[attr="class","rostername"]@thatcher

[attr="class","rostersub"]a [twenty three] year old [nurse] from [laverre]

[attr="class","rostercat"]THATCHER ENOCH SAAB

[attr="class","rostercat"]23

[attr="class","rostercat"]FTM TRANSKID

[attr="class","rostercat"]GRAY ACE

[attr="class","rostercat"]BREEDER

[attr="class","rostercat"]FAIRY

[attr="class","rostercat2"]
Likes: coffee, rain, blankets, music, helping, sunrises, sunsets, oatmeal, documentaries, reading

Dislikes: breakdowns, darkness, tea, exercising, lilies, socializing, episodes, phones, shopping, himself

Strengths: nursing, focus, patience, self-awareness, situational-awareness

Weaknesses: bipolar, depression, anxiety, intrusive thoughts, socialization skills

Honestly, you’re a bit of a hot mess. Trademark that shit. They say sensitivity is a good thing, that it makes you connect well to others and sure, yes you do. The only problem is that you get oversensitive at the same time, become overwhelmed too much. It overcomes you too easily, and while people can’t always tell with how quiet you naturally are, it’s still there. That crippling desire to just vanish.

You survive though, watching how people react to you with your naturally perceptive abilities when it comes to others. You are proficient in your job, focused though a bit siff and your bedside manner is a bit to be desired. Your job, as well as general emotions, can leave you feeling nervous and often unsure of yourself, and your confidence levels leave much to be desired in the ways of where they should be.

But the good thing is you are very clean despite your issues, and efficient with how you work. You work with a certain level of sympathy that, even with a lack of bedside manner, helps connect to your patients, and you are very discreet because you can relate to them - you know how being on the other end really feels. It helps that you’re modest but not without your curiosity which can sometimes lead to trouble.

The main problems lie with your real insecurities, the ones that eat at you. You’re moody and manic, an offset of the Bipolar that runs rampant in your brain. A diagnosis that causes your world to crash down around you. It makes you fearful and leaves you feeling often regretful of your actions, even if you can’t always control them. What you wish most of all was that you weren’t so needy of others despite not being good at socializing, or so aggressive when people tried to get close...

[attr="class","rostercatsub2"]PERSONALITY

[attr="class","rostercat2"]TW: child abuse

You were born a very small child with a very weak cry, a few weeks too early to an emotionally detached mother. When asked, she was happy to have a child and wouldn’t give it up for the world, but her eyes were dull and empty. She took care of you mechanically, as though you were a general chore, and though she was good at what she did, working hard to give you what she didn’t necessarily have as a child, you weren’t taken care of much in the way of love or affection. She was overworked, and while you were often babysat by your grandparents who loved you dearly, you could always tell there was something...missing.

Call it childhood intuition. Call it a byproduct of the itch that ran bone deep and flowed through your blood. Something always felt supremely wrong, from the way she’d strike you swiftly for doing small things wrong, to the way she’d raise her voice to scold you for not being a “proper young lady.”

It messed with you.

A lot of things did honestly.

You were often confused, you cried a lot, hid things. Mother was out of the house often working and when she was home it was with a glass of wine and a television show, some “alone time” she claimed she desperately needed. She didn’t want to spend time with you, you could tell she didn’t even really want to see you.

You learned to live with it, even though it ate at you.

You longed for her attention, craved her affection, wanted her love. But you knew you wouldn’t get it. You wept instead, lived behind a mask for your peers, and suffered in silence so your teachers wouldn’t worry. Because children should be seen not heard, and you learned your lessons well enough judging by the red marks that faded so easily on your hard to bruise skin.

You promised yourself that when you got older, bigger and stronger, that this would stop. Eventually your mother seemed to come to her senses, at least in public. She was all smiles and sunshine, and people complimented her. Called her a hero and told you how lucky you were. But you saw right through her and it tore you apart, agitated your delicate mental state. You tried to talk to her about how she was, about how she could be, but she deflected, got angry, got drunk.

She got worse.

You forced yourself to get better so that she wouldn’t have a reason to get mad.

You lived for years walking on eggshells, a nervous wreck who broke down every couple of months only to suffer at the hands of anxiety and panic attacks that took vicious hold of you. You hit your teen years and couldn’t take it anymore.

You ran away.

It didn’t work.

While she didn’t notice the police sure as hell did, a teen wandering alone in the dark past their curfew. They brought you back home, to a sugary sweet mother who played the part of concerned parent very well, and then beat you once the door was closed.

Luckily you didn’t bruise.

You had a rebellious streak though, tired of living under her thumb but too scared to do much about it besides run. You ran away twice more before you got too tired to continue, too tired and too watched. She kept a close eye on you until she realized you calmed down, and felt too trapped to do much more. You bided your time quietly after that, feeling that bone deep itch but not knowing what it was until you were seventeen.

Books and the internet helped.

You realized you stared at people a lot aesthetically, but never in a way that teenagers should. You wanted a word for it, because you felt broken inside. While you were reading up on queerness a word jumped out at you, transgender.

A whole world opened up to you, and so did a flood of tears.

It was satisfying, a word for how you felt, and that bone deep itch finally felt sated. While you couldn’t do much in your house, the moment you turned eighteen you left with a plan to enter a nursing program. You wanted to help people who were in situations like yours, give back to a community who you were sure would have helped you if you had asked them to. You wanted to be there for people in a way, even if you weren’t the best with them.

You saved money, went to therapy, got hormones. It was a relief, injecting something into yourself that made you feel so...whole. You didn’t get the top surgery, felt a fear when thinking about it, but strangely enough life for the next few years seemed to be going pretty well...

[attr="class","rostercatsub2"]HISTORY