Anxiety Ring Spinner

I have very recently bought a spinner ring (the outer band completely rotates around the inner band), and while I love the concept, I feel like the execution isn't quite there because the bearings dont feel smooth. Can you give me your recommendations for the smoothest and most satisfying spinner ring experiences please? submitted by /u/Stabby_Tater to r/adhdwomen [link] [comments]

All LEGO sets retiring in 2026 and beyond I can't apologize enough for the delay in the sheet, life has been very busy for me the last couple months so I wasn't able to get around to the spreadsheet. Luckily I should be all caught up now, so you can expect regular monthly updates again going forward. The promo calendar will be updated this weekend!!! Retirement updates are now fully automated on Discord! As always, a massive thanks to /u/ZombieYeti from the BrickHound Discord for providing this valuable data. If you're looking for real-time in-stock/deal alerts for Lego.com and other sites, make sure to check out his server! Most of this information is taken directly from Lego's website, and all dates are subject to change. If you have any questions, please don't hesitate to ask. Due to Reddit's character limits, we can't include everything here, but the full spreadsheet contains every set. --> FULL LIST ON GOOGLE SHEETS REAL TIME UPDATES ON DISCORD submitted by

Edit: I didn’t even notice the title, sorry about that. At the time of posting I was more worried about getting the actual details right I’m writing to inform autistic and transgender individuals seeking care about my experience with a local nurse practitioner, Carrie Miranda-Fletcher. It’s worth noting these experiences were a few years ago; however, I referred back to notes from when I was actively receiving treatment from her for this post. I was referred to Carrie after aging out from my former clinic, in 2021. I was referred to her specifically to manage anxiety medication, potential autism, and to look into starting testosterone. From the start, something felt off. I was very heavily questioned on why I wanted to transition, frequently referred to as a woman, or with the wrong pronouns; I tried correcting her politely at first, but as I got more firm in it throughout sessions she started to say I was aggressive. When I finally kept count of how many times it happened in a session (8 times in half an hour) and told her the number, she said no reasonable person would fixate on it that hard, and if I was this upset with her I wasn’t emotionally ready to transition. In reality, I wasn’t comfortable with my primary care provider constantly treating me like a woman; it wasn’t the same as if it was a stranger. Around the four month mark, she started heavily hinting I was stable enough to start. At the six month mark, when I asked about my prescription referral, she smiled and reminded me it was “six consecutive months of mental stability”, and cited an issue the month prior where I’d had a breakdown after losing a close friend as a reason to start the countdown from zero again. This is the point where I started documenting my appointments. After restarting the six months, she stopped hiding that HRT was being used as a control method. Among other things, she used it to pressure me into binding again (I’d had to stop as I worked a physically demanding job, and it was starting to get painful), starting an unneeded antipsychotic that made me ill, and to arrange a meeting between her, my mother, and myself. My mother was heavily abusive; this is something that I had made explicitly clear from the start. I was removed from her care as a teenager permanently by CPS due to extended, documented abuse. Carrie was made aware of this, and of the fact she was heavily against me transitioning. She pressured me into arranging a meeting with the three of us to discuss my transition. I’d said no repeatedly at first, until she implied she’d move back my start date if I didn’t agree. I felt like I didn’t have a choice, and agreed to the meeting. Despite being meant to last two hours, I only made it twenty minutes. My mother insisted I was just confused, Carrie repeatedly referred to me as a young woman, and I was told I didn’t understand what I wanted. It ended in me finally getting properly angry for the first time since I started seeing her; I told her it was bullshit, that I was a boy, and stormed out. The secretary at Dilico (the clinic she was employed at the time) took one look at me and tried getting me to file out a report against her, which I likely would have done if my mother hadn’t followed me out of the office calling me dramatic. After the meeting, she took another approach to blocking my transition; my financial situation. While dilico did have someone who could do the psychological assessment, she insisted on a private clinic that would cost well over a thousand dollars; she knew I couldn’t afford it, as at the