"The Cure Lies in the Curse", Equivalent Exchange PART 1

[sonjajade]

Title:The Cure Lies in the Curse
Artist/Author/Gift Granter: sonjajade
Request: evil_little_dog - ‘Ed/Winry (+Al, if you wanna include him), Post-108 but prior to Ed leaving - Getting used to Rezembool again’
Rating: T
Disclaimer: Arakawa-sensei owns all, I just play Barbies with her characters.
Notes: I wanted to convey what I always assumed would happen to Ed after they get to the hospital after the Promised Day: nervous breakdown.  I have based some of the technical stuff of things I have personally experienced (I actually went through EMDR treatment, and if anyone wants to know more about it, just message me), and with the help of a friend who worked for years in the state run long term mental heath facility, I’ve tried my best to make all of this as true to life as possible.

For the record, I began this prompt request 5 different times before I wrote something I didn’t think sounded stupid and had a good balance between the WAFF and the ‘adjustment’.  I put a ton of work into this once it finally got rolling, and I hope that this is what you were hoping for.  I’m sorry it’s so incredibly long, but once I got it up and running, I just couldn’t stop it.

Special shoutouts to my betas seatbeltdrivein  (who helped me when I derailed on Ed's character at the beginning of this approach) and bay115  (who was nice enough to read this behemoth twice).  I could not have completed this without y'alls help.

Title taken from the tagline of Mushi-Shi, fake cut takes you to my journal

WARNING: Really LOOOONNNNNG.

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March 29, 1915

Fucking white coats and their goddamned condescending “know-it-all” attitudes.  “Mr. Elric, you need to talk about how you’re feeling.” “Mr. Elric, if you can’t cooperate, we’re going to have to give you another dose of phenobarbitol.”  “Mr. Elric, if you’d just take the pills, they’ll help you feel better.”

FUCK YOU.  Actually, it’s more like FUCK ME, because when I started swinging, 3 guys about Sig Curtis’ size came in and strapped me into this fucked up jacket and tossed me into a room with no bed, just a padded floor and walls.  I don’t know why these assholes keep telling me there’s something wrong with me. The only thing that’s wrong with me is I have like 5 different doctors trying to poke pills down my throat because of ‘my feelings’.  Just make sure my arm and my brother are okay and let me go the fuck home!!

So I’m confined to a room by myself in Central Hospital’s fucking psych ward.  I wanna know who decided I needed to be in here and not Mustang or fucking Olivier Armstrong.  I’m not crazy, I just have really vivid nightmares and evidently an anger problem.  I don’t think that’s enough to lock someone up in the triple locked wing of the psych ward.

~E. E.

 

April 1, 1915

One of the dickhead doctors came in to talk with me today.  He asked me why I was putting up such a struggle with everyone, and I told him it’s because no one has told me what’s wrong with me.  If there’s nothing wrong with me, then I’m not sick, and if I’m not sick then they need to let me the fuck out of here.

He adjusted his stupid twerp glasses and said in that “know-it-all” tone of voice, “Mr. Elric, you’ve been diagnosed with post-traumatic stress syndrome, also known to some as shell shock.”  So what the hell does that mean?  “It means that you were under a tremendous amount of stress and mental agony, and now that it has lifted so suddenly, you’re having flashbacks and blackouts.”  Blackouts?  Flashbacks?  Evidently I’ve gone into fits of rage that I don’t remember, rages where I’ve attacked nurses screaming that they were really Envy, clapping my hands and reenacting certain events when I’m not even aware of it.  The nightmares are another form of flashbacks.  I hate that I’ve lost my memories, that I’m acting so weird and I don’t even have any recollection of it…  I guess that really does make me crazy then, doesn’t it.  Fuck.

So Dr. Glasses tells me if I take the pills, I’ll stop having those episodes, and I’ll feel a lot better.  I’m too young to be a pill head, I tell him.  He assures me if I do the therapy and the medication, I won’t have to take the pills forever and I’ll eventually be good as new.  Well, that’s fine and dandy, but when the fuck can I get out of this psych ward??  “Start taking the pills. As soon as the blackouts stop, we’ll put you with your brother.”

So tonight I took the pills for the first time, no phenobarbitol shots, no fucking strait jacket, no clones of Sig Curtis.  I took the damn pill and decided to stop bitching about it.  Feeling good is a good thing, right?  What can it fucking hurt?  And if it gets me back to Al, then all the better.

~E. E.

