#also you cannot convince me that Every Single Person Making These Jokes has been abused and therefore is ~allowed~ to make jokes about it

[hotchley]

sadness

Right, my laptop is at 12% and I need to cross-post to ao3 and go to sleep because I have one more mock tomorrow, so I’ll try and keep this one short.

My post earlier sparked this. I am now writing a series called “he blinks” which explores how Hotch feels each of the eight core emotions (and probably love, because I am nothing if not a sucker for Hotch and Haley.) Anyways... sadness is first. But it’s more like grief? So... it’s set after 100, and yeah :) There’s no dialogue, and I think this counts as introspection, but I don’t know...

I had more to say, but I can’t remember so... onwards! It’s relatively short, 1272 words, so I hope it’s okay. I’ve not touched most of my WIPs since whenever I last uploaded a fic, and it’s more just me rambling so yeah.. go with it

Trigger Warnings: death, grief, the slightest implication of child abuse (please let me know if I’ve missed anything, but I think this is it)

read on ao3!

Aaron Hotchner’s sadness is quiet.

That’s what Haley’s death teaches the BAU.

Penelope’s sadness is happiness that seems too loud, too much, too forced and perfect to be anything but a terrible attempt at masking something negative. 

JJ’s sadness is socially acceptable: she cries, she accepts the comfort, and then she stitches herself back together before anyone can wonder why one sentence wasn’t able to fix her.

Derek’s sadness is a fierce protectiveness over the people he loves most, because they are the thing that keeps him going and remind him of all the reasons to try his best to cope and move on and deal.

Spencer’s is an unusual thing, that is somehow vulnerable and closed-off in the same moment. He will shed his tears openly, sometimes not even realising that is what he is doing, but he recoils at the slightest glimmer of support.

Emily’s is hidden behind stupid jokes that can’t even raise the corners of her mouth and stories from a childhood that she still can’t quite wrap her head around serve as a coping mechanism, because if she cannot go back to that blissful ignorance then she will remind herself it exists.

Dave’s is an explosive thing that showcases itself as anger and a closed office door. The team always knows when he’s sad. He won’t accept comfort from anyone in the moment, but an unspoken apology is given to everyone in the form of a meal when he’s thinking rationally.

But Aaron’s sadness is quiet and unsuspecting.

The team had never realised that. They’d never been allowed to. 

When Dave recruited him to the team, he was too busy keeping him alive to realise how quiet Aaron could be. 

When Derek joined, Aaron was too busy with keeping him in check and making sure he was safe. 

And when Reid, Garcia and JJ joined, only a few months between each of them, Hotch had been forced to take the reins from Gideon and would not let anyone see him break.

Emily accused him of not being human enough, despite remembering the boy that had worked for her mother and hadn’t quite learnt how to hide the flinch that was reflexive with every slam of a door, and who wore his heart on his sleeve without even realising, so she never saw him break. Until Foyet.

His sadness crept up on them.

They would go hours, sometimes even days, convinced that he was fine. That he was coping, and moving forward, and okay. It was stupid and wishful thinking, they knew that, but they also believed that Hotch was perfect and invincible. 

Reid thought he never blinked. JJ still remembers how he never seemed to lose it.

They would assume he was fine.

And then he wouldn’t smile at something. Or he would, but it would be a shadow of his usual joy and childish excitement. Or it wouldn’t quite reach his eyes, which would remain just as hollow and unfocused and dull as the day of the funeral. Or it would seem to cause him pain to even try.

He would suddenly shove his hands in his pockets. As though he could still feel the blood of Foyet, mixed with his own because Foyet was not and never had been weak, tainting it, despite all the care Derek applied when he wiped them clean. As though he was still in that house, terrified his son would hate him for taking his mother away. As though he couldn’t look at them without seeing the monster he had always known he would eventually become.

Or his voice would soften, just a little too much. His tone would change completely, and the person he was talking to would feel like a child going to the one person that always made them feel safe and seeing someone that could only try to be that good instead. His words would become quieter. Less concise. More calculated. Like he was walking the line between control and destruction.

There would be hesitation. Hotch’s confidence was often a facade, but it was a facade so strong that it even convinced profilers. Morgan had hated it when he first joined, scared his new boss was going to be someone that would stand up and play devil's advocate, but then he had realised the truth: he was just scared of being undermined. Reid had admired it then, and he admired it now. 

He would hesitate, and it would remind them of everything he had lost. He would hesitate with his gun, and Morgan would panic because they had lost Gideon to the job, they couldn’t lose him too. He would hesitate with his pen, and Reid would frown, because Hotch’s reports were used for the trainees as perfect examples, and every word that he wrote himself was modelled after the reports from Hotch he had read after starting.

He would hesitate to touch his son and JJ would weep inside because she knew what it was like to be a child and to have a parent that wasn’t quite whole, knowing that there was nothing you could do to fix the situation because you weren’t the person they wanted.

There would be a slight clearing of his throat before he addressed the team about a case involving mothers, women, children, blondes. He would turn away, and one hand would quickly and furiously wipe at his eyes, before he turned back and acted like he was made of steel.

They would all see him reach for his phone on the harder cases, then freeze and place his hand elsewhere like his pocket was burning him. Dave, Derek, and even JJ would try and mention it, but Aaron always acted like he had no idea what they were talking about. Spencer and Penelope can’t even try and ask how he is before he starts distracting them with some random knowledge about their interests.

Neither genius is oblivious to what he was trying to do. They pretend to be for his sake.

Aaron’s sadness is not the explosion of grief the shows and movies had taught them to prepare for. It is not the beautiful road to healing the poems had caused them to hope for. It is not the simple and painless, cured by a single sleep event the books always make it out to be.

Aaron’s sadness is tired eyes, dark circles, shaking hands. It is sobs stifled at the most random and unplanned time. It is blank stares during conversations and it is slight smiles that expose his brain as being a million miles away. It is the sight of his left hand with a tan line where the ring had been removed two years ago.

It is the team, the family that wants nothing more to fix everything and make him better, having no idea what they are meant to do to help the man that has always held them and cradled them and protected them. It is them feeling like they have made a mistake with every unanswered text. It is the bitter acceptance that all they can do is hold him together until he is ready to take the first step.

It is Aaron Hotchner, not even knowing what he needs anymore and being too afraid to ask for words of assurance and love. It is Aaron Hotchner wearing his wedding ring to feel like a piece of Haley is still real and alive. It is Aaron Hotchner feeling lost and angry and numb and bitter and relieved all at once.

It is all of this. And yet somehow, it is still quiet.

#criminal minds #criminal minds fic #aaron hotchner #sad aaron hotchner #hurt aaron hotchner #hotch angst #hotch whump #tw grief #tw death #how the fuck do you tag things #sumayyah writes cm

[strawberriesinmoominvalley]

how to write a panic attack

something like this has probably been made before, but i thought i’d throw my two pence in. so, here’s how to write a panic attack by an anxious mess

what is a panic attack?

a panic attack is where someone feels terrified and scared, without being in any real danger. they mainly occur with people who have anxiety disorders and/or ptsd, although they can happen to anyone.

however, a panic attack isn’t just fear. it causes a physical response. you brain perceives a threat, and goes into fight/flight/freeze. adrenaline is released, your body prepares to react. you become focused on the danger, because your brain has seen a threat and is trying to protect you from the non-existent danger.

what causes them?

panic attacks can happen for no reason, however there is usually a cause. these can be anything, from “this room is loud” to “someone just triggered me by mentioning something to do with my trauma” to “i read something about a phobia i have”. 

if someone is already stressed, or tired, or just not having a good day, that will increase the likeliness of a panic attack. something that might not cause a panic attack on a normal day might cause one on a bad day. sometimes lots of things build up until your brain can’t take it anymore. 

triggers can seem very small. for example, if you’re talking about trauma, it could be the abuser’s name, or a smell that reminds you of something. they can be things that scare a character, or a song -  anything, really. they can seem insignificant, but can cause catastrophic consequences. 