time I was providing for myself and my father on a part-time salary. I didn’t have any room for savings. She used this to put any talk of HRT indefinitely on hold. I’ve since learnt that her approach to my transition wasn’t affirming care; it was gender exploratory therapy. For those unaware, gender exploratory therapy is conversion therapy aimed towards transgender youth. It aims to shed doubt on the patient, and often moves back potential start dates to HRT until they give up; it’s a shady horse and carrot approach to detransitioning. My luck was about the same when I tried seeking help about suspected autism. I was told it wasn’t likely, and that I was exaggerating symptoms, but that we could try one on one sessions weekly where she’d help me act more normal (her actual wording). She wanted to focus on my tone of voice, my disruptive stimming (which typically was just using a spinner ring, or tapping my fingers together; nothing loud or super visible). It was basically meant to be ABA lite. The antipsychotic she prescribed me for “severe anxiety” also turned out to be one commonly given to manage autism; I couldn’t find anything about it being used for anxiety when I looked into it. It’s also worth noting that in my first session with my new doctor and therapist respectively, both noted I likely was on the spectrum and adjusted my care to be mindful of that. Things ended when I finally decided to confront her. I wrote down how I felt, brought up examples including exact wording she went back on in the next session, and at the start of the appointment said I had concerns. When I tried getting her to read it, she called me immature, and said if it was such a major issue I could read it out loud. She initially denied everything, and tried to brush it off, saying she’d drop me as a patient if I kept going. When I told her I wrote her exact wording as she’d said it, she said I clearly misinterpreted it, started shouting at me, and left the room saying she wouldn’t see me again. It took me about ten minutes to compose myself enough to leave, where the secretary stopped me again. She told me to file a report, apologized, and sat with me for a few minutes as I calmed down before I went to talk to someone about what I’d experienced. I don’t think anything came of the report, though I’ve since learned a complaint like that should have been brought to the nursing board as soon as it was filed. However, I was given a referral to NorWest, where I got in with a doctor less than a month later. To summarize: I was medically gaslit, put through a form of conversion therapy, and nearly ABA all the while Carrie insisted I wasn’t on the spectrum. I understand it’s also been a few years since this happened. While I hope she’s changed her approach to gender affirming care and neurodivergence, what happened to me could easily happen to another patient; I hope this can help people make an informed choice when looking for care. Edit: more info on the alleged “aggression” and why it was used to bar me from starting testosterone. Carrie claimed I had anger issues, and that putting me on T would only make it worse. She said that my behavior when she’d misgender me and how I reacted to the appointment with my mother proved I wasn’t emotionally mature enough. Outside of the latter, I never swore, or raised my voice; I’d correct her, at one point I counted how many times she did it in a row. I’d get tense, I’d be firm, but I don’t think I was aggressive. She also asked what I’d do if a customer called me a young lady, and said if I reacted the same way it wouldn’t fly. Yeah, no shit. I have different standards for a stranger than I do for the person who’s meant to be helping me transition, and I’m allowed to ask a provider for respect. My new doctor corrected the mentions of me having anger issues after the second appointment because it was bullshit. Edit 2: thank you all for the kind words. For anyone who’s worried about a similar experience, I’d recommend reading up on what gender exploratory therapy entails vs gender affirming care; if I have time I can try to answer questions too. submitted by /u/Aquatic_Merc to r/ThunderBay [link] [comments]

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Here's an imgur link because reddit can be annoying about zooming in on pictures: https://imgur.com/a/X9LO5lO submitted by /u/TheArtistFKAMinty to r/TwoBestFriendsPlay [link] [comments]

My mom bought me a ring for anxiety, like a fidget spinner. It’s pretty bulky but it’s very calming. It helps my anxiety, and it stops me from nail biting too. Very useful. submitted by /u/Ok-Appearance-3476 to r/emetophobia [link] [comments]

I know some people use fidget/spinner rings to replace the nail biting habit, but I really need something for the oral piece. Has anyone found anything helpful? I need something I can turn to when I need to bite. submitted by /u/Mermaid_Natalia to r/nailbiting [link] [comments]