 

April 5, 1915

The stupid little pills took a little longer to work than I expected.  Evidently I wigged out twice while waiting for them to kick in, and both times I ‘came to’ strapped to my bed.  This time when Dr. Glasses came to see me, he brought me pictures of the marks I left on the orderly’s throat and face.  Looked like I tried to strangle him after practically clawing his lips off.  After I saw the pictures, I told them to do whatever it took to make me stop doing that shit to people.  What if I had done that to Al?  Shit…  I’d never be able to look at myself in the mirror again.

Had a good laugh today though.  Dr. Glasses saw this journal sitting on the bedside table (by the way, I have to write with a fucking crayon so that I can’t hurt myself or someone else… eyeroll) and he starts reading and asks me why I’m writing a book about travelling over Drachma in a hot air balloon and riding golden ponies.  I wouldn’t dare write in this book without coding every word I put to paper.  This is written in a code that not even Al knows.  These words are for me alone and whomever I decide to dictate the real story to.  Fucking pricks- they think they have the right to know EVERY SINGLE THOUGHT I HAVE, just because they’re fucking psych doctors.  I held up my end of the bargain by not fighting you idiots so hold up yours and put me with Al already.  I need to be with him right now.

Speak of the devil…  A Sig clone just told me to pack up, I’m getting out of here.

I can’t wait to start writing with a pen again.

~E. E.
 

April 9, 1915

I hadn’t seen Al in almost 2 weeks, and let me tell what a difference 2 weeks can make.  He’s put on almost 12 pounds in that time, and his face doesn’t look so sickly.  Someone must’ve come up and cut his hair for him, because it’s short and neat again.  He’s able to almost fucking walk by himself now!  When they escorted me down to our room, he was so happy to see me that he got up out of bed and hobbled to me using only one crutch.  There was a pretty nurse with him and she scolded him for moving without her help, but I could see that look in his eyes…  He hugged me and told me he missed me, and goddammit I nearly cracked.  I hate fucking crying like a little sissy.  So even though I felt those fucking little tears burning behind my eyes I held em in, because dammit I WON’T CRY. 

Anyway, once I got settled in, Dr. Glasses came in and told me right there in front of Al that my first session with him would be Tuesday, that was yesterday.  I can’t even understand how psychiatry is a legit science.  It’s all mushy stupid girly shit.  He asked me things like, “How do you feel in a typical day?” (what the hell does that mean??)   “Have you noticed anything feeling ‘off’ before?” (like being asked a ton of stupid questions by a guy with the dumbest looking pair of glasses I’ve ever seen?)  “How old were you when your mother died?” (what’s that fucking got to do with anything?)  “Have you ever taken any mind altering drugs like acid or LSD?” (do I look that stupid to you?) “What is your sexual orientation and are you sexually active?” (WHY do YOU need to know THAT??)  “What do you normally dream about?” (I haven’t had any normal dreams since before Mom died, and that was when I was a kid, what relevance does that have now??)

So I didn’t really answer anything because I kept asking him questions in response.  I kind of liked fucking with him like that.  Served him right the way he treated me the last 10 days or so.  Eventually, he said that I needed to open up if I didn’t want to be on the medication forever, that maybe I should talk to someone who’s gone through all this before so I could find out what to expect.  I wasn’t expecting him to hand me Dr. Knox’s phone number, though.  I didn’t tell him I knew the guy or anything, I just let him go on about how mental health was just as important as physical health.  “Just because you can’t see the illness doesn’t mean it’s not there”, blah blah blah.  I have to go back there again today, prepared to offer up things I really don’t want to discuss with this idiot.  I didn’t tell Al what questions he’d asked me, but Al said if I make up stupid answers, they’re likely to increase the medication, so he suggested I just bite the bullet and be honest and get it over with.  Fate sure got it wrong as to who should have been the older brother, but I’ll never tell him that.

~E. E.

 

April 11, 1915

Looks like we’re going to be here a little while longer.  Al’s been cleared for release so long as he can arrange transportation to and from a rehabilitation center, but when he explained we’re not from Central and had no where to go and no one to take him to and from, they decided to let him stay with me until I’m cleared to go home.  I don’t think I could make it in this place without him, and I couldn’t stand it if he had to go home by himself.  We made a pact that we’ll go home together, same way we left together.  And he’s already decided he wants to walk the whole way from the train station.  That’s got to be at least 3 miles.  Not such a long walk for a normal person but for someone in his state that’s like running a fucking marathon.  He had that same determined look in his eyes and I knew there would be no changing his mind on that subject.