symptoms

everyone experiences panic attacks differently. symptoms are a grab bag and no two people will experience them the same. most people will experience shortness of breath and a racing heart, but apart from that it’s really up to you. the combinations can be weird and strange but hey, that’s anxiety. i’m not going to be able to list every singly symptom here, but i’ll try to list as many as i can:

crippling fear - it comes on the tin, but it can vary. sometimes you’re just terrified, sometimes it feels like nothing good is ever going to happen again, and the world is always going to feel this way. you feel impending doom and fear and it is Bad

being convinced you are going to die. there isn’t really a better way to describe this, you just know this is the end and it is awful

feeling like you are out of control. this usually comes with the more severe ones, as it can feel like you are going crazy

a racing heart - your body feels like it needs to fight or flee from something, so it is preparing to do so

shortness of breath - this is terrifying. it can feel like something is pressing into your chest, and your throat is closing up. you can choke and gasp and never feel like you have enough air. this usually causes you to hyperventilate

dizziness and feeling lightheaded - this usually comes from hyperventilating. your character may hand to sit down suddenly, or, if they’re stubborn like me and refuse to for whatever reason, just dramatically faint

feeling nauseous - most people will feel sick/have terrible stomach cramps, but not throw up. i have, but it’s happened only once

hot/cold flashes

sweating

goosebumps

chest pains - from my experience, your chest just aches and feels heavy, although sometimes it can cause you to double over in pain

crying - anyone can cry during a panic attack. it can cause them to hyperventilate worse, because it’s hard to breathe when you’re sobbing

screaming - sometimes anxiety can come out of anger. they might scream incoherently at people, and can completely wreck their voice in doing so

loss of speech - this can be awful, especially if you’re trying to communicate to someone what’s happening

shaking/trembling - everyone shakes when they’re anxious, but imagine your whole body doing it. you can’t control it, and can barely control your actions

ringing/buzzing ears - this can be mild, or to the point where you can barely hear

talking to yourself/babbling/repeating phrases - your speech isn’t going to be functional. at most, answering yes/no questions and maybe being able to partially describe what’s going on. but mostly, think “ohmygodohmygodohmygod” or “fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck”

freezing - the character might lose the ability to move anywhere. and i mean, they could be in the middle of a road and just freeze. it’s not good

pacing/fidgeting/not being able to stay still - they might throw things, jump around, might even partake in self-injurious behaviour

spiralling thoughts - even if there isn’t a trigger, the character’s inner monologue is going to loop and be incoherent. they’re going to repeat the same thoughts over and over and over. sometimes, when they’ve had it enough, they may also have the “not this again” complaint before the spiralling starts

feeling weak, like you might collapse

derealisation - feeling like everything around you isn’t real, and feeling detached from your surroundings. it feels like your in a dream-like state, or experiencing everything behind glass. it is terrifying. this can cause you to panic more, and may even hurt yourself trying to sense the world

depersonalisation - feeling detached from your body and like you aren’t real. imagine staring in the mirror and not recognise who’s staring back at you. again, terrifying and can lead to harming yourself

these aren’t even all the symptoms you can experience. there’s a lot, and can vary depending on the cause of the panic attack and the severity. for example, i tend to only derealise/depersonalise during a trauma-induced panic attack. symptoms change over time, and some symptoms may only happen during one panic attack and then never again.

writing the panic attack

now, i’m going to break this down into three sections - before the panic attack, during, and after

before the panic attack

first you need to start with the cause, which i’ve already spoken about. once you have that, you need to slowly increase the symptoms. it takes about 30 seconds for the anxiety to set in, so during that time you have to slowly introduce symptoms. if the character realises what’s going on, they may try to use coping mechanisms to stop it, or at the very least make it nicer (i’m going to talk about coping mechanisms a bit later). maybe they can feel their heart pounding, or all their senses sharpen, or their thoughts start to sharpen. it isn’t instant, there’s a build up to it.

during this time, they might run. this is extremely dangerous. they will not have the mental capacity then to think about danger. they could run into roads, hurt themselves in some way or just get lost. this is the one of the only times where a person can override the person’s wishes not to be touched (the other being if they are hurting themselves). them being safe is the highest priority.

during the panic attack

the thing about panic attacks is that they snowball. they get worse and worse until you manage to calm down or just get too exhausted to carry on. panic attacks are terrifying, but the symptoms make it twice as scary. it’s not fun.

you cannot reason your way out of them. your character is going to latch onto worst-case scenarios and nothing will ever be good again. they’re going to spiral, think of the same things over and over and over. they’re not going to think “oh no, i’m panicking”. they might have some control over their thoughts if this is their fiftieth as opposed to their third, but they’re still going to be pretty incoherent.

if this is their first one, they’re going to call an ambulance. i’m not joking. a lot of people have no idea what’s going on, and think they’re dying. it takes a few times for them to piece together what’s going on, and realise they’re having a panic attack. even if they know exactly what’s happening and it’s a regular occurrence, it is still terrifying. at one point, i was having panic attacks ever single day. i knew what was happening, but it was still awful.

the way your character can react can change how it presents. for example, if your character is stubborn, or feels like they’re “weak” because of it (which is totally untrue), maybe they’ll try to hide it. i get dizzy when i have a panic attack, and i used to hide it until suddenly i fainted. so from an external perspective, i was fine and then suddenly i was on the floor - although if someone knows you well, they can work it out regardless, so that can be a nice way to incorporate another character.

maybe your character doesn’t want to address the fact they’re having a panic attack. they could be visibly having one, but point-blank refuse to admit it. this can help show personality, while showing that they’re struggling.

panic attacks can last a few minutes. they can last hours. they are described as brief, but my shortest one has been around 20 minutes - which really isn’t short. my longest was 2 hours, and unsurprisingly, it was my worst. when you’re reaching the 45 minute mark, the format changes. then, it’s more like waves - you get really really scared and it feels awful, then you slowly start to calm down before it starts again.

after the panic attack

once the character has started calming down, whether because they’ve realised it’s been hours and they’re not dying, pure tiredness or getting symptoms under control, they are going to be exhausted.  i’ve passed out from exhaustion before. i’ve fallen asleep in awkward paces (like the middle of the street) because it is so tiring. if they’re outside/at work/school/etc. send them home (this doesn’t happen in real life much, but you can make your world a nice, supportive place). they won’t be able to do anything more taxing than making a cup of tea and cuddling up somewhere. they might not even be able to do that. they might even need someone to grab a blanket for them because the effort is too much.

most people feel more calm afterwards, but you can get awful stomach cramps from the anxiety. but most of the time, all they’re going to feel is tired. don’t put them into a battle. maybe if it’s the morning, they might be able to do something not too taxing in the evening. but most of the time, they’re going to be wiped out.

coping mechanisms

coping mechanisms 90% of the time won’t fix it. a lot of the time, you just have to wait it out. knowing what’s happening helps a lot, and if a character has experienced panic attacks a lot they might understand what’s going on. however, this isn’t always the case. i derealise and depersonalise a lot during panic attacks, but that means that a lot of the time i don’t know what’s happening. it’s terrifying. knowing is a thousand times better than not knowing what’s happening.

obviously there are many breathing techniques - for example, inhale for 4 seconds, hold for 7, exhale for 8. there are grounding techniques - 5 things you can see, 4 things you can gear, 3 things you can touch, 2 things you can smell, 1 thing you can taste. however, i often struggle to remember these because my brain gets pretty frazzled. but they DO work, if you want to include those.

a lot of people say you should hug someone, and to that, i have one word - NO. most people do not want to be touched in that situation, and hugging, especially if it’s a trauma-induced panic attack, could induce flashbacks and cause them more harm. some people do want to be hugged. some people want to be left alone. some people want to be guided through breathing, or given water, or talked to, or to hold a a hand. but!!!! please make your character ask. if that’s all you take away from this, just remember that you have to ask before you touch someone!

everyone copes differently, so bear that in mind

i want to include friends/family/significant others. how do i do that?

if the person is with someone who they feel responsible for, or have never reacted like this around them, they may try and hide what’s happening. this can make it worse, and it is less fun. i don’t want to have a panic attack around my younger sibling, so i try and hide it for as long as i can. so that’s something to think about.

if you want a cute moment where a s/o saves the day, this is not going to be it. a hug from someone nice isn’t going to magically cure the panic attack. hell, a hug might not even help at all. panic attacks are messy and awful. they can give them water, maybe talk to them, try to help them. honestly? the person is going to feel inadequate. there isn’t too much you can do, unfortunately, and they’re going to probably end up sitting there repeating the same few things over and over. but you know what? a love interest sticking with someone during the frightening, ugly hours of terror is sexy.

if you want cuddles, think about afterwards. as i have said, the person is going to be exhausted, and a lot of people will need comfort afterwards. they may even cry a lot, because they feel awful. if they’re not up to that, well maybe your other character can tuck them into bed, or run them a bath. you can have sweet moments, but wait until afterwards for the other to look after them.

-

there we go! i hope i’ve covered everything! if you need help writing scenes like this, message me - i’d be honoured to help!

#this was so exhausting #i think i need a hug now #anxiety #panic attack #anxiety attack #cw panic attack #trauma #ptsd mention #writing #writer #writing advice #fanfiction #mental health

[simonalkenmayer]

The fuck you I deserve, I admit that. I spoke with anger about you and your whole spiel here and I did so in a very inappropriate way. I want to apologize for my nasty patreon ask. truth is I am actually a firm believer in artists should be fucking compensated for their work and despise people who make comments like the one I made. I wanted to rail you up. worked all to well, kinda too well for you being oh so old and experienced. To express my anger in a more constructive way: I do believe (1/2

You, sir, are an unmitigated ass.

I utterly despise this concept that if I am what I say I am, I should sit back and let people bash me, run my reputation through the mid, berate me, speak hypocritically against their own ideals, and so on. That’s how abusive people gaslight—if you’re innocent or mature you’ll sit back and take it! How dare you defend yourself...