Hey guys, I'm currently being bombarded with ads for "anti-stress rings", i.e. finger rings that have moving parts (so you can play with them instead of biting your nails or similar). The aproblem is that I have a strong nickel allergy and on the net only a) super cheap products from Ali*** and Co. or b) specially made art objects for a lot of money. It must be possible to get such a ring from normal 925 silver without spending hundreds of dollars? Do you have any idea where I could find something like that? I've already searched Amazon, Etsy and the like. The only requirement is that the "play" is silent, because I work with very sensitive animals that could be scared away. submitted by /u/HousingOld1384 to r/findaproduct [link] [comments]

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​ I don't usually wear all my fidget rings at once! submitted by /u/sammie3232 to r/Tardive_Dyskinesia [link] [comments]

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Hiya! I've been thinking about buying a fidget ring, but I'm kinda on the fence about it. Here's why: I'm not a jewellery person (somehow they make me feel less feminine? Dunno), so I'm afraid I won't wear it I don't really like colourful, frilly, sparkly or intricate designs and the really cheep ones look... really cheap. But I'm afraid I'll spend a lot of money on a ring I won't wear much Thought: What if the beads don't turn of slide smoothly, won't that be annoying? Thought: Can my skin get caught between the bead and the ring? :') On the other hand, I like the design of some of them (am I allowed to link? Not selling rings myself, I swear!) and can sorta see myself wearing them without feeling weird. I also like the idea of having it around all the time (without the need for pockets or bags to carry it in), whilst still being more subtle than a bracelet or necklace. And lastly, my skin is just begging me to stop picking it, so there's that. So, any advice or experience to share? Are there materials to avoid? Any tips for where to buy them in Europe, preferably not through Amazon (sorry, I just think Bezos is a massive a-hole) and preferably not more than €50,-? Thanks and, unrelated, I wish you all a Happy New Year tomorrow! Edit: thanks everyone for the replies! It has given me a lot to think about and has helped me narrow down my search. I'll probably go for this one, because it's got ridges and it can slide along the length of the ring. It's a little more expensive (with shipping to Europe) than I'd prefer, but hey, I can invest a little in myself! submitted by /u/MKuin to r/adhdwomen [link] [comments]

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I've tried fidget toys like those pop its but they aren't very inconspicuous and I feel self conscious whipping it out in public as a grown woman. Ive found a ring called a spinner or spinning ring and I love it. The centre of the ring spins so when I'm anxious I can inconspicuously spin it and it helps. submitted by /u/ConsciouslyWeird to r/Anxiety [link] [comments]

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I've been wanting to buy myself a spinner ring, for the usual reasoning of fidgeting, anxiety. My tastes tend to lean towards the minimal and somewhat wider ring bands. I had one that had these really simple ridges on it that I LOVED but I cannot find anything like it anywhere... Anyway. I've had a hard time finding anything that appeals to me online, searching through pages of Amazon and Etsy only netted me "meh" results, most of the rings have silly prints on them or basic celtic designs, not really into it. Where should I be looking? Any tips on search terms for good spinner rings? I'm looking for a size 11 most likely, I love black rings as well. submitted by /u/Ow_The_Edgehog to r/jewelry [link] [comments]

