august 10th, 2017 
boston, massachusetts
There’s a lot of things that you just don’t talk about.

Maybe it’s because there’s a part of you that’s convinced yourself that it’s because it’s all a bunch of bullshit that you don’t think that people want to hear about. Or maybe it’s that you don’t want to burden anyone with it. Maybe you just think talking about it will just make people fucking worry about you, and that’s the last thing that you want.

Maybe it’s about your own stupid, selfish pride.

Whatever it is, the chances are it’s probably not the best thing in the world to keep it all to yourself and it’s almost definitely not healthy, but there’s a fucking proverbial laundry list of reasons that you don’t do it. Or is it that you won’t talk about it? Honestly, you’re not entirely certain, but what you do know is that for someone who has a funny way of not knowing when to shut the hell up, you have a pretty hard fucking time trying to think of a way to put all those things into words.

More often than not, you manage to brush all the bad shit under the rug. Instead of dwelling, you distract yourself, focus on other things. Because you want to move forward, you want to get better.

After all, you’re still supposed to be sunshine and rainbows, right? At least, that’s what you’ve been told.

Especially because the last few months have even a special sort of Hell. Sometimes, you can't help but laugh at your own dumb luck and the way you got blindsided by life. It's not like you ever really had a chance. Everything just happened all at once, and so fucking fast that it had your head spinning. The last time something like this happened, you felt like you were falling apart. You hurt so much and you let your whole world fall to pieces, so you promised yourself this time would be different. This time, you were going to be better, little by little, and you would heal. It might take some flase bravado to get there, but sometimes you just had to fake it until you made it.

It’s been almost three months and the lines between Wanda and Whitney have started to blur. You’re not really Whitney anymore, and you’re not really Wanda, you’re someone else entirely now. You have to rectify who you were with who you are now, find a happy medium. The truth is, though, that while you can wax poetic until you're fucking blue in the face to anyone who needs advice, you don't really have any idea what you're doing. You're making it up as you go, navigating as best as you can, given the circumstances, and it makes your fucking head and your heart hurt because all you want is to figure out the best way to go about balancing all this bullshit on top of all the other bullshit.

Frankly, it sucks.

But because you’re not supposed to be depressed, you just smile and despite everything, you keep your head up and you press forward. Some mornings, you lie in bed for hours before you finally put on pants and a bra and a smile and you go out into the world and do your best to stay focused, to stay positive, to make the most of the less than awesome situations and the sleepless nights.

The thing is that whoever you are these days, Wanda or Whitney, you have plenty of reasons to be pissed off, to be depressed and frustrated and confused.

Normally you’re good at compartmentalizing, at just not thinking about them, because who would want to think about those things? There are those times where you can’t help it, though. When some way, some how, all those less than awesome things you keep locked up tight, seep out of your subconscious and find their way to the forefront of your already overly cluttered mind. Those are the nights that you stay awake, because sleep isn’t an option. So instead, you wind up staring at the ceiling, replaying everything that happened over and over inside of your head.

Some nights, though, nights like tonight, sleep manages to sink it’s claws in. You know it’s coming before it happens, because your eyelids are heavy and your breathing is shallow and all those memories seem to slow to a crawl and start flashing across your mind like a piece of celluloid right before it burns out. Eventually, you drift off into an uneasy slumber.

And you dream.

You dream about the night in Bahrain, and the sudden realization that something was very, very wrong. You try to open your mouth to say something to the person driving the motorcade, but you’re a half a second too late. There’s a sudden, deafening ringing in your ears and the sound of air rushing by you as you’re thrown through the window. It feels like every goddamn nerve in your body has been set on fire, and you want to scream, you try to scream, but you can’t because you’re choking on smoke and the stench of burning flesh.

You hit the ground and everything goes white. Just like you remember.

You dream about the day the world was ending. More than the world, the multiverse. Deadpools were killing Deadpools and everything was going to shit and no one seemed to know how to handle it. ”Save your tears, tough guy…” You tell him as you lead him into the armory, because of course he’s getting emotional over guns and grenades and rocket launchers. “You’ll need them.”

He doesn’t realize that you didn’t say we’ll need them until it’s too late. You don’t say goodbye, you don’t say anything. You just stomp off to buy them all some time, and hope to whatever fucking higher power there might be that they’ll manage to save whatever’s left of the world.

And in your dream, you can hear the ship’s engines as they power up, and the sound of your own voice, somehow far away, as you talked yourself through each step, and thanked her for the good times. You can almost feel the way your breathing hitched for a split second before you took your very last breath and reminded yourself that while you might be mostly indestructible, but there’s not a snowball’s chance in Hell that you’re surviving this. You exhale on impact. Everything goes white, and your ears start to ring.

That’s when you wake up, tangled in your sheets and covered in a thin, cold sweat. Your heart pounding against your ribcage so hard that you wonder if it might explode and the air caught in your throat. You have to close your eyes and swallow hard and remind yourself how to breath.

It all seemed so goddamn real. It was real. Memories replying in technicolor, of the things that you shouldn't have come back from. Not in this life, or in any. People say that getting a second chance is some stroke of luck, but you really can't help but wonder sometimes.

You blink and rub your eyes as you fall back onto the overstuffed mattress. It’s back to staring at the ceiling, watching the lights as they dance across the shitty stucco. In the morning, you'll get up, you'll put on your pants and your bra and your make up and you'll smile like nothing is wrong.