Dr. Glasses and I did what we had to do together (damn that sounds a whole lot dirtier than I meant for it to sound) and he thinks my PTSS is bad, but not so bad that I need to be hospitalized.  He thinks that the sudden change in everything is what brought it on.  He said the severity of the situation we were dealing with (I broke down and explained everything to him, the Homunculi, Father, the country wide transmutation circle, the kidnapping and hostage situation with Winry and Lt. Hawkeye, the non-stop looking over our shoulders and fighting for our fucking lives while still trying to get our bodies back), it was at such a high level of fear and panic.  Instead of the stress being reduced gradually over time to process what was going on, all threats on all sides were gone all at once.  He explained it like this: If you fill a balloon with air until it’s so full it’s ready to pop, then you untie the end and gradually let the air out, you can use the balloon again, it’s no different than it was when you filled it.  But if you let all the air out at once, like pop it with a pin, the balloon is ruined.  He said the Promised Day was like the pin in my balloon, and when it popped, I snapped inside.  It was like I went from one state of matter to another with no transition.

I hate that he made sense, and I hate that I actually felt a little better at hearing those words from him.  I hate that I couldn’t deal with this like Al can, though Dr. Glasses (whose name I think is actually Dr. Yates) said that it’s possible Al’s just having a delayed reaction because he’s so euphoric about having his body back.  Honestly, though I’m jealous of Al’s mental clarity, I wouldn’t wish this on him.  I’m glad he’s going to be okay.  I just can’t fucking wait til I’m okay.

~E. E.
 

April 22, 1915

Dr. Yates has okayed me to go home, and since Al was released forever ago, we’ll begin our journey home tomorrow, almost a month after the Promised Day.  Dr. Laramie is the local doctor in Resembool, and I have to report to his office once a week to get my medication and to do an over the phone session.  As soon as he said something about over the phone I started bitching.  Someone will listen in, rumors will spread about me, someone will sell out to the papers and my name will be all over the place as being a wack-a-loon.  He assured me it would be private and completely confidential, that he’d told Dr. Laramie of my privacy issues and that it was of the upmost priority that the room that I have to use the phone in be secure and safe from everyone.  I told him if I had the slightest concerns about someone spying in on us I wouldn’t do it.  Then it occurred to me that I wouldn’t know how secure his end was.  I asked him if it would be better if maybe I just stayed at the hospital until I was completely cured, and he said no.  He said eventually I’ll just be taking up a bed, and unless I wanted to stay in the psych ward (WHICH I DON’T) I needed to go home and adjust to living as a normal person again.

So today I’m packing my and Al’s suitcases (borrowed from Dr. Knox, who didn’t ask me to share anything, just talked to me about his bout with PTSS up on the roof yesterday evening.  And I thought I had it bad, jeeze).  Of course the old bastard gave me shit about not drinking my milk and I gave him shit for smoking, but we shook hands and he told me to call him if I needed someone to just talk to about things.

So this will be my last entry here at the hospital.  I think I might give those Sig clones the finger on the way out the door.

~E. E.

 

April 24, 1915

I fucking hate trains.  But I have to admit, the going away present from Major Armstrong (two tickets to Resembool in First Class) may change my mind about rail travel.  In First Class, the seats are plenty padded and the walls are insulated so well you can hardly feel or hear the ride at all.  The food was delicious and HOT, not like the bag lunches you pay 20 C for and the chips are all broken and the sandwich is made up of hard bread and too thinly sliced baloney.  We had spaghetti with huge meatballs, garlic bread, and there was tiramisu for dessert.  The best part about the entire ride though was watching the scenery outside the window whizzing by.  Every tree that went by was that much closer to home we were.  I can’t wait to get off this thing and start walking down that long dirt road, smell the clean country air and hear the sheep bleating.  I can’t wait to hear Den barking at us as we come up the front walk, to hear Winry calling our names and see Granny standing there smiling at us with her pipe hanging out of her mouth like always.

It’s been so long since we’ve been ‘home’.  Like home to stay and not run off.  I think this is the part that fucking scares me the most.  What if I don’t know how to just be home anymore??

Shit.  That goofy medicine must be making me weird again.  Of course I’ll be fine.  If I can take on Father and save the entire world, then surely I can go home and just live

~E. E.