This is your no bullsh*t guide to help you quit picking at your skin. Before I get into it, please note that this is all to help move towards ending picking at your skin. There are so many guides online about how to stop picking at your skin and I feel like most of them aren't very comprehensive or helpful. Half of them just tell you to not pick at your face or to not touch your face (so helpful thank you). I have dermatillomania and have not been able to completely stop, but I have been able to make a huge amount of progress. My guide is composed of things that have worked for me and they all won't work for everyone. However, I have done tons of research and tried all different things and this is what I've learned. I hope this helps someone out there. COVER UP YOUR MIRRORS. Yes, really. This has been the most important step for me. It's tough if you share your space with others, but if you can find a way to do this, DO IT. I have both of my bathroom mirrors covered up, and I have a mirror that is in a room with crappy lighting. That way, I can't really see the clogged pores or little areas that I'd find to pick at. Absolutely no magnifying mirrors. This is almost non-negotiable. If you chronically pick at your skin, GET RID OF THESE. I don't care if you use them to tweeze your eyebrows--if it gets you looking at your skin that close up you don't need it. Another tip is to put some barrier between you and your mirror that prevents you from getting to close to it. I do my makeup maybe a foot away from the mirror I have. Maybe my makeup won't be as perfect but it's worth it. One of the first things I do when staying in a new place/somewhere that isn't my apartment is covering up the mirrors. If you're staying with family or friends, explain to them why you are covering up the mirrors (if they are asking or wanting to take down whatever you've put up). They're usually understanding or at least will leave you alone about it. Get rid of anything you use to help you pick at your skin. Don't have any blemish tools or needles or whatever they're called. Some skin picking guides will tell you to have these to prevent you from using your fingers, but if it's encouraging you to get close up to your skin, get rid of it. This might be TMI or gross or whatever, but I had to get rid of all of my tweezers because I would use them to pick at my skin. I now use eyebrow razors or whatever they're called to do my brows. It would be great to have tweezers sometimes but I can't prevent myself from using them if they're accessible to me. Figure out conditions that increase the likelihood of picking at your skin. When you find yourself picking at your skin, think about what's going on. For me, it was when I was either stressed (like studying or worrying about applications or exams) or idle (like driving in the car, reading a book, watching tv). Once you recognize when you're doing it, you can start coming up with ways to combat it. Also, if it's happening a lot when you're stressed, you might want to talk to a therapist, psychiatrist, or psychologist about it; it can be an indicator of an underlying mental health issue. I personally have OCD and getting on anti-anxiety medication has been a huge help on my journey. For idle skin picking, occupy your hands/fingers. A lot of skin picking guides mention this, but it's helpful to note that you logistically cant be using a little puzzle or fidget spinner all the time (think about if you're at work or in your car or reading a book--you don't have both hands free, or it may be just plain unreasonable to use these things). My best tip for this is to get a spinner ring (I have three that I just bought on Amazon). I try to wear them whenever I know that I will have time to pick at my skin. Most importantly, put them on in a way that will occupy your index fingers (or whichever you use to pick at your skin). Find a trusted confidant. This can be harder for some than others. Luckily, my partner understands this habit, but it still took me a year and a half to be open with them about this. I still lie about picking at my skin when they catch me looking in the mirror, but having someone that you can share your frustrations with can be so helpful. This person can help you cover up your mirrors and be proud of you when your skin is healing and help you if you really f*ck up. Do not confide in someone that's going to make you feel bad or gross about picking at your skin. There are enough people that will just tell you to stop picking, so thank you but no. Don't worry if this step doesn't work for you; some of us just can't share this with others or haven't found anyone in our life that can be this person for us. That's okay. Keep your nails short. Some people claim that getting acrylics helps them not pick, but I have found that the best strategy when it comes to nails is to cut them down to almost nothing. Don't watch acne videos or pimple popping videos. I know that this is something other guides tell you to do, but from my observations, this just increases the drive to pick at my skin. I see these videos and think about all the stuff I want to get out of my pores. You might think that watching them will satisfy the urge to pick, but watching these videos will just make you think about it more. Use more rewards and less punishment. If you go for a while without picking at your skin, if you prevent yourself when you feel like you're about to start, if you cover up all your mirrors, or if you get rid of your skin picking tools, reward yourself! Do a face mask or have a piece of chocolate or get the cool new serum that you've been wanting. We respond better to reinforcement than to punishment. Be proud of yourself for every step forward on this journey. Cover it up. If you've picked at your skin, put some antibiotic ointment on and then cover it up with an acne patch. I don't know about how these work for getting rid of blemishes or however you're supposed to use them but they are super helpful for preventing picking more. If you can feel the rough part of your skin where you picked at, you're probably going to want to pick more to smooth it out. Having a patch on it can prevent you from feeling those rough edges that you can pull at. Don't be a completist. This one is so so so hard, but remind yourself that picking once is better than picking twice, picking twice is better than three times, etc. Once you've picked at your skin, it's not like you've ruined your face for the whole day or something. Every time you do it, try to walk away. I know it can feel impossible, especially when it looks like there's more that you can pick at, but don't fall into the trap of thinking that once you've started, stopping is irrelevant. Treat skin picking like an addiction to cigarettes. Having one cigarette is bad if you're trying to quit, but going back for a second and third is worse than stepping away after one. Think about it like a real addiction, because in many cases, it is. Once you start thinking about dermatillomania or skin picking as an addiction, these steps don't seem so unreasonable. Getting rid of things that increase the likelihood of picking, throwing out all the things that make you want to pick, etc. are all similar to ways that addicts try and get "clean". Throughout this process, treat yourself like a loved one that has an addiction. Do everything you can to support yourself in quitting, but don't berate yourself if and when you slip up. Getting mad at yourself and being too hard on yourself throughout the quitting process can encourage you to pick at your skin more. Take a deep breath and step away for a bit. If you find yourself at the mirror or picking at your skin, take a deep breath and go grab a glass of water or do a quick stretch. Every moment is a new opportunity. submitted by /u/leafygreen4 to r/SkincareAddiction [link] [comments]