That is absolutely reprehensible.

You should be ashamed.

My age has nothing to do with anything. I am a different species. I age differently and I incorporate information differently. Why do you insist upon measuring me by a human yard stick? Yes I’m old, but I am also a predator and I have spent much of my life more willing to kill a man and drink his brain juice rather than suffer him to insult me, so pray tell, what about the internet and my age do think precludes me from telling you to go insert a durian fruit rectally?

Abuse trust? You’re joking surely? People trust me because I demonstrate good qualities. Not because I am or am not a monster. They trust because I have proven I can be counted upon. And as said many times, the concept that I may not be real is written into this from the beginning. Belief or lack thereof is the principle data set. Everyone is warned. No one trusts me blindly and if they do I actively discourage them and warn them to be judicious.

Let’s get to the real accusation here: that I am an author who doesn’t drop the act. You clearly think this is some pivotal realization, some deep and abiding principle which never occurred to anyone in all the time Ive been here... I have had and continue to have plenty of readers who are certain that I am a writer of human stock. They don’t behave as you do, nor do they feel the least bit upset about it. So what of the believers, eh? Let’s discuss them.

So the author...I’m trying to piece this together...the author, who makes NO MONEY off this project, is creating a massive multifaceted world...to market something from which they make no money...but devote all their time toward, by convincing people they are real...yet they specifically say they aren’t, ask for no worship, do not advocate any negatives, denounce god and ghosts and all devils of the human mind...and...give advice and help when asked.

Boy if that’s a plan to make money...may I say your author is an idiot. Or a wise benefactor. Or both. I cannot tell.

What sort of logic is this? And how in any way would said author be remiss in not dropping the act? How? There is only one argument ive heard that carries any merit, and that’s the notion that it feeds into delusions some people have...but there are a number of problems with that.

1. You’re implying that mentally ill people cannot decide for themselves.

2. There are hundreds of ideologies and religions and philosophies that feed into delusions in harmful ways. Are you out fighting those first, since they are so harmful? Did it occur to you that the best way to study such things would be to engage in them in safe ways? Hmm perhaps not.

3. Why do you assume that every single person who believes me is mentally ill? I’ve got news for you chum,every culture and religion on earth has my species or something like them written in. So maybe, just maybe, you have believed all along and you’re either all delusional in some intriguing way worth study, or you’re all right but are actively dismantling this belief in some intriguing ways that bear studying.

Why are you so god damn dead set on hating me? Have you ever just sat down and thought, “Perhaps I should try to have an actual conversation with this person instead of acting like a ridiculous, self-important champion no one asked for!” No. You haven’t. And that sir is a fascinating delusion.

I cannot fathom in any way, how any of the available arguments for or against my veracity in any way paint me as a villain. So it begs the question, what’s the point here? Why are you spending your time abusing someone on the internet to “rail them up”? Why are you being a bully? Do you see me going to the blogs of random users and critiquing them, calling them out, harassing them? No. I am not guilty of your crime sir, so why are you the righteous one?

Because you’re delusional.

Get over your impressions of me and be rational and systematic or sod the hell off, you prancing buffoon. I’ve no time for people who don’t make progress in their character.

[worstloki]

Part 3

Fury: I cannot believe the Avengers No. 1 unattainable criminal right now is a seventeen-year-old twink Clint: I can’t believe you’re calling Loki a twink Tony: I can’t believe he's been the legal godparent of kids his own age for months and I didn't realise Steve: You didn’t get him removed? I thought you made Rhodey their legal godparents instead?? Tony: nah I removed Thor Natasha: ?? why would anyone do that ?? Fury, having a breakdown: we nearly lost New York and the entire world to a 16-year-old twink with daddy issues Clint: yoU just did it aGAIN- Tony, the only actual Avenger who knows Loki isn’t actually evil™: heY! Daddy issues are a serious thing! Don’t make fun of the guy for having a crisis and finding out his life was a lie and he’d faced over a millennium of abusive environment for nothing!  Avengers: are you… defending Loki… the megalomaniac WAR CRIMINAL who turned every SHIELD facility into ice cream earlier today…? Tony, hands up in surrender: I’m saying maybe we shouldn’t be so quick to judge the guy. I wouldn't be able to guess what but maybe he had an ulterior reason for the New York fiasco? His normal stuff is usually harmless.  Avengers: ... Tony: What? It could’ve been much worse. Strange, rolling his eyes: Yes, at least it wasn’t Stark Raving Hazelnuts Loki, who has been standing at the back listening to the entire conversation: That flavour is way too chalky to suit SHIELD anyways [everyone turns to Loki with their weapons ready, except Tony of course] Loki, raising his hands in surrender: what? A Hunka-Hulka Burning Fudge is way better, and its green, and for some reason they didn’t have a Loki flavour so that was the next best option-

---

Loki: hey Morgan what would you say if i offered you an officially evil part-time job with decent pay and extremely good evil workplace benefits? Morgan: do you offer evil dental? Loki: of course?? we also have A-Grade coffee 24/7 because top class extremely good evil deserves only the best Morgan: Excellent! I look forward to working with your evil team and being a part of your nefarious schemes and plots in future Loki: Thank you. Tomorrow we replace all Tony's vehicles with incredibly realistic wax models. Morgan: ...including the jets? Loki, scoffing: what kind of amateur villains would we be if we left his jets, boats, bikes and single vintage helicopter untouched Tony: its 4am can you maybe not have this conversation right next to me in my own workshop?!

---

Tony: I THOUGHT YOU SAID YOU WOULD REPLACE THEM WITH WAX MODELS Morgan: What kind of low-grade predictable villainous evil doers would we be if we did what we said we would Tony: oh $#!^ now you're speaking like him too Loki, cutting his shoulder to reveal cake: Just so you know, it wasn’t JUST the vehicles ;)

---

Peter: *following loki around with a notepad* Loki: Terribly sorry if you mind but he's MY intern now. Tony: You don’t think there’s anything wrong with what you’re doing, do you? Loki: I don’t think anything I’ve ever done is wrong Peter:  *avidly taking notes and nodding along*

---

T’challa: I cant believe you filed an application for ‘time off’ Shuri: I NEED at least 3 hours a week reserved specifically for training if I want to keep my part-time job T’challa: you don’t NEED a job! You make up 90% of Wakanda’s research and development departments! Your technology work IS a job! Shuri: yeah well my ACTUAL job is fun and has proper work benefits and I simply must empty the time blocks I specified for it! You wouldn’t stop me from meeting with Peter and Morgan would you? They ARE, legally and spiritually speaking, my siblings, brother :) T’challa: what job could you have that would need you reminding me that a mischief deity adopted you before telling me what the job actually is Shuri: The official position is called Secretary of Evil but that’s only for the probationary 2 week period and I’m allowed to request a name change if I think of anything better T’challa: T’challa: you are working as a SECRETARY?! Shuri: The job pays well, Brother, T'challa:  T'challa: mother will be so disappointed

---

Scott: I can’t believe you did that Maggie: I didn’t know he was a supervillain! OBVIOUSLY! Scott: how would you noT KNOW! He wears nothing buT LEATHER and BELTS and GREEN BOOTS AND- Maggie: I needed someone to watch her and she showed up in pink sweatpants and a black tank top and was charging a decent rate Scott: Scott: are you sure their name was loki

---

Clint: you told me it was a ‘family gathering’! Tony: yeah, it is, and the avengers are family Clint, pointing at Loki: so what’s the twink doing here and why are MY kids along with every other person here who is under drinking age clinging to him like a frickin’ koala bear Tony: morgan wanted to get her ‘the floor is lava’ badge and loki was the only one immune to the lava so they jumped him - and he enjoyed walking around covered in them way more than he should have -  and also loki is legally peter and morgan and harley and shuri’s godparent so he’s allowed to be here on more of a basis than anyone else here at this point Clint: There was LAVA near MY KIDS?! Tony: no of course not – it was FAKE lava that just looked and functioned like real lava Clint: im taking them all home Tony: good luck convincing them not to want another playdate Clint: this isn’t a joke Tony Tony: I’m serious. Good luck. The kids love him, and you’ll need all the luck you can get if you want them to ever root for the side of good instead of wherever-loki-is-at instead. 

