Stephen snorts a noise, dry amusement; that tracks. Then he considers for a moment, methodically sorting out the words before he speaks.
“I have the unenviable duty of telling you, Gwenaëlle Baudin, that it sounds like you suffer from panic attacks and the occasional chronic depression. All perfectly valid, and perfectly understandable considering the circumstances. You said there’s no reason, but the fact that you’ve been actively embroiled in a war for the past decade is more than reason enough. So many people experience this over much less.”
Thump-thump thump-thump, the frantic patter beneath his hand, the thunderous fear and grief.
It’s not, habitually, the way his own damage has manifested itself. He continually staved off any potential depression with even more obsessive action and movement, never stopping; he’d successfully kept ahead of it, even if his method had been unhealthy in other ways. Except he offers this up to her, like carving off a piece of himself and holding it up for inspection:
“After the car crash. I practically never rode in a car again. I was supposed to take a taxi home from the hospital, and I tried, but had a panic attack and almost vomited in the back seat. I took the train instead, and walked. Even when it added so much extra travel time, I just never got in one again if I could avoid it. I probably should have dealt with it, learned to be okay with it, but then I learned how to make portals and cars became even more avoidable, and— now I’m here, and carriages aren’t fast enough to trigger that same reaction. The enclosed metal space, the speed.
“My point being, this sort of reaction happens. It doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with you.”
no subject
“I have the unenviable duty of telling you, Gwenaëlle Baudin, that it sounds like you suffer from panic attacks and the occasional chronic depression. All perfectly valid, and perfectly understandable considering the circumstances. You said there’s no reason, but the fact that you’ve been actively embroiled in a war for the past decade is more than reason enough. So many people experience this over much less.”
Thump-thump thump-thump, the frantic patter beneath his hand, the thunderous fear and grief.
It’s not, habitually, the way his own damage has manifested itself. He continually staved off any potential depression with even more obsessive action and movement, never stopping; he’d successfully kept ahead of it, even if his method had been unhealthy in other ways. Except he offers this up to her, like carving off a piece of himself and holding it up for inspection:
“After the car crash. I practically never rode in a car again. I was supposed to take a taxi home from the hospital, and I tried, but had a panic attack and almost vomited in the back seat. I took the train instead, and walked. Even when it added so much extra travel time, I just never got in one again if I could avoid it. I probably should have dealt with it, learned to be okay with it, but then I learned how to make portals and cars became even more avoidable, and— now I’m here, and carriages aren’t fast enough to trigger that same reaction. The enclosed metal space, the speed.
“My point being, this sort of reaction happens. It doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with you.”