I’ve been having a lot of trouble with anxiety lately, and I’m considering trying a spinner ring after seeing a few on here. I’m looking for something affordable and unassuming. How have your experiences been with spinner rings? submitted by /u/Unincorrigible to r/autism [link] [comments]

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Everything in my life lead me to believe that'd I'd be successful. My grades through High School? Phenomenal. College career? Exemplary. I was in the Honors Program and graduated a full semester early. Left with an M.D in Anesthesiology and I don't mean to toot my own horn but honestly, there was no reason I wouldn't be making a rich man's salary and probably end up with a trophy wife and a couple of kids. That's genuinely what I thought after graduating. Yeah, I was a bit of an asshole. You know what I found out? None of that matters. Nothing seems like it matters after you've killed someone. Everything seems so small and meaningless. And it all started in a café. Well, not really. I suppose it truly started after I got my first rejected application. You know the medical field is booming, it's a hot market nowadays. Lots of money to be made. Turns out I wasn't as special as I thought I was. Competition is stiff, and Anesthesiology is a very specialized field. My credentials? They were good sure, impressive to outsiders even, but not in the network. I was another dime a dozen compared to some of these people. There isn't exactly a high demand for an occupation so specific, so only the top of the pile see any work. These are things they conveniently didn't teach us at university. And I do mean convenient. 320,000 fucking dollars worth of convenient in fact. I was capable and intelligent, not rich. I was relying on my surely secured job to pay off my debts. Well, clearly the job wasn't as secure as I'd thought. And clearly I wasn't as intelligent as I imagined. I didn't have the funds to go job seeking across the country. I was stuck with a glossy, state-of-the-art degree that nobody wanted. I was like a fish in a fish tank. I felt trapped and useless. My pride overcame myself in the end, though. I flat out refused to pick up a minimum wage job, I thought I was above that. I was "just waiting it out", I'd tell my parents who were half way across the country, between trips to the food pantry and making minimum payments on my 1 bedroom apartment. Everyday was a painful reminder of what I should've been, and ultimately what I wasn't. I don't know if that feeling, that ever growing idea, was what attracted his attention. I don't know if it even matters. I'd come into the café because it was warm. I sat at a table as close to the wall (and as far away from the employees) as I could get. December is a not a good month for someone without a car. I was late on my rent and started circling the drain. The "drain" being picking up a job at a fast food place and thus, in my mind, dooming myself to eternal burger flipping. I wasn't returning my Moms calls, insisting I was swamped with the rigorous application process in medicine. How disappointed she'd be if she'd known I was wallowing in self pity. These thoughts, the stress of my enormous debt, the crushed dreams I had before me, how fucking cold my hands and feet were, all became too much. Sitting alone at the table in the far corner of the café, I cried silently to myself. I buried my face in my hands, blocking them from any onlookers. I still had that pride. When I felt the tap on my shoulder, I immediately figured I was being asked to leave, and in record time too. Back out into the winter. Back to my apartment whose days were numbered. I was taken back by what I saw. A heavy set man wearing a black overcoat and holding his hat in his hands was looking down at me. The jewelry adorning his right hand alone was worth more than my whole net worth, I'd bet. I began to get up, expecting he wanted this seat and he'd seen I clearly wasn't getting anything. A baseball mitt sized hand gently settled on my shoulder to stop me, "No, son. Sit down." I don't mean to mention this out of tastelessness, but he was black, and had a deep heavy set voice that dripped with warmth and jolliness. Miraculously, he sat down across from me and ordered us drinks. Don't remember what it was called, but it was sweet and it immediately soothed my hungry and cold insides. After taking a few sips of his own, he turned his sympathetic look back to me. I remember that distinction. It wasn't pity. It was sympathy. "What's your name, son?" After a few moments, realizing there was no weight to my name, and thus no reason not to give