---

Pepper: *watching the news* Pepper: oh hey the Avengers are on Peter, running into the room: woW NICE Pepper: wtf why is Hulk wearing giant boxing gloves Peter: Language! Pepper: is Steve's shield padded?! Peter: i don’t remember that being normal Pepper: did most of the Avengers just ditch Steve? Why’re they leaving Peter: I guess the danger must be over? Pepper: WHAT is going ON out there today Peter: I think Loki had planned an attack today so maybe he did it as a joke Pepper: oh they're facing Loki yeah okay that explains it Peter: Loki always does the funniest things of course he baby-proofed all the Avenger's gear! Classic Loki! :D

-meanwhile-

Captain America, tears streaming down his face: pl,,ease, loki,, stop,t his, I cant hit ,,a child Loki: Look at you, the American icon, unable to save all these innocent people from having their skin turn into primary colours, all because you are TOO AFRAID to fight me! Captain America: I’m a national icon, not a good soldier but a good man, I will do whatever it takes to keep innocents safe, but I can NOT beat up someone who isn’t even legal enough to vote Loki: I was around causing chaos before this ‘voting’ was even invented! And I’ll NEVER legally vote even if I could!! mwahahAHAHA- Falcon, to Bucky in the background: How did we not realise he was a teen, all his comebacks are ‘no u’ and ‘uno reverse card’ and ‘look over there!’ Bucky, to Falcon: I don’t know but I really really want to know where he gets his outfits from Falcon: if it means I’ll be seeing you geared up in leather again then I want to know where he gets his outfits from too ;‘) Thor: I think my brother makes his own outfits Loki, still tormenting Captain America: *SISTER Thor: ah, my bad Captain America, crying x2: wait does this mean I’ve been lobbing my shield at not just a child, but I’ve been misgendering them while doing it?! Loki: only occasionally and I don’t blame you that was on me for monologuing too long, really— Captain America, taking off the helmet: nope I’m done Loki: what are you doing Steve, handing Sam the shield: It’s yours. Enjoy. Sam: woah woah woah what’re you doing you cant retire just like that  Steve, unzipping his suit to reveal American flag boxers: watch me Bucky to Sam: hello new best friend Sam, realising that Cap and Bucky are a duo: oh no no no STEVE is your best friend Bucky: he hasn’t been my ‘best friend’ since I saw him with the American flag splayed over his butt Loki, holding his hand out for Sam to shake: Hello there new Captain America its nice to meet you formally, my name is Loki and yes I’m a child but I’m actually 1075 but that is irrelevant if I’m causing trouble and looking for a fight, I’m also genderfluid so yes sometimes my pronouns will be different but I’ll be sure to inform you if it happens Sam: what are you doing Loki: I’m… formally introducing myself Sam: Sam: why?? Loki, blinking to hide that he’s getting teary eyed: well, the last national icon I didn’t do this with ditched me because I didn’t Bucky, a trained assassin, who isn’t a fool: *hugs loki* that wasn’t your fault steve just likes to carry the stupid with him Loki: thanks Bucky: is this a bad time to ask where you get your clothes from…? Loki: I make them Bucky: oh. Well $#!^. Loki, sniffing: if you join the dark side I’ll make you some too Bucky, immediately: done. Sam: JAmES Bucky deadpan: Yes, Samuel, what is it that troubles you, my new arch nemesis? 

---

Sam: HE TOOK BUCKY Natasha: What do you mean ‘he took bucky’ he’s standing right next to you Sam: He’s “infiltrating the enemy” Natasha: *lifts an eyebrow and looks to Bucky* Bucky: It’s true. My loyalties lie elsewhere now. Natasha: ??? Bucky: note to self – unexpected outcomes confuse the black widow. Natasha: how did this happen?? Sam: he SOLD himself out to the ENEMY Natasha: well when you say it like THAT ;) — Bucky: I think friendship is a decent price to pay for decent clothing Natasha: ??? Sam: oh also I’m Captain America now because Steve broke down and quit Natasha: ?!?!?!

---

Peter, entering the room and high-fiving Loki: I heard you got Mr. Bucky to switch teams! Loki: well, my fashion skills ARE legendary Tony, under his breath: he’s not even trying and he’s gotten every kid and the freaking winter soldier on his side and I am so so grateful he isn’t actually TRYING to make everyone go bad

---

Bucky: we’ve been over this Steve, Loki is young but he’s also over a thousand years old Steve: I was beating up a KID, Bucky, a kid who was SMALLER and WEAKER than everyone else where he lived but wouldn’t EVER turn down a FIGHT for what he BELIEVES IN and he was probably BULLIED and I wanted the guy DEAD, Bucky– Bucky: don’t forget the genderfluidity thing Steve: he said it wasn’t my fault but I should’ve asked Thor after he referred to Loki as ‘she’ instead of thinking he’d made a mistake and I just can’t – he isn’t even old enough to DRIVE or VOTE or DRINK or BUY A KNIFE or -- Bucky, holding Steve and patting his back: hey now, there, there, it’ll be okay, Bucky: *gives Loki a thumbs up as he sits on the couch with popcorn and watches Steve be miserable*

---

Loki: We need to get through this locked door. Tony, quick, give me your card! Tony, handing the card over: Take it! Loki, pocketing it: Thanks! Morgan, fire at the door Morgan: *pulls out an iron man gauntlet painted green and gold* Tony: hOW COULD you deface YOUR BIRTHDAY PRESENT with GREEN Morgan: MINE is still being used as a paperweight. This is one of YOUR gauntlets.   Tony, under his breath: maybe it’s not too late to burn the physical evidence and hack Loki’s name off the digital copies of the adoption forms Loki, whispering back: oh its definitely too late. I’m already on your christmas card and everything.

#LokiAdoptsAU #where all the kids can enjoy loki tormenting the world because its funny and no one actually ends up seriously injured ever #loki is about mischief and chaos not death and destruction #the avengers don't know why the kids are attached #tony knows that loki isn't evil but so far Shuri and Peter and MJ and Ned and Cassie are the only ones who know about the torture #because everyone else is an *d*ot #watch as loki cajoles the avengers to his side 1-by-1 with the promise of good coffee decent prankster material and custom leather outfits #ThisPostIsLongerThanMyLifeSpan #TPILTMLS

[x0401x]

People keep talking about a hotel scene that was skipped from episode 12, can you tell me what was this scene?

OH, BOY. HERE WE GO.

That scene is one of the best ones between Richard and Seigi and one of my favorite highlights of their relationship because there’s a huge display of trust and love between them in it. But there’s actually a lot to unpack, so for context, I’m going to explain some extra stuff too. As far as I know, though, there’s someone on Twitter who has made a summary of each volume, so they might be more useful for this. I’m not the best person to judge since I haven’t read those summaries, but I saw that the threads were lengthy, so I guess they must be detailed. The link to their Twitter is in my Richard tag!

Warning: this is gonna be long.

All right, starting from the moment Seigi tells Richard he wants to quit. Part of it is because he wants to shield Richard from whatever Hisashi might do if he finds out Seigi works for a filthy-rich foreigner who definitely pays well and treats him to expensive dinners every week. But most of it is because Hisashi brings out a lot of ugliness in Seigi (take almost stabbing Hisashi as an example), and he doesn’t want Richard to see it and be disappointed.

Just like in the anime, Richard accepts it rather easily and invites Seigi for one last dinner together. Seigi complies, because he’s not just planning to quit Etranger; he’s also planning to cut his ties with Richard so that Hisashi won’t go after him, so this is the last time they’ll hang out with each other. He promises himself he’ll make it the best night they’ve ever had, since it’s going to be the last, and honestly, the fact that he doesn’t think there’s anything ambiguous in this thought process says so much about how he is in canon. Meanwhile, just imagining never seeing Richard again is enough to make Seigi almost cry several times.

They go to a high-class hotel for dinner this time. Afterward, they go to the hotel’s bar, and at some point, Richard simply drops this bomb on Seigi’s lap and pulls a cardkey from his pocket while they’re drinking and eating:

“This is so good it feels like a waste…”“I think so too.”“Hm?”“I don’t want to...”“Did you say anything?”“I don’t want to let you go home.”

Seigi actually fucking looks around and asks Richard if that was meant for him.

“Is there anyone else around?”“No.”“Then I would assume it was for you.”“I see.”“Right.”

Harold, they’re in love and also fucking dumbasses. This scene is mad levels of latine telenovela bullshit, except it’s also dumb and awkward 2000′s love comedy bullshit at the same time. I love it. Anyway, since Seigi had already committed to make the best out of this night, he didn’t consider saying no to Richard as an option, so he just asks “what floor”. Boy. Son. Child. When they get to said floor, Richard gives Seigi the key and has him open the door.

Now in comes the scene that everyone was probably talking about. Yes, it does get worse than this. And yes, this scene is pretty long.

Not to transform all this built-up tension into a huge deception, but when they get into the room, Jeff is there waiting for them. It wouldn’t be Jeff with a really goofy introduction, but Seigi is so surprised he almost runs the fuck away, except Richard stops him, brings him back into the room and makes him sit down. Jeff then reminds Seigi that he’d been investigating (okay, he says “legally stalking”) Seigi for a long time and sort of reveals that he obviously knew about the problem dad. He was also the one who told Richard about the whole thing, and I gotta add that it was quite a punch in the gut for him. That’s where Seigi gets indignant at the invasion, and also where Richard tells him “you did not tell me anything either before coming to London”. Get rekt.

