Hello!
As someone who has experienced mental health problems, I find writing about them makes it easier to understand my own behaviour sometimes. I'm not sure if that's weird? Aha!
Anyway, this is a multi-chapter AU Hiccstrid fic. I did try and keep it as if is Hiccup is saying it, in fact, I literally sat and watched Race to the Edge on Netflix to familiarise myself with how Hiccup/Jay Barcuhel would talk. However, I appreciate that it is still going to be somewhat OOC to make things fit. The story follows Hiccup's journal entries and there is some mild langauge and some trigger warnings involving: suicide, depression, substance abuse, alcoholism. Hiccup is also in heavy denial about his problems and talks in quite a derogatory fashion about mental health problems, and I want to make it very clear that these are not my own personal views on the matter.
Please read and review! I'm not the best writer, but as I said, it helps me chill and it's all pretty fun!
Week One.
So I'm stuck. I've spent seven days in this "treatment facility" (or prison, as I like to call it) and I don't really feel like I've been treated. I hadn't realised that every aspect of my behaviour had to be analysed, labelled and treated, silly me for not realising. If I've got to write in this stupid weekly journal, then I'm at least going to be honest.
My dad tried calling last night but I told the support staff that he can shove the phone and slammed the door in his face. He got angry at me and it got a bit messy, so now I am on some kind of lock-down punishment thing. It was only a glass I smashed, not an antique ornament. As if this place wasn't incriminating enough, I'm not allowed to leave the house unsupervised. I don't get why dad is calling me; after all, he was the one who wanted rid.
My dad is in charge of a lot of people and is quite important on the political scene. He always has time for the circle of decision-makers and for the party he fronts. Me? Nah. If I get any acknowledgment from my dad, it's a scowl and him telling me that I've messed up somewhere. He's telling me that I always make things difficult. Apparently, over the last few months, I have been particularly difficult, so I'm here.
So why am I here exactly? Well, its kind of a funny story. I don't actually remember any of it, but apparently, I went for a walk that ended up on a very high bridge, and I like the thrill of it so I climbed over the fence and felt myself dangle off for a few minutes. Unfortunately, as I was hanging out, I got spotted and before I knew it, there was an entire squad of police officers and paramedics trying to coax me down, which ended up in a meltdown of sorts, which ended up with me being taken to the hospital. I don't remember the details because I was high at the time.
Once the drugs had worn off, I thought I could go home. Not so. Nope, I had to undergo a psychiatric assessment. What a waste of time. If I have one more professional ask me if I am suicidal, I'll make them wish they never asked me. They're never satisfied with my answer. I always get some skeptical look, as if I am trying to mask some great anguish. I'm not one of those abuse-survivor kids or those special needs kids who live perpetually off-kilter. I'm just Hiccup, and I'm pretty normal.
When I knew I was coming here, after a solemn sit-down chat with my father and about four different mental health "professionals", I vowed to myself that I would get out a soon as humanly possible and get myself emancipated. They said I would probably be staying for around six months. There is no way in hell I am staying here for six months. Everyone is so fake. They took me to my room and introduced themselves like an intro to some Saturday morning cartoon. "I'm Stacey! I'm Tom! I'm Alice!". I don't care.
I thought I could spend the weekend getting used to the change, but no, therapy started literally the second morning. They made me get out of bed before 9 which is ridiculous for a Saturday. When I complained, they asked me what I would usually do on a Saturday, to which I told them that I'd spend my Friday night getting wasted with friends. Normally I would get a horrified reaction. "How could you?! You're only fifteen?!". These people literally didn't care. I had a weird feeling of disappointment, like as if I had failed to get a response.
My therapist, David, is okay, I guess. He's so nosy though. He says I don't acknowledge that I have things wrong with me and that I needed to start. I had gotten a diagnosis-well, a few-but I wasn't really all that bothered about hearing about them. They were just labels, a crutch for some people so they get out of the fact that they're actually terrible people. See like, I know I am a terrible person. I don't need a diagnosis of some convoluted mental health problem to tell me that.
The support staff here are just annoying. They talk so much about "you have choices", but you don't. You literally don't. I'm not allowed to go off on walks until I have earned the "trust" of the staff, even though I know full well that walking alone helps when I'm feeling down. I'm already sick of being treated like as if I am a glass object that might shatter if I get hurt. I'm not a child.
The other people here must be so miserable really. Some of them act annoyingly happy-go-lucky. My roommate, Fishlegs, just talks to me about ridiculous stuff that I couldn't care less about. And then there's Astrid. She's incredibly dismissive but at least she isn't fake. She's herself, and I admire her for that.
So yeah. My first week was boring. It's a routine of tedium. Wake up early, tutoring in the morning, counseling after lunch, activities, dinner, and bed. I'm thinking of sneaking out and going to some insane party somewhere. I miss having the scent of tobacco and cheap cider in my life. The tutoring annoys me because it's so easy. I don't actually care about writing an essay on Viking history, I just want to read my own books and draw, because that's all I'm good at. I asked if art was on the curriculum, but they just told me to talk to David. It's a specialist thing apparently.
Yesterday was a crappy day. My tutor berated me over something inane, basically saying that I wouldn't amount to anything if I didn't do the work. David kept asking more about my family life. He literally has 42 pages of notes from the social worker about my family life, my "case" is quite extensive, apparently. All I wanted to do was go upstairs and be alone, but oh no, I had group activities to participate in and then dad called. I don't remember the last time I felt as angry as I did last night. There's a lot of bruising on my left hand where I punched the wall several times in the room I was detained in, so I guess that's the consequence.
My plan of acting normal has pretty much failed already. All I know is that I don't want to be here.