it, I spoke. "Felix." "S'apleasure, Felix. I'm Curtis Marsh. Most call me Mr. Marsh." Another pause, as the steam curled off our drinks. "You've seen better days, that right son?" I didn't want to dignify that with a response, but my face must've betrayed me. "There's no shame in it. Plenty of people have been there." Though he didn't say it, I felt he was referring to himself. He reached into his coat pocket and produced a notepad, and pen, bound with black leather to match. He set it wordlessly on the table before looking back to me. "I'm not one to judge. I am one to help though, Felix." Suddenly my temper flared up, indignation at being seen as a charity case. I was supposed to be a god damn doctor. God, I was an asshole. "I don't want your money." I spat defiantly. Curtis let out a deep belly laugh as his whole face scrunched with his smile. "Course not. I'm afraid I don't got that to give, neither." Looking him over again, I decided that was full of shit, but didn't say anything. Picking up and clicking the pen, he began scribbling on his notepad. "No, son, what you need is a little direction." He silently scribbled as the café's murmurs and clinks filled the space around us. Eventually he tore the page from the book and returned it to his coat. He held the page up in his hand, "I'm going to give this to you Felix, as a favor from one to another. You don't gotta' use it. Soon as I walk outta' here, you can bin it. But if you use it, and things work out like I think," "You'll be grateful, right son?" I turned it over in my head. This was easily one of the most bizarre interactions I'd ever had with anyone, let alone a stranger, in my life. The cynic in me said that this was some wealthy man's way of getting his laughs while out and about. But the optimist believed in his sincerity. What could it hurt? I relented. "Sure. Yeah." "Good man." That infectious smile returned to his face as he slid the note across the table. Before I could even look at it, he'd stood up and held out his hand. As I shook it, my hand feeling goofily small in his, he said, "I'll be seeing you, Felix. Don't forget me on your way to the top." Half sarcastically, I returned, "Sure thing, Curtis." Another deep laugh eventually tapered off into a chuckle as he left the café. After he'd gone, I slowly turned the note over, to see what just what this strange man had thought would be so valuable to me. There was only one thing on the front side. An address and a date. I recognized it as a one of the hospitals in the city. Beneath that, it read: "Make it an interview. Mention fishing." I tried it. Wouldn't you? I didn't have the credentials needed for this particular facility, hence why I hadn't applied already, but it's not like there was something to lose by not trying. I donned my suit and tie that'd been hanging in the closet for nearly a month and left my dingy apartment, which made for a disconnect, and caught a bus to the hospital. The interview went amazingly. Though I didn't have the exact credentials, a position had recently opened that they badly needed filled in the ICU and we talked at length about fishing and the many trips he'd been on. I didn't even register how unbelievably prophetic Curtis's advice had been. I think along the way I convinced myself it'd been my idea, to mention fishing, after noticing the picture on his desk. Either way, two weeks later I got a call back. They wanted a followup. The process took its sweet time, and I barely kept my head above the surface at some points, but eventually I landed a secure, and more importantly, VERY well paying job. I flourished in the environment, and eventually was making enough to not only start paying my debts but move into an even nicer apartment. I spent three years at that particular facility, then moved to a higher paying one, which I stayed at for another 4 years, until last year moving to yet another better paying spot. I won't go into numbers, but I was earning enough to pay off my debts by my fourth year of work, so you could say I was earning that "rich man" salary I'd dreamed of. While reviewing the positives, I was seeing someone. But this isn't a trophy wife, no. Caroline is so much more than a pretty face. I won't get sappy, sorry. I'd met her at the second hospital I'd worked at, actually. I was leaving for the day when outside, in this pretty garden area we had, a woman was crying silently to herself on a bench. Face buried in her hands. It was a familiar sight. I approached her. I was much less of a prick by then, after working with so many people sick and unfortunate, so don't think I was preying on a woman in a weakened