Then Richard starts trying to convince Seigi to open up by monologuing about how Seigi is like a distorted mirror to him, as in that they’re opposites but also the same. He grew up hating mirrors because they would make him realize how keenly he resembled his mother, but that wasn’t the case with Seigi. Both of them had lived very different lives, but they basically held the same values to heart. Just like how Seigi went after Richard to help with his family issues, Richard is doing it for Seigi, and now they’re again in a hotel room with one of them talking about how much he likes the other. That’s when Richard dumps the “I like you so, so much that I cannot help myself” line, which the anime thankfully kept. And then he literally goes into “how dare you do not lean on me for help when I’m more than capable of giving it” mode and throws in a “what am I to you”, ‘cause we readers deserve to die. Meanwhile, Jeff leaves the room for a bit.

Seigi still doesn’t want to talk things out because he might’ve been more influenced by his father than Richard could ever know, and he doesn’t want to “taint” Richard with his matters because he deems them as dirty, but in the end, he gives in. Turns out he looked up stuff on abuse because of his family circumstances, and one book mentioned what we all know: boys who witness abuse have more chances of incorporating it and becoming abusers when they grow up. He gives the way he tried to break Richard’s family inheritance as an example of possible tendency to be violent. He also says that his mother probably got him into karate because he had the habit of kicking walls, which got so bad that he opened a hole into one when he was a kid. Basically, he had an understandable amount of pent-up frustration and practiced karate to let it out. It was also to make him realize how much hitting and being hit hurts.

He goes on to say that all he wants is to be seen as a good person in the eyes of who he likes and then off himself into oblivion, because he fears that the other party will realize what kind of person he really is if he stays too close to them for too long. He adds that he’s scared of finding someone that corresponds to his affections, as he’s pretty sure that he’d abuse them. I can’t stress enough how contradictory this feels when we consider his feelings for Shouko, because he tried really hard to be her romantic partner. It’s one of the things that have me pondering if those feelings really weren’t just a glorified friendship, like I’ve mentioned before, and if the one he truly likes isn’t actually Richard. I mean, he keeps telling himself over and over in every single volume that what he feels for Richard “isn’t like that”, as if he’s trying to find excuses not to be romantically involved with Richard despite showing more affection for him than for any other character. Sum that up with the fact he doesn’t want Richard to see the bad in him and it all kinda makes sense.

Richard at some point says that Seigi is doing nothing but hold prejudice against himself and therefore he’s also prejudiced against all other children who are or have been in the same situation as him. He argues that someone who can’t be kind to himself also can’t be truly kind to other people. He then adds that he finally gets why Seigi sees him as immutably beautiful. He doesn’t become used to Richard’s beauty, no matter how long he’s been looking at it, because he always sees Richard from a distance. He doesn’t deem Richard as reachable and refuses to get closer to him, in spite of claiming that he wanted to be closer. He won’t diminish the gap between them and he won’t let Richard reciprocate his affections (again, this brings me back to his feelings for Shouko and how Seigi would probably let her do that).

Richard also tells Seigi about how he hit Jeff back when Jeff betrayed him, and Seigi thinks that’s only the expected. So he begins to wonder if he wasn’t just thinking that this “expected” didn’t apply to himself. He finally begins to conclude that maybe he was just looking down on himself and by default also looking down on people who went through the same as him. Richard then says Seigi should ask for help when things come to this, not only from him but also from other people. All of this seems pretty harsh but Richard was being very gentle while saying it, and he kneeled down next to the chair in the process. It makes Seigi think that they look just like an adult comforting a child, and he starts crying for the billionth time in this volume.

Seigi’s phone then starts ringing, and Richard tells him to answer. It’s Hisashi, saying he’s near Seigi’s apartment. He asks Seigi to come over, by himself. The scene ends with him accepting to go, but as we know, he doesn’t go alone, just like in the anime. Except, in the novel, Jeff jokes before they leave that Richard might look slender and all, but he actually had muscles under his clothes, meaning he was up for a fight if the worst happened. This totally doesn’t sound like Jeff was trying to make Seigi imagine Things. Not at all.

By the way, a bonus: while Richard and Seigi are in the car going to Seigi’s apartment complex, Richard asks how Seigi could’ve been so innocent to agree to that invitation for going to a hotel room with him. He had actually expected Seigi to say no and had thought of a lie to convince him. Seigi says he’d have tried to flee if it were anyone else, but he trusted Richard.

Sorry for taking so long to answer this, but here you have it! As you can see, it’s an awesome scene.

#housekishou richard shi no nazo kantei #the case files of jeweler richard #richard #richard ranashinha de vulpian #nakata seigi #jeffrey claremont

[girl-in-the-tower]

SWITCHY EMOJI I CAN'T SEEM TO FIND FOR AGATHA, VITA, DIANA, THEO AND KORE. PLEASE.

OK, SO LET ME YELL ABOUT THE WITCH AND THE BEAST AU THAT LIVES RENT FREE IN MY HEAD.

Thank you for the ask!! ❤

Vita is basically Phanora Kristoffel, lol.

Joking, kinda. Basically to take things in order, I imagine Diana, Agatha and Vita as one team, and Theo and Kore as their own team within the Order of Magical Resonance which is a group by magic, for magic and of magic. They deal with all sort of odds jobs that involve the misuse of magic, except that they are by no means a legal organization. Their members are without a doubt all rather odd, but they get the job done at least.

TW: dark themes under the cut

Vita Dies

A powerful necromancer, who also happens to be a witch. She’s of an old family that specializes in this craft. A beautiful but deadly woman who practices the art legally and ethically wherever it is permitted. Because witches in TW&TB live longer than normal humans nobody is sure for how long she has been alive. She deeply enjoys being cryptic and teasing towards mortals and mages alike, though for the most part seems to be aligned with the interests of the Order.

Her connection with the Order is shrouded in mystery, though many speculate it has to do with another young mage who joined with her at the time. The boy looks ghoulish and sinister, and seems to be suffering from the effects of a Witch Curse being placed on him. Vita denies being the witch in question. However she does seem to be responsible for the young Undead that follows the ghoulish boy around. It seems that the two were brothers once, but upon his death the older brother asked Vita to revive his by using necromancy. Since the law permits first-grade relatives to make such decisions she agreed to it, because she was impressed by his insistence even after she informed him of the consequences. 

She runs her Undead on auto so they have full consciousness and can make their own decisions. She makes sure to maintain them regularly so their bodies don’t decay or their souls lose their humanity. They are practically indistinguishable from regular humans, which is due thanks to her status as a witch imbuing her with more magic than a regular mage would possess. 

Her mage makes her extremely strong, but she prefers to leave the fighting to her servants. Still if need be, the cursed runes will appear on her body like in the case of any witch and she will not hold back at all. A witch’s power is fearsome after all so she usually uses it only if her servants find themselves overwhelmed.

She also has ties to another young mage whose fiancee she revived after the woman was killed due to a magical beast going haywire. The two have a very tense relationship and rarely come into contact, the only connection between them being the young woman who acts as Vita’s Undead servant.

In this AU she would most likely go by her full name instead, so everybody would call her Iovita.

She is currently in a relationship with the young ghoulish boy who asked to revive his younger brother, and who also happens to be her apprentice. Because a witch’s kiss can temporarily dispel the curse, her lover switches between his human form and his cursed form. She says she prefers his cursed form, because it is more “bewitching”. 

She is usually called in for missions involving necromancy or strong magical opponents. 

She avoids contact with the Paladin Corps since they are the natural enemies of witches.

This is what she would wear in this AU:

Agatha Voisin

A young woman who asked to be the witch Iovita’s apprentice. She is a normal mage in most aspects with a penchant for dangerous alchemical potions and poisons. Very little is known about her life prior to meeting her Mistress but according to her, she’s an orphan whose family was murdered by a witch, so she sought to apprentice under one in order to learn how to kill them. 

She’s rather quiet and contemplative, and her demeanour towards others is very much influenced by Iovita’s own attitude. Though, while she tried being mysterious and confident she comes off as more awkward and aggressive. She especially does not like her fellow apprentice and the witch’s lover, though seems to be get on well with her Undead. 

While, she does not seem to have any talent at necromancy she is quite good at corpse maintenance, being able to stitch together most parts and organs with relative ease. She finds this sort of job fulfilling since she can see to he duties in peace.

She did not plan on getting attached to Iovita in the slightest, but since the witch has always looked after her as her own, she couldn’t help but become soft. She claimed that she took Agatha in because her logic of seeking out a witch master in order to kill another witch amused her greatly, so she agreed to teach the young girl whatever she can learn. That happened when Agatha was barely 14 years old so ever since then she’s considered Iovita her family.

Her magic is quite strong, though she’s terrible at close quarters combat preferring to cast spells from a distance. She usually likes it when they are given jobs that require sleath since she’s good at that.

The witch she’s hunting is a powerful one, who is said to kidnap people and cook them in her cauldron before eating them bones and all. She claims that she witness her family being devoured, before the witch released her saying that “there still needs for time to pass before the meat is tender enough.” Agatha thinks this means that the witch expects her to return and that’s when she’ll finish her off. 

