alcove in the King’ s walled garden (The one where the King first kissed him, chastely enough for sure, but a kiss on the lips none the less, sweet and gentle and everything Bushy had thought it might be like to kiss the pretty King, and more.) He’s got a bottle of wine with him, and he’s downed most of it before he realises that it’s growing dark, and he really ought to think about going back inside. It’s not as straightforward as it sounds, given that he can't walk in a straight line, and he’s still miserable, and he doesn’t know how he ended up sitting on the corridor floor sobbing but that’s where he is when the Duke of Rutland finds him. 

Here’s the thing: It’s clear that Rutland loves the King, and it’s equally clear he doesn’t like sharing. Not that Edward is getting to share Richard, exactly,  - or if he is, they’re far more discreet than Bushy thought the King capable of being- but that’s probably part of the problem, as far as Rutland and him not liking Bushy, and Bagot and Green is concerned. Which is why he slurs out “Why are you helping me?” when he means to say: “thanks for picking me up and half carrying me, half dragging me back to my room, and now helping me get undressed so I can go to bed and hopefully not through up all over my brand new clothes.” 

Rutland half shrugs. “I heard you were upset, I wanted to make sure you were alright,” he says. Then, grudgingly, “I sort of like you. I might even vaguely consider you a friend, just on the basis that you don’t stick your tongue down my cousin’s throat just to wind me up like some people.” 

“Bagot,” Bushy says, giggling a little. “Says Richard kisses better with an audience. I think he’s loopy, Richard’s always best at kissing...” he trails off, sniffling suddenly. “King’s cross with me,” he says, “Love him. Doesn’t love me back though. Only wants me around to be happy, no use otherwise, said so.”

“Did he now?” Rutland says softly. He wasn’t there, earlier, and Bushy nods.

“No use,” he confirms, falling back against the pillows. “No use to him. Not a proper nobleman, can’t get him- armies- and shit, if he might need...just, like a, like a puppy, think we’re all just like puppies to him. Cute and nice for petting, but not- not proper people...y’know? Just. Interesting and mildly amusing...” he doesn’t know where he’s coming from, with this, just that he’s drunk, and miserable, and it’s difficult to understand why the King bothers with him, sometimes, and he sometimes he thinks that might be it. They're amusements. Distractions. Because Richard is Richard and he doesn’t need them, he doesn’t really need any of them.  Rutland brushes his fingers through Bushy’s hair. 

“You just wait here,” he says softly. 

Bushy’s dozing when there’s a dip in the mattress and a pull on the covers, and he opens his eyes to frown in bleary confusion as the King slips in to bed next to him and wraps an arm around him. “Majesty?” he slurs. 

“Hello darling.”

“What you doing?” Bushy asks, snuggling up to him. There’s a short pause, and then Richard says:

“Apologizing.”

“‘pologizing?”

Richard presses his lips to Bushy’s hair. “You’re our friend,” he says softly. “We know that we are not...always...easy...but we...We are not ourselves today, we are not- well. We spoke in a manner which we ought not to have done, and which we regret.” Richard bends down and kisses Bushy on the mouth. His hair falls about Bushy’s face. It tickles. It’s nice.

“Now,” Richard says, breaking for air. “What was the matter with you, darling?” He strokes Bushy’s face. 

Bushy shrugs. “Just down. Sad. No real reason.”

“Ah,” Richard says softly. “I understand.” He wraps his arms around him. “We’ll take care of you, darling,” he says, “Everything’s going to be alright.” 

Bushy opens his eyes. He didn’t realise that he’d closed them, but he has, and now he opens them. He wants to say thank-you, but once again it comes out wrong- this time as- “Don’t stay here, drunk- might be sick on you.” his eyes close again, the room spinning slightly, but he can imagine the way the king’s nose is wrinkling briefly in distaste, just like he’s tensing slightly before settling down. 

“That’s alright,” he says, “We won’t mind- we can make sure you don’t choke.” he says it with such lack of conviction that Bushy almost smiles. 

But I’m not going to Facebook-curate this shit. I’m sad, mate. I’m probably S.A.D. to be honest, like, ‘lookit bitch! It’s Fall, for the first time in 10 years! Can you handle it?’(spoilers: maybe not?) IDEK where I was going with this. Yeah it would be nice if my text posts were more balanced, like ‘OH, today i smelled a daisy and jumped in a lake! shit was terrific’ but when I’ve had a good day I just enjoy it and then roll into bed. But for some reason me posting that I’m sad helps me manage the feeling? And after all it’s my blog so I’ll just do it. 

And that’s what hurts the most about getting told that I’m just not trying enough or that I’m being lazy when depression stops me from doing things.