Our Little Bumble Bee || Poly Losers

introduction

warning - mentions past abuse, neglect, traumatic experiences, implied self harm
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Richie wasn't all happy rainbows and mom jokes. Dirty talk, filthy words, trashmouth. There was a much more sensitive, vulnerable side to him. One that nobody has really seen except for his therapist.

Richie was a loud mouth in classes, getting off on a good one when the teachers talk about sex and becoming the class clown throughout high school. Though, people still treated him like the nothing piece of garbage his parents saw. His friends, the losers, also slightly hated his behavior. They saw him as obnoxious and annoying at the worst times. But they still found it in their hearts to love him no matter the circumstances. Unless he killed someone.

Richie came home from school every day just to clean up glass bottles and empty cigarette packets. Occasionally, he'd snatch a bit of pot his dad left in the ash tray. Once his parents would get home, they'd be drunk. Stumbling up the stairs to their room, just to make love. But when they weren't drunk, they were fighting, then the fighting would escalate and someone would end up being knocked out, or they'd take it out on Richie. Most of the time, it was the second option. Night after night, Richie would end up with more bruises that have yet to heal, and scars on his arms that have yet to fade into his porcelain skin.

He wouldn't eat at school. He'd only eat small portions of food at home when his parents weren't there.

One day, at 16 years old, when he was with his friends, in the clubhouse, Bill noticed Richie's stomach, a purple mark that scattered from his waist to his belly button. It was like a belt had smacked him repeatedly.

"H-Hey- Hey, Rich?" The boy stuttered towards the other boy in the hammock, reading a Marvel Comic.

Richie looked towards the taller boy and smiled playfully, "Yeah, Billy Boy?"

"What happened to your st-stomach?" he pointed at the pale stomach, only darkened with a purple and yellow tint.

At that point, all eyes were on him. He spent 10 minutes trying to explain that he fell and hit himself on a tree stump but the others weren't buying it.

But Richie got up and stormed out of the clubhouse, tears falling down his face. He was hoping they'd end up pushing it away, but that night, there was a knock on the door at about 12:00 am.

"CPS, open the door."

Richie was shocked. As soon as his drunken mom had opened the door, cops had both her and Richie's father in handcuffs.

'DAMMIT GUYS WHAT DID YOU DO THIS TIME?' Richie thought as CPS agents began to check his body. Marks and bruises and cuts were everywhere, signaling proof of self harm and abuse.

Why was Richie so upset by this though? Shouldn't he have been happy that his friends helped him get away from his hell of a house that he's been abused in for years? Part of him was, but another part of him was scared. This means he would have to be in a foster home. He was scared they'd only treat him the same way.

But in the end, it wasn't all bad being in a fostering place. He still went to the same school and hung out with the same friends. They have him real good and took good care of him, but the other kids only reminded him of his parents, just minus the getting drunk part. They were younger and older kids, reaching up to 17 years old but they were still violent. They'd end up smacking and hitting Richie, sending him into a spiraling panic attack. He didn't know why he flinched at every movement or why he panicked when he was slightly popped upside the head, so his foster parents made him a therapist appointment.

In therapy, over the course of weeks, Richie was diagnosed with Depression, Bipolar Disorder, Anxiety, and PTSD.

His therapist talked to his foster care parents about this and decided that Richie was ready to have his own room, his own space in the foster home. And in the course of the month, he did. He could finally breathe again.

Though, it didn't stop the horrible panic attacks and unhealthy coping mechanisms. He smoked pot, he still cut himself, he snuck out at night, and at one point, he tried to kill himself. He was in the mental institution for a few days before he was safe with himself again.

His therapist ended up suggesting something in a group therapy session with his foster parents.

"Have you tried to cope with age regression?"

"Have I tried,, what?"

Richie was confused. What's age regression? What the fuck?

His foster mom, Catherine, spoke up, "What exactly is 'age regression', ma'am?"

The therapist, Mrs. Fairchild, responded, "Well you see, age regression is a coping mechanism that people with DID or PTSD often use to keep themselves at bay. It's refreshing your brain, taking it into a child state of mind. There are age ranges. You could regress to as young as 1 year old. Here's an example: If you are on the verge of a panic attack, or you just feel like doing it, you can trigger yourself into going into age regression, by playing with dolls or toy truck, having a pacifier and sippy cup, diapers, or even onesies and small blankets and stuffed animals. They can also have caregivers, that could perhaps even be a partner. Sometimes you can't force yourself into the headspace when you want to though, but other times, things like tv shows, and other things can."

The boy pushed up his glasses, furrowing his eyebrows. He was still confused. Mrs. Fairchild could obviously see how he, and Catherine and Markus were still confused.

"Okay, hold on." She got up and went to a cabinet. She picked up a rattle and a stuffed animal. She handed them to Richie, in which he took them and stared.

"What are these for?"

"I want you to try and think as if you were 2 years old, try to mentally become the two year old. Play with the stuffed animal and shake the rattle."

Richie felt awkward with his foster parents watching him, and his therapist. "Can,, I be alone?" he asked.

"Oh- Yeah of course!" Markus said and stood up, clearing his throat. He left the room, Catherine and Mrs. Fairchild following. Mrs. Fairchild gave the boy a smile and a wink, showing her support.

And so Richie tried. It took him a few tries before he felt himself starting to feel small. Mentally of course. He felt younger. Super young. The rattle and stuffed animal all of a sudden became entertaining to him. Soothing and comfortable and calming.

It has worked. Markus and Catherine were glad that they had gotten Richie his own room, for then he could keep himself tame in his regressed mind. They bought him items, like pacifiers, sippy cups, bottles, stuffed animals, rattles, teethers, etc.

From then on, Richie knew how to cope. He never told anyone about this ever since though. Not even the losers. 2 years later, he got multiple partners. They were the whole losers club. Beverly, Bill, Ben, Mike, Stan, and Eddie were finally in a relationship with him.

But here's the thing...

He doesn't know how to tell them.

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Thank you for reading! Be prepared for the actual first chapter in a bit! ❤️