Before meeting Iovita she lived together with another mage who was able to commune with the spirits of the dead. She still calls on him since he’s a very crafty man with many connections who can procure her all sort of objects.

This is what she would wear in this AU:

Diana Arrow

A young Undead under the control of Iovita. She used to be a common mage who was involved in the care and conservation of magical beasts, before one of them went haywire and killed her. Though she was able to receive some care at the hospital her wounds were too severe and she died of blood loss and complications, but not before making a deal with a witch who agreed to bring her back as an Undead. The reason behind her choice, despite knowing that souls resurrected cannot be reborn, is that she wanted to see her fiance one last time and apologize to him. 

She’s a quiet woman and loyal to her witch, carrying out her orders to the letter without a single complaint. Because she’s put on auto she was able to retain her consciousness and original personality, so her connection to her lover was not severed. Like most witch’s Undead she is very capable and skilled and takes care of the physical stuff her Mistress cannot be asked to do. 

Her weapon of choice is a pair of magically infused brass knuckles that have been gifted to her by her Mistress. She’s become rather proficient at handling them due to training sessions with her Mistress’ other Undead servant. 

Her fiance, a fellow mage like her, was horrified to see her brought back from the dead at the cost of her soul entering the Void. It took a long while for them to patch things up again, and it mostly worked because he was also glad to see her return back to him, though he never wants to admit to this since it would mean putting his own selfishness above her soul.

When she’s not away on missions at her witch’s request she looks after magical beasts or spends time with her fiance. He’s a shrewd man who is trying to convince her to abandon Iovita since he believes nothing good can come from associating with her. He’s currently in the possession of a grimoire that offers him witch-like powers in exchange for killing the person dearest to him, so Diana sacrifices herself every time so he can pay the price. Because being a witch’s Undead makes her impervious to death, she resurrects almost immediately every time, though it doesn’t make it easier on him. 

Since she’s a good fighter, she’s able to depose of most enemies before Iovita has to interfere. With beasts she tries to knock them out instead of killing them since she cares deeply for their well-being. 

She hides the fact that she’s an Undead from most people, since few places consider it a legal practice. Though her lover has once proposed that they be Undead together, she rejected the idea. She wants him to be reincarnated and live a peacefully life even if that means they’ll never be able to meet again.

This is what she would wear in this AU:

Theo Yule

A seasoned mage and a long time member of the Order. He joined them in his youth after he ran away from home due to a falling out with his family. He is not a very social man, preferring to keep to his own tasks and matters. It makes him somewhat at odds with the rest of the Order, but since his work has always been exemplary, few find it possible to complain.

He mostly does solo work, handling cases that involve the mishandling of magical artifacts like grimoires and such. As an expert in the field his advice is always sought before people proceed with their investigation. He owns several of them as well, and carries a suitcase around with him when on jobs that contain most of the tools he requires.

He’s very much like a stereotypical noir cop with his alcohol abuse and smoking habit and rudeness, treating others very contemptuously whenever he speaks to them. He seems to have a very particular dislike for rich people and those well off. 

Because of his quite nature and tall stature he intimidates a lot of people. 

In this version he would only go by Theo, forgoing his last name entirely.

He’s been tasked by the Order to look after a young girl with an unusual situation which requires constant monitorization. He was against the idea at first but with time he grew somewhat fond of her. They have become something of a family and though she assists him on his cases he always makes sure to shield her from actual danger and gore. He would prefer it if she lived a normal life, far away from this chaos but given he peculiar condition he knows it’s impossible.

His attachment to the girl has started to make the Order wonder if it came down to it he’d abandon his beliefs and ideals to stand by her side, but even Theo isn’t sure of the truth behind this notion. Though deep down he feels like he would.

This is what he would wear in this AU:

Kore Hightower

A young girl of indeterminate origins who also happens to be a vessel for a witch. Kore can’t remember anything about her life before she was transformed into a human host for and by the creature. According to several sources she might have been part of magical ritual which involved human sacrifice along with the rest of the family, though it is unknown just to what end. She’s been a host for around a year or two it had been estimated, during which she was known as the “Strangling Witch” for the way she would choose to kill her victims. 

She was freed from that control by the Order who unable to extract the essence of the creature from her, decided to keep her under surveillance and make use of her abilities instead. Though the creature has been sealed inside, she still can access some modicum of its power making her a formidable foe to non-witches.

She’s a novice in magic and it does not come easily to her so her guardian decided to teach her some basic spells and self-defense techniques in case of emergencies. She assists him on his cases partly because she wants to feel useful, partly because she wants to atone for her actions while under possession.

Though she can’t remember the period she was under the creature’s control she still feels imense guilt for her actions. Every year she goes to the cemetery where the victims are buried to pay her respects and ask for forgiveness. Because nobody but the Order knows who was behind the killings, people have no idea who she really is and merely see her as a pious girl. She avoids talking with the locals there out of guilt.

During her time as the Strangling Witch she killed around 38 people, though the number is thought to be likely much higher.

Her honest and kind nature makes her get along quite easily with others, though she has trouble getting close to them, since she feels like she doesn’t deserve to be happy or loved after all that she’s done. She’s recently befriended a young and kindhearted man whose rich family hired her guardian to take care of some business relating to magic. The two became fast friends and even perhaps more, but Kore is hesitant to explore that possibility since she doesn’t know if the creature can or cannot take control of her again. The two do keep in contact through phone though and even go on dates together occasionally but have yet to define just what exactly sort of relationship they have.  

She gets along really well with the Undead under the employ of a fellow Order member, though she seems unaware of their true nature. 

This is what she would wear in this AU:

#twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland oc #kore hightower #diana arrow #vita dies #theo yule #agatha voisin #twist #twist oc #twisute #twisute oc #kalim al asim #goldtower #idia shroud #blackflame #ortho shroud #azul ashengrotto #wildocto #the witch and the beast au #read this mangaaaaaa #it's so goooooood

[witharsenicsauce]

Chosen Stories From the War #30: Lady of the Oasis

(Content Warning: This chapter contains descriptions of gore, and parental abuse)

Nazira plucked a single dandelion from the sandy field that overlooked their humble lake. The sun was glittering over the water today and beating down on her own skin harshly. She pulled her hood up, keeping her olive skin covered. Bright green, nearly yellow eyes trailed over the oasis, and the old stone buildings that surrounded it. It was a lazy day today, and everyone was moving slowly.

She moved into the shade so she could remove her cloak, the thick garment making her hot. Under the simple fabric was a long, silken dress of burgundy that sat low on her shoulders. Golden jewelry adorned her hands and her neck, and on her arm, hugging her supple skin, was an arm bracelet in the shape of a golden cobra. That one, she kept close.

Her long, black hair pulled out of her face by a silk headband, Nazira’s snake-like eyes scanned the bright streets and took in everything she saw, filtering it through a mind programmed to assess combat, to never stand still. Majority viper, nearly half the population. Sociable. Interacted with the other species. Hard to isolate. Easy to communicate with. Next, human. Surprisingly small population, unsurprisingly unpredictable. Easy to talk to but hard to communicate with. They really liked the snakes. Use that. Less than 10% former ADVENT troopers. Exactly one Muton, named Ginnethoi. Shot in the jaw, had a speech impediment, could communicate via rudimentary sign-

Nazira sighed, squeezing her eyes shut as she leaned against the ancient stone wall. She wished she could be like her brother, but even then, she knew how hard he’d had to work to be able to turn his brain off, to get some semblance of peace.

Speaking of. 

She made her way down the long narrow pathway towards the small, almost indiscriminate temple that sat a ways away from the main village. Despite its unassuming features, as she stepped up to the opening she found the walls covered in graffiti: drawing made in ancient Egypt, runes depicting the Theban triad of Amun and Mut and Khonsu. The inside was swathed in darkness, and she found as she stepped inside, it was cool, a blessed respite from the sun. Smokey incense filled the air, and nearly inaudible breathing echoed from within.

Nazira tapped loudly on the rock wall. “Ding dong!” She sang, and laughed at the grunt she received in return. No other sound followed, so she stepped farther into the darkness. “Are you awake, Zafar?”

“Unfortunately.” Her dearest brother’s voice came to meet her, and with that, her snake-like eyes finally adjusted to the darkness. He sat cross legged on his mat, facing the back wall of the temple where the stone shrine had been crudely rebuilt, and the weathered stone statue of Khonsu would be unrecognizable were it not for the inscription above him. Zafar had lit a candle before the altar, and his wavy black hair was loose from it’s ponytail, and looked wet after the anointing from that morning. 

“I saw a suspicious vehicle above our little village.” Nazira cooed. “You know what that means.”

“That it’s time we come out of hiding.” He agreed, getting to his feet slowly. His chest was bare, and she quickly handed him his shirt and coat. “...You really think they’ll accept us?”