state. In fact, relationships were the last thing on my mind when she told me her fiancé had just died. Complications with a surgery. No reason to expect it. I offered to talk to her, and so we did. For about two years we talked and... Well. Yes, we were seeing each other. And I don't see anything wrong with it, thank you. After all, she's the reason I got my house built. My intentions were true. I love Caroline and genuinely wanted to spend the rest of my life with her. One day, when she and I were still settling into our new home, a knock at the door cut through the quiet we were getting used to. After going to answer it, she returned with a slightly furrowed brow and said, "Someone's here for you." Curtis Marsh stood in the doorway, wearing that same black get up and hat as all those years ago. "G'morning, son." He smiled, holding a plain white box under his left arm. I was at a loss. I rushed forward and shook his hand. "Curtis! How are you? It's been so long! How'd you know where to find me?" A million questions swam through my head. It's not that I hadn't thought about him since that day, far from it. I just didn't believe I'd ever see him again, that'd he'd always be that enigmatic figure that did me a kind turn. I'd tell my grandchildren about Curtis Marsh one day and tell them I didn't know who he was, but I'd always think he was my guardian angel. I guess I should've known by then not to believe in expectations. "Swell. I don't got time to come in, m'afraid. I see you've been busy, though." His eyes shifted into the house, and I knew from the shuffling behind me, Caroline. For the first time, something Curtis said struck me as... wrong. I partially closed the door behind me, obstructing the view of her and the inside. Trying my best to remain friendly, I said, "Well what I can I do for you then, Curtis?" His eyes read me for a moment, then he chuckled. "Just stopping by to drop off this here." He gestured to the box under his arm, "Call it a house warming present." He extended the box out to me, one handed. Taking it into my own, I questioned, "You've already done much for me, you don't even know, how am I supposed to accept another gift?" He adjusted his hat before sliding his hands back into his coat pockets. His glinting eyes met mine, and something about them struck me. They didn't have the warmth I remembered in them. As I opened the top flap, inside I saw a chorded phone. One of those old looking landlines, with the spinner to dial. There was only one number though, "0". Curtis spoke, and I looked back up. "You're gonna' put that in the back of your house for me. Right on the table on your side of the bed, son." His voice still sounded cheery and jovial, but it was not a request. It was a command. I looked back down at the shiny, jet black phone in the box. "Why should I do what you say? How do you know I have a table on my side of the bed?" I was grateful to Curtis, sure. But I wasn't suddenly his pooch. "Your second question answers your first, Felix." He grinned at me, as if it was a cute joke. "As for how I know, m'afraid that's my business." "Your business? This is my god damn house, Curtis, tell me how you know!" He stepped forward onto the stoop, and I got a whole new idea of how massive he was. I could hardly see the outside past him. His voice lowered, but I swear the world went quieter. "You see son, none of this is yours. Not this house. Not your job. Not even that pretty little thing you got inside. Not yet." Rage boiled in my chest, but the fear. The fear was so much more overpowering. "One day this phone is going to ring. It only rings three times, and you will pick it up before the third. You understand, son?" I did. With every fiber of my paralyzed being, I did. "Have a good one, Felix." He stepped off the porch and began down the sidewalk. Half way there, he stopped and called back over his shoulder, "Oh, and son? When you answer, call me Mr. Marsh." I told Caroline it was an antique. A vintage gift from an old friend. She believed it, I even think she kind of liked it. I couldn't stop myself from complying with Mr. Marsh's demand. I tried my best to put the matter in the back of my mind, but laying down right next to the phone every night made it hard. The first month I was constantly on edge waiting for his call. The second I was curious if he ever would. By the third, I'd more or less accepted the phone as a new piece of bedroom décor. Then one day, a full 9 months after I'd gotten it, the phone rang. Caroline wasn't home, and it was one of my rare off days. I was ready to stay at home and catch up on the many shows I'd started but couldn't finish. I