Serial Madness

• *someone says something* “what?” *repeats themselves* “sorry?” *repeats themselves again* “pardon?”

•"hey, y'see the red thing at the top of the shelf, will you get it?“ “Sorry, what?” “On the sh-” “oh yeah sure, I’ll get it.”

•*doesn’t hear teacher because someone’s pen is making a scratchy sound at the back of the room*

•*replays video 10 ten times to figure out what they’re saying*

•teachers asking, “why do you always stop writing in the middle of a sentence, just write down whatever I’m saying,” followed by the response, “I’m just processing it,” rebuked by, “we’ll stop processing it and just write.”

wanting to chime in on other people’s conversations all the time, but don’t, because you’re not suppose to be “listening” to them.

being the only person in the house that can hear that awful buzzing sound certain electronics make

hiding in your room because everything is too loud. 

motorcycles were invented by satan

being told that you have dog-like hearing by friends and family

Forgetting how to think because ambient noise is drowning out your internal monologue. 

“No, I don’t need the volume up, I’d just really like to put on subtitles. No, I don’t need to move closer, I just…”

Leaving the room whenever someone starts talking on the phone. 

Pausing your video whenever someone starts talking but trying really really hard not to seem passive aggressive about it. 

not being able to handle the little keyboard sounds as your mom types a text from across the room, but when you ask your mom (who is a quadruple texter) to put her phone on silent you get a murderous look, like you’ve asked her to kill her cat.

turning on ambient noises and trying to relax, only to end up turning it off because it’s not actually helping you fall asleep.

“the speakers are making this high pitched noise”

“what the hell are you talking about?”

“THE SPEAKERS ARE PRACTICALLY SCREAMING HOW DO YOU NOT HEAR THAT??”

Seriously. We also had a clock in another room I wanted to murder cause I could hear the tick-tick-tick as I was trying to sleep. No one else could hear it. But it was a murder including sound.

11:45:

They had just enough time to make it onto the platform, get their trunks loaded, and say their goodbyes. Molly ushered them all along, wishing that she could just Apparate them all onto the train and be done with it. There was too much to do, too much to say, too m—

All at once, she screeched to a halt. Percy crashed into her, causing the twins to snicker.

A tiny boy was being crossly turned away by a security guard. A boy whose ribs poked through his baggy shirt, whose glasses were broken, whose jaw was trembling as he tried to find his way. Well, surely she could be the person to guide him there? And did he…? Yes! He had an owl! He was one of them!

The poor child; he looked so lost.

Where were his parents?

Never mind, never mind. She would see to it that he would get on the train. But she had to be careful. She couldn’t startle him. He’d run off and that would be the end of it. No, no, they had to be crafty.

11:47 AM:

“Packed with Muggles of course,” Molly said loudly, ushering her very confused children past the boy. “What’s the platform number again?”

“Nine and three quarters,” Percy said. “Mother, how could you have forg—?”

It was George who nudged him as he understood what she was doing. She had done it before, after all, and she would do it again.

Unfortunately, it didn’t work.

The boy didn’t seem to notice them.

11:48 AM:

“Packed with Muggles of course,” said Molly again, marching her children past once more. “What’s the platform number?”

“Nine and three quarters,” Fred and George screamed in unison.

And still the boy remained lost.

11:49 AM:

“Mum,” Ron panted, tripping over himself as he ran to keep up with her. “Slow down!”

Molly ignored him as she practically flew past the poor boy. “Packed with Muggles of course! Now, what’s the platform number?”

“Nine and three quarters,” Ron bellowed.

11:50 AM:

Molly honestly didn’t care if her entire family missed the train and she had to set off across the UK herself like a mother leading a flock of ducklings: she was going to help this boy onto the bloody train.

She marched past him with a fiery determination and said, “Packed with Muggles of course!”

The boy looked up.

Yes! Okay, this was it, this was it, this was it. Play it cool. He was following them. Listening. Pretending not to.

They stopped.

“Now,” Molly said. “What’s the platform number?”

“Nine and three quarters,” piped Ginny.

Victory!

The next nine minutes were a whirlwind of chaos but they managed to get the boy through the barrier. At Molly’s insistence, Fred and George popped up and helped him get his trunk into the compartment. She handed Ron an extra sandwich and muttered, “Tell him that everywhere else was full.”

He dutifully nodded.

As the train took off, she waved to her children, including her newest one.

E.D.S.

Woke up an hour later with my heart racing, whole body shaking, muscles incredibly tense, dizziness, coughing, and panic.

It got worse on the way to the ER and while there I could barely walk and I was crying all over everything and my blood pressure was dangerously high.

THAT EXPLAINS SO MANY THINGS

Being chronically ill is having literally every breath you take scrutinized. You’re smiling, laughing, getting around okay, maybe even jump or dance: “It can’t be that bad, you look fine!” You are stuck in bed from the pain, illness, & fatigue: “Just try harder, make an EFFORT”

Ya know what, folks? Just let chronically ill people survive their daily lives in the best way they know how. You are not in their body, you will NEVER know how hard they push themselves; how every joy, every physical action was fought for, how LOW every low actually is.

Because of internalized ableism we rarely, if EVER, show people our lowest lows. There’s an added pressure to be presentable, to blend in, to do things as independently as possible so we don’t feel like “burdens” or “buzzkills” to those around us!

Trust chronically ill people when they tell you their limits, they don’t need to “make an effort” they NEED a break, They’re putting their best efforts every day of their lives and it goes completely unacknowledged.

Chronic illness is a full-time job on its own:  

-Researching your illness -Organizing data -Arranging doctor’s appointment -Emotional/physical labor of said doctor’s appointments -Experimenting with treatments -Pushing through symptoms to continue daily life  If you’re LUCKY your doctor isn’t an obstacle in regards to attaining your diagnosis or treatment, If you’re **lucky** MONEY isn’t an obstacle in regards to attaining your diagnosis or treatment.

Chronically ill people are fighting for themselves EVERY DAY; even those with an episodic chronic illness that impacts their lives rarely and on occasion, they’re metaphorically and constantly walking on a tightrope, avoiding triggers, anxiously waiting for the next episode.

So next time you’re puzzled about how a chronically ill person is doing any particular activity or maybe you think that they’re only sick because they’re not trying hard enough… worry about yourself instead.

You don’t know their body, you are not in their body, you don’t know what it feels like, you DO NOT get to make that call.

Kylo: kill him

Rey: no

Kylo, softer: i kill him for you?