“I’m sure of it.” Nazira put a comforting hand on her brother’s shoulder. “If they embraced the Skirmishers, they are meant to help us.”

“Humans were meant to do many things, Nazira.” Zafar’s golden eyes met hers, pupils wide in the low light. “And each time they failed.”

“Not every time.” She punched him lightly. “You’re so melodramatic.”

“I am pragmatic.” He scolded her as he began to button his shirt. “Something I wish you had inherited, Nazira.”

She surged forward and planted a light kiss on his cheek. “You worry too much, it will wrinkle your pretty face.” She fastened her own cloak again and took her brother’s hand. “I believe it is time we reveal that face to the world.”

.

.

“Well, I guess it is only a skip and a hop away from Carthage.”

Jane sighed at the analogy. “Can you just say yes or no like a normal person, Commander?”

“Oh but Jane, I’m not normal~” Senuna giggled. She began to toy with the stack of papers on her desk, flipping through them absentmindedly. “Hm...and you said…?”

“They’re not registered with the Resistance Council.” Jane said. “Of course, it's not entirely unusual. But they’re also...not human.”

Senuna raised a brow at that. “I didn’t realize there were other Skirmisher colonies.”

“They’re not Skirmishers. Well, not in the way we know them.” Jane crossed her arms. “...It seems like some of the other species imprisoned by ADVENT have followed suit.”

“The others?” Senuna mused. “Well if Verge managed it…who is the leader?”

“They have two leaders.” Jane clarified. “Zafar Ba’al-Peor, and his sister, Nazira. He doesn’t show himself often. She’s a little bit more forward.” She cleared her throat. “I’m told.”

Senuna nodded slowly, her eyes seemingly glazing over as she contemplated this. “...This could be a trap.”

“It could be.” Jane admitted. “Could be ADVENT.”

“Or it could be a group of people who want to help.”

“Whatever your orders are, we’ll follow.” Jane confirmed, nodding as she did. “You haven’t led us the wrong way yet.”

“That’s the spirit.” She stood and patted Jane’s cheek. “My dear girl~”

“I’m not a child, Commander.” Jane looked away.

“Sweetheart, I held you as a baby, cut me some slack~” Senuna giggled and tossed the files back onto her desk. “Okay. Call Bradford in here and let's see what he thinks.”

“You’ve already made up your mind.” Jane protested.

“Yes, I have. But Bradford made me promise to at least consult with him first.” She winked. “And convincing him I’m right isn’t that hard.”

.

.

“I think you’d be really pretty if you curled your hair.” Malinalli said as she collapsed back on the booth. Her hair was still damp from the beach, and Pangu waddled up to her and sat at her feet, sniffing her slippers.

The Shrinemaiden stopped combing her hair briefly, looking back at her human friend. “...Really?”

“Mhm.” Malinalli picked up Pangu, who snorted and settled on her chest. “It’s already got some curl to it. If you used a bit of styling product to enhance it, it would look incredible.”

Kon-Mai stared at her for a moment, her eyes falling away as she considered those words. “...I suppose…” She conceded, finally, going back to running the comb through her tangled white locks. The strands were so fine, it was hard to untangle them without ripping them out of her head.

Her brothers were both dressed in their sleeping clothes: Gur-Rai was lounging across the booth, wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt with an illustration of Courage the Cowardly Dog plastered across the front. Dhar-Mon was sitting much more politely, wearing both his silk pajamas and a very comfy looking robe. Firebrand had made him some hot chocolate as well, and it all looked very cozy.

“If we are all maximizing our comfort…” Verge came over, wearing a very large t-shirt and nothing else to cover him “then I should be able to remove this.”

“Absolutely not.” Kon-Mai said.

“Why?”

“We are in public, you cannot go nude.”

“I do not have genitals!” Verge exclaimed as he crossed his arms.

“If the other soldiers see a naked Sectoid on board, who’s to say they won’t mistake you for an enemy and shoot you?” Gur-Rai cut in. “We’re keepin’ you safe, Verge.”

“...That is one of the better excuses I’ve heard.” He admitted, crossing his arms. “Still an excuse.”

They heard footsteps, and Kon-Mai looked up to see Jane enter the room. The two swordswomen locked eyes and Jane nodded.

“Hope you’re all comfy.” She said. “We’re on the move again. The Commander needs you three up bright and early tomorrow.”

“Why?” Gur-Rai asked as he plucked Pangu from Malinalli’s lap. The possum let out a squeal, then settled around his shoulders.

“Another settlement needs our help.” She chuckled. “A nearby haven has cropped up, and they’re asking to make contact.”

“I thought the Templars were our regional contact.” Malinalli asked.

“The Templars…” Jane blew a strand of hair out of her face. “Well...Molly, you’ve seen them interact with normal soldiers. Would probably be best if we had a contact that didn’t try to fight everyone we were trying to make peace with.”

“Fair.”

“Hm.” Jane nodded in satisfaction. “The Commander wants you three to greet them personally. Thinks it’ll ease negotiations.”

“How will three great, grey monsters make negotiations any easier?” Dhar-Mon spoke up, taking another sip of his hot chocolate.

“These people aren’t... “ She hesitated. “...They’re not...I...hm.” She shrugged. “Commander’s orders. Believe me, it’ll make sense when you get there.”

“In that case, we should turn in for the night.” Kon-Mai got up from her heat and pulled her sweater on, covering all exposed skin. “We must sleep well and early, greet the world with a fresh face.”

“Our faces? Fresh?” Gur-Rai laughed.

He meant it as a joke, but Kon-Mai felt the sting in her chest when he said that.

.

.

The night in the desert was unusually dark. The Avenger drifted lazily through the sky, like a bird floating on water. But despite the peace, sleep did not come easily.

At first Kon-Mai felt that the pricking on her skin might have been a sunburn, but soon she realized that the heat was not coming from her skin, but inside of her. As she laid back on her bed and tried to sleep, her breath kept coming in shorter and shorter bursts, cutting her esophagus with each movement. She sat up and noticed she was shaking, and she needed to do something but was unsure as to what…

She laid back and closed her eyes, deciding that if she wasn’t able to sleep, she could at least rest. It was better than nothing.

The night passed much more quickly after that, and soon Kon-Mai felt the prickle of red light gracing her eyelids. She opened her eyes, the bright orange sun cutting into her window. She wondered if she had managed to fall asleep. Her bones still felt so tired though…

She stood and dressed in her armor, noticing how utterly quiet the ship seemed to be this morning. Around this time, she would usually hear Bryni banging pots and pans together as she cooked breakfast, and alarms going off to wake the first round of morning duty soldiers. But there was none of that today. She didn’t even hear the ship’s engines, and that was a constant.

Kon-Mai power walked to the door, not bothering to pull back her hair or even to tie her yukata properly, and swung it open to reveal a sudden burst of cold, purple light. 

As she darted out into the hall, calling for her brothers, a wave of fear came over her. The door behind her had disappeared, as had her armor, though instead of being left unclothed she looked down to see she was once again clad in her old, torn ADVENT armor, the chestplate half cracked and discarded. Around her the Avenger morphed into the pillars of the inner sanctum.

She tried to turn around and run back to her bed, to hide like a child from a monster, but the door was gone and an infinite drop off the walkway was all that remained.

She looked to either side, analyzing the unfortunately familiar surroundings. At one end, she saw the metal path extend far off into nowhere. She had never been down that way before, and the emptiness of it terrified her.

 At the other, not 50 feet away, was an apparition, glowing red, in the shape of an alien woman she knew all too well.

Abyzou.

Kon-Mai wanted to run, to turn and sprint down that hallway until she faded into shadow and nothing. But her feet brought her forward, out of her control. She stood before her mother, a demon glowing crimson, and dropped to one knee.

“My sweet girl.” Abyzou’s voice dripped with malice. “What is THIS?”

Kon-Mai looked up, only briefly. This conversation felt familiar to her somehow. “I am so sorry.” She whispered.

“What was that?”

“I am so sorry, Vox Abyzou.” Kon-Mai said, louder, her voice shaking. “I could not help it.”

“Look at you…” Abyzou raised one long, gnarled finger, also dipped in red, and yanked Kon-Mai’s head to attention, grabbing her by the chin. “Look at your face.”

Kon-Mai didn’t dare look, but she brought one hand to her right cheek. It stung, and her fingers came away bloody. Her lip felt numb.

“It will not leave a scar.” She tried to assure her. She knew it hadn’t: the cut had healed and the scar had faded and even then, she was later “killed” in an explosion and brought back fresh and clean once again.

“Look at your body.” Abyzou hissed. “Your calloused hands. Your bony hips. Look at you.”

She looked down now, and like a magnifying glass she saw every flaw, every bruise and cut and bone. She was not as thin as her brother, but her hips were wide and protruding, and the skin under them dipped in like a crease before moving to her fleshy thighs. Across her belly, there was that long scar she had given herself, inflamed and red and oozing purple and green. Even in this nightmare, she could smell that nauseating sweetness.

