Swiftcurrent Creek Let me go, I wanna die in the disco

Some of those words, she knew- but Moss heaved a tired sigh when she heard the word hysteria. She rolled her labradorite eyes, which were softer when they landed on Reverie. The process of being diagnosed was intrusive. As uncomfortable as poking and prodding was for diagnosing a strain or sprain from a break, then having one's mental health assessed was pure torture, in the hands of the wrong wolf. It sounded as though Reverie had not had much luck. 

"Sounds like you've been talking to men." She stated simply. "They use some of those words specifically for women." She said. "A shitty way of saying 'I don't understand what you're going through, or why, or how to help you, so here's a word for it.'" 

Reverie was looking at her, and she looked back at the golden woman, wondering if she could see past the walls Moss put up simply to keep herself from being truly seen. She suspected that unlike most others, Reverie would see her clearly. "You would've liked my sister. She was one of the helpful ones."