'And he's the best fuck that ever walked. He's beautiful - rich, in money and everything else; he's a rockstar to boot, trapped in the body of a fighter. And how he fought; at a state of turmoil with himself - somewhere inside his soul that only she...
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♱
'She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that's best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes Thus mellow'd to that tender light Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
One shade the more, one ray the less, Had half impair'd the nameless grace Which waves in every raven tress, Or softly lightens o'er her face; Where thoughts serenely sweet express How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.
And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, The smiles that win, the tints that glow, But tell of days in goodness spent, A mind at peace with all below, A heart whose love is innocent!'
Hera Potter had her rituals, and they grounded her like no one would believe. But ironically, what grounded her constantly was an obsession with drugs — so uncontrollable that she'd experienced it from the time she was twelve years old. All that vanished the first time she got clean.
Hera never felt the inclination to do drugs during that two and a half-year period; it was a true miracle. And when she finally became sober the idea of getting high was a foreign concept. She was certain she could've sat there, stared a mountain of china white in the face and it mean nothing to her when only a month before, the physical reaction alone would've had her shaking and sweating.
Through experiences with misdiagnosis', prescribed painkillers and a range of SSRI's given to her in a last-ditch effort to find one that worked it was no surprise dependency found its way back in the door.
She wouldn't say she was addicted to antidepressants in the traditional sense, but it didn't help that Lexapro was the one she tolerated best and withdrawals from it were far from pleasant:
Though Hera felt it made her more anxious than otherwise, at least she hadn't so much of the suicidal ideation before. She'd even believed her mood swings almost gone, still invariably there but otherwise manageable — for the most part, or so it had transpired. She still wanted sex, which was something she couldn't say for before and could feel almost as she used to. That was without spiralling into a sobbing inconsolable mess, as opposed to simply not having the ability not to cry.