“There is so much wrong with you.” Abyzou ripped her hand away. “How could my precious blood have birthed something so utterly deformed?”

The words stung. “I won, Vox Abyzou.” She rasped out, knowing this conversation by heart. Every word was burned into her memory. “I destroyed the entire convoy. All the soldiers. The train is safe. You are safe.”

“And you expect praise?” Abyzou made a sound that could have been a laugh. “You were simply making up for your many, many shortcomings. A train? As if that will save us from our demise. As if that will help.” She clenched her fist, and Kon-Mai flinched. She could feel her heart racing, the temperature in her body growing hotter.

“Mother…” Kon-Mai collapsed forward on her hands, writhing in agony. She tried to keep silent, but couldn’t help the whimpers as Abyzou’s infernal magic cut into her cells and stripped her of her life. “Please have mercy…”

“Be SILENT.” Her mother’s booming voice echoed on the chamber's high walls, and with it, the pillar of purple light slammed into Kon-Mai. “THAT is what I want from you. To be silent. Be STILL. I wanted a beautiful jewel to look upon, and all I have is broken glass! That’s what you are.” She hissed, wringing her hand so hard, glowing ichor dripped past her fingers. “You are broken.”

Kon-Mai gagged as she felt her heart burst, her ribs break and her lungs pop. Her vision was fading fast as she desperately tried to get her breath back, driven by nothing but a primal, human need to survive. Her body was crumbling around her and as she let out a scream…

She sat up in bed. The sun was barely up, and the distinct shades of yellow and pink met her eyes. She heard the gentle hum of the ship’s engine, the bustle of soldiers in the bar, talking and laughing…

Kon-Mai put one hand to her chest, her heart still racing, but definitely still beating.

.

.

The Avenger touched down on shifting sand. The heat and light in the distance gave the illusion of a sea of water, vapor rising in the air, but anyone who looked out onto the dead landscape would see that it was dunes alone.

The bridge came down, and there they stood: XCOM’s pride and joy. The Commander in front, clothed in sheer white, glowing in the sun. Beside her, Bradford, Zhang and Jane, at attention, like always. And behind them, towering like pillars, the Chosen were clad in their armor.

Kon-Mai felt like she was floating, perhaps because of the lack of sleep or the heat. Her brothers stood on either side of her but she dared not lean on them, for the heat was bad and they both had enough to carry as it was. 

For a while after they landed, the sand remained empty and barren, a deserted landscape with no one in sight. Jane looked over to Bradford. “We didn’t get stood up, did we?”

“Look.” Zhang answered instead, pointing out into the sand. At first, there was nothing, then Gur-Rai craned his neck.

“Someone’s coming.” He said.

Kon-Mai squinted against the bright sun, and slowly but surely, she saw a figure drawing closer and closer, moving gracefully and lithely like a snake. As it approached the ship, the figure of a woman was distinguishable, her head covered by a loose, pink hood, partially obscuring long black hair. She was tall, and her body was thinner than Kon-Mai had ever seen in a human, almost suspiciously so. Her long tunic was a soft burgundy color, and under her hood, Kon-Mai could feel her green eyes scanning over them.

The woman stopped just short of the ramp, eyes landing on Gur-Rai, and a smile of absolute delight came over her face. “My dear!”

Gur-Rai blinked, meeting her eyes in confusion. “Me?”

“You don’t remember?” The woman smiled warmly. “I had heard the rumors...but I never thought I would see you again!”

He blinked, narrowing his eyes for a moment. “...No way.” His face broke into a wide smile. “Nazira?!”

“It is me!” She took down her hood and shook out her long, silken hair. “In flesh and blood!”

Gur-Rai shoved past Jane, almost knocking her over, and ran down the ramp, practically tackling Nazira in a hug. It was then that Kon-Mai realized she was nearly as tall as he was, though still light enough that he was able to pick her up and spin her around like he was dancing with her.

“It’s been so long!” She cried, her voice muffled from her face being buried in his shoulder. “There were rumors you had left the Elders, but I dared not let myself hope!”

“But hope is what brought us here, my dear~” He pulled away, turning to the confused group (and the very annoyed Jane). “Brother, Sister, you never met Nazira, did you?”

“Was she one of your many liaisons?” Kon-Mai descended the ramp and bowed to the strange woman, who was still shorter than her, but not by much. It was a weird feeling. “I cannot say I remember you, Nazira. I am sorry.”

“Well, you wouldn’t even if we’d met before.” Nazira chuckled. “I have changed quite a bit.”

“I’ll say~” Gur-Rai let out a wolf whistle. “I didn’t know you set up shop out here in bumfuck nowhere.”

“Oh, this place is actually quite lovely. You just have to find it.” She turned away from the Chosen and looked up. “Hm. I wonder which of you is the Commander.”

“That would be-” Bradford  began, but Nazira cut him off.

“I was kidding.” She extended her skirt in a curtsy. “Commander Senuna. I have heard so many stories about you.”

“All of which are true, I’m sure.” Senuna said with a giggle. She began to descend onto the sandy plateau, beckoning her present company to follow. “Is it just you?”

“My brother awaits your arrival back home.” Nazira replied. “He’s a little bit paranoid—too paranoid if you ask me. But he insists.” She turned around, staring out into what they thought must have been empty desert. “Come come, follow me.”

.

.

As they drew deeper into the heat, the vapor of mirage began to dissipate, and before their eyes emerged an array of stone houses, rising up out of the sand and dust. Around the houses, like a ring, were fields of green grass and flowers that sat as a barrier between it and the harshness of the world around. Within that ring of green and the maze of stone, a glittering blue lake sat like the pupil of an eye.

Nazira led them in through a stone archway, which opened up to winding stone paths and dry houses made of clay, decorated with colorful cloth and tents.Bradford looked around nervously. “Why are there so many snakes here?”

“Snakes?” Dhar-Mon looked at the ground and staggered, scared he was going to step on one of these mystery snakes.

“He means the vipers, Brother.” Gur-Rai chuckled. As he gestured around, the other two Chosen did notice the multitude of serpentine women, some wearing head coverings and holding back their hoods, some cloaked in modified human clothes, but not a single one holding weapons.

“The snakes are here for the same reason as everyone else.” Nazira deliberately turned and stared Bradford down. “To escape from the tyranny that is ADVENT.”

He said nothing, but Gur-Rai saw his hand move to his gun.

They came to one slightly larger house near the center of the small town, shaded by intricate red rugs that looked similar to ones they had seen in Nuwa’s room at Vorontsovo. Nazira pushed aside the cloth that blocked the door and stood to the side. “Brother, I’m home and I brought friends!”

As they stepped inside, the surprisingly cool air hit their skin first, causing most of the company to shiver. As her eyes adjusted to the low light, Kon-Mai saw that the inside, though made of the same clay, was neat and swept clean, with more colorful rugs covering the bare concrete floor. At a low table on the other side of the room, she saw a man with long, wavy black hair sitting with his back to them. In his hand was a steaming cup of tea: she could smell the peppermint and it gave her some vague comfort.

“Ah.” He said as he rose to his feet, straightening up to reveal his tall, thin, lanky figure. He turned, and greenish-yellow eyes scanned the room, landing on Senuna. “And so the mysterious Commander shows herself. Welcome to Dakhla Oasis.”

“It is an honor.” She smiled, and her teeth flashed pearly in the low light. “I assume you are Zafar Ba’al-Peor?”

“Yes, I was the one who sent word to you.” He confirmed. He scanned the room, and Kon-Mai could see his mind processing everything at a mile a minute. His gaze fell on Gur-Rai and…

“Damn it.” He sighed. “You again.”

“Oh come on now.” Gur-Rai walked right up to him and socked him in the shoulder. “You missed me~”

“I will miss the peace and quiet more.” He growled, but Kon-Mai saw just the hint of a smile on his face. “Please keep your unholy transgressions with my sister to an indoor noise level.”

“Oh, I’ll be quiet as a mouse, Zafar. I’ll make no promises for Nazira~” Gur-Rai snaked one long arm around Nazira’s waist.

“Stop that, you dog~” She giggled.

“Yes, stop it please.” Bradford snapped. “You can play later. It’s time we got down to business.”

“Of course.” Zafar sat at the narrow end of the table, and Senuna plopped down criss-cross-applesauce across from him. She leaned forward, a smirk on her face.

“What do you need from me?” She asked.

.

.

The afternoon seemed to drag on, in that way it does when one is experiencing something unpleasant like a class lecture. Or, in this case, a debate gone very, very awry. While Jane, Bradford and Zhang stood behind their Commander, backing her up in the event that Zafar foolishly tried to attack, the Chosen hung back: Dhar-Mon and Kon-Mai relaxed by the doorway, and Gur-Rai was sprawled across a nearby couch one of the only pieces of furniture in the room. Nazira sat beside him, laying back comfortably on his chest.

Senuna raised her cup of