felt the floorboards tremble and glass rattle through the house. A shrill ring was cutting through the walls as if they weren't there. It kept up, unlike a normal ring, for a full 30 seconds before finally stopping. By then I'd found it. The phone on my dresser. Mr. Marsh was calling. After a moment of the nothing but the sound of my own breathing, the ring picked back up. The house was truly shaking beneath the sound. Covering my ears, I stumbled forward towards the phone. I had to answer, I had to get it to stop. I had to answer Marsh. As I stretched out my hand to answer the second ring stopped. I could hear my heartbeat in its absence. What if I just unplugged it? I didn't have to listen to him, did I? Just as the third ring began I picked up the receiver and held it to my ear. "Hello? Mr. Marsh?" "Hello, son." None of it had been me, he said. Those opportunities for jobs had opened up because of him. Caroline's misfortune, and my subsequent inclusion in her life was because of him. I told him that I didn't understand. All he'd done was written a note. He said it'd be clear soon. Then he gave me a street, and a date. "There'll be something for you on that street, Felix. I want you to take it and get rid of it for me." I worked that day. I rubbed my temples and groaned in desperation and anxiety, "Why are you making me do this?" "Listen here, Felix. Who's house is that?" I hesitated. The word came out like poison. "Yours." "Who's job is it?" I'd worked my ass off for nearly a decade. I was the one who devoted my hours to climbing the ladder and getting things done right. "Yours." "Who's woman is that?" Words caught in my throat. Caroline was my everything. Love is not something you come by every day. It's something worth fighting for, worth dying for, always. After a few moments of silence, he spoke again, his voice was angry, almost animalistic, it shook me to my core. "Who's woman is that?" "Yours." "Right. I can take it all away, like that. We all got debts to pay. It's time you start paying yours." I knew better than to argue. Rereading the address and date, I finally asked, "How will I know what I'm looking for?" "Don't worry, son. You will. And if you don't do what I said to the letter," "Caroline will answer for it." The road was fairly far from the city. After a few hours of winding through suburbs, and then eventually to rural land, I began to wonder what In God's fuck Marsh was making me do. Finally I was nearing my location. I'd had to use one of my precious few sick days and tell my wife I had an appointment with another facility about transferring. The road had long ago turned to gravel that popped and crunched beneath my tires. Alright, I thought as I rounded a corner onto this wooded, crummy little backroad. Let's see what Marsh dragged me out here to do. The road was long and straight. I scanned up and down, and even looked behind me to double check. It was empty. Not one single thing in either direction except for trees and road. Anger started bubbling in me, thinking Marsh had done this as a power play just to fuck with me. And that's when I saw him appear at the end of the road, walking along the side, hands in his pockets. A kid. I learned that day that Marsh needs certain things to happen, even for reasons you or I don't understand. He wasn't old or strong enough to put up much of a fight. I had to hit him in the head a few times to get him to go down so I could restrain him, but that was it. I learned that Marsh helps people in subtle ways. Life is about chain reactions, and anything good requires a little bad somewhere down the line. I cried the whole time I drove, even screamed a few times. The kid remain dazed and scared, but didn't try escaping. I tried not to look at him tied up back there. I learned that my debt to Marsh won't go away. Every day I live is his, because he was the one that gave me direction. He was the one that opened the doors I'd long ago walked through. I at least managed to make it painless. I'm an Anesthesiologist after all. Shortly after I finished, I checked my phone. An Amber Alert had gone out for the kid an hour ago. I threw up. The first time Marsh called me was the hardest. It got easier from there. I have two kids of my own now, and hold a very respectable position at my current facility. Caroline doesn't even have to work part time. Anyone from the outside could look at me and say, "Now him. That's a successful man." And you know what, I suppose they're right. I have to go now. The phone is ringing. submitted by /u/ButTheyWereGone to r/nosleep [link] [comments]

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