 

April 26, 1915

Yesterday was the best homecoming ever.  No one stopped us at the station, no one stopped us on the road, just gave a nod or a smile, and when we got home (a tear splash has caused some ink to run on the ‘me’ of ‘home’)  Damn these pills and their mood altering effects!  Winry was as beautiful as ever, maybe even more.  She was so damn happy to see us.  She tackled Al and me in the front yard, but when everyone finally stood up, she wrapped her arms around me and hugged me so tight I could feel her boobs mashed into my chest.  My mouth goes dry at the memory of it.  I mean, that chest of hers is fucking IMMACULATE.  I didn’t know what else to do but hug her back, and when I did she made this whimper-like noise that shot straight through me and pooled in my balls.  When did she ever have that kind of effect on me before?  I mean, when we were at Ft. Briggs and I realized that I really do love her and I did that periodic table bullshit, what I felt then was just nerves.  This I felt yesterday was like fighting instinct.  Like I felt like I had to bite the inside of my mouth to keep me from throwing her to the ground and fucking her right there, and I’ve never felt like that around her before.  Maybe Dr. Yates was right when he said I’d have a hormonal surge and it might feel a little uncontrollable (WHEN DID EVERYTHING START BEING UNCONTROLLABLE??!  First my feelings, then my memories with the blackouts and now my hormones?  FUCK!!!).  But maybe she always did that to me and I was just too damn busy or too fucking stupid to notice.  Now that I don’t have anything in the way, who knows how far we might go together…

Anyway, after she turns me loose, she hugs Al too, (but not like she hugged me! :D) and then says to come in and get comfortable.  She and Granny made the best damn dinner I think I’ve ever eaten.  Maybe because it was served from the dishes I remember eating from as a kid, maybe because Winry’s gotten really good at cooking over the years, or maybe just because it was eaten slowly and without any worries to keep it from going down easy.  We sat out on the porch for a long time after dinner, just talking and sipping at coffee.  Granny offered Al and me each a drink from the look-but-don’t-touch bottle of brandy in the sitting room, but Al refused saying he didn’t want it to interact with any of his medicines and I said I would wait until he could drink with me.  I haven’t told them yet about my own medication or the problems I’m having.  And if I’m going to be cured of it eventually, why even mention it?  They don’t need to know.

This morning Al and I just kind of wandered around the yard and stuff.  It was aimless, but it was wonderful.  It irritates me that right now I kind of feel like I’m useless, but I have to admit, it’s really nice to do nothing sometimes too.  Granny said for the time being, I need to be with Al and help him with his exercises, make sure he doesn’t hurt himself or stumble and fall.  I think I can handle that.

Tomorrow is my first over-the-phone appointment from Dr. Laramie’s office.  I swear if that bastard Yates lets anything slip about my condition, I’ll personally whip his scrawny ass.

~E. E.

 

April 27, 1915

Okay, having the session over the phone went a lot better than I thought it would.  Dr. Laramie was very nice about the whole thing, let me use his personal office to do the call in, and didn’t ask me about anything when the call was over.  He had to speak to Dr. Yates to confirm my prescription and when to schedule the next appointment between them.  So I came home today with a bottle of sertraline, which I guess is what they were giving me in the hospital, the pills look the same.  I was told to keep eating healthy and get regular exercise (which is easy to do with Al wanting to walk all over creation) and to make sure to get plenty of uninterrupted sleep, the same old shit any country doctor could’ve told me. 

Something else that was discussed (and trust me, I protested VEHEMENTLY about talking about it) was how I’m handling being around Winry all the time now.  When I was in the hospital, I mentioned that I didn’t want to see her with anyone else, that I could protect her and care for her and make her happy, always.  Dr. Yates asked me if she was my girlfriend and of course I told him NO.  Then he said I talked about her as if she were.  In essence, he caught me.  My own brother doesn’t even know how I really feel about her, and he’s my closest confidante.  So when he asked today if our relationship had changed from that of childhood friends to anything more, I completely clamed up.  I hate when people ask me shit like that.  It’s not something I can even think about when I’m alone without getting all red faced and nervous, so it’s not really something I want to talk about with anyone.  But I did tell him (sort of) how she made me feel the day we came home.  He said it was normal, nothing to be ashamed of, and to realize if I’m having those feelings about her, it’s likely that I’m recovering well.  When he suggested that I mention to Winry that I like her in that way now, I thought I’d fall in the floor.  I’m not ready for that.  No fucking way.  Maybe if my head ever gets right again I’ll say something, but no way right now.

Tonight we had homemade beef stew, not that slop they call beef stew at the cafeteria at Central Command.  I think I ate too much, and I’m sure the toilet won’t like me tomorrow.

~E. E.

 

PART 2 THIS WAY!!