Emmett sighed as he clicked around online on a private browser—of course he knew that didn't really do much, but anything to help cover up his own previous algorithmic tracks while he did some research. He knew... his history wasn't really the best, and he wanted to at least give it a shot towards being somewhat more unbiased as he searched this stuff up. Actually reading people's blogs with an open mind instead of an antagonistic one, where he just gathered material to volley troll-s**t at them, felt so WEIRD. Mega weird, in fact! This wasn't really his kinda thing. At all. Yet, here he was.

s**t, look at him, he was even taking notes! Handwritten notes! In a shitty spiral-bound notebook! Trying to work through his own feelings! What the ******** was this bullshit, huh?! But he was doing it. And it... seemed to be working, sorta? He... felt better. ********, man, those people were not kidding when they said therapy could probably help just about anyone, not just like, soldiers with PTSD or whatever. Because a lot of these techniques he was coming across on accident while reading about other stuff seemed like they would help. Most of the stuff he read was about how toxic masculinity had affected a lot of young boys and men, made them feel inferior, and a lot of his knee-jerk reactions were so... angry. And derisive.

For the first time... He didn't like that part of himself. For the first time, he thought that was unkind and not okay and it wasn't fun to feel that way anymore.

It felt... freeing, in a way he didn't expect, to accidentally dig up all those ancient pains and have them be validated as pains. That they shouldn't have happened, and it was okay for it to be painful, okay for him to not like what had happened to him, okay for him to think it was upsetting. It was okay to... not be okay. And that...

He flipped the monitor off so he didn't have to look at it and tossed his notebook in his seat, turning to belly flop onto his bed and try valiantly for a minute to not cry. He failed, and quiet sobs wracked his body for a long time as he clutched his stupid, useless, lumpy pillow, catching the sobs and the tears in it. He really ought to get a new pillow, he thought to himself as he let out another shaky whimper, pressing his face harder into the shitty pillow. There was no reason to keep using some useless old pillow just because he thought he could take it. There was no reason to keep... hurting himself like this. To prevent himself from having more good things in life, just because he thought he could take being hard and cold and unfeeling. Take having crappy quality things just to enforce the idea that only a real man could handle it.

He... didn't have to be that way anymore, and he cried for the little boy who'd taken all those things and internalized them and used them to ruthlessly punish himself for things he didn't have to, who grew into a hurtful, scornful man who laughed at pain.

The world had twisted him up... And it would take so much work to undo. But he wanted to do it.

He just wanted to have a soft ******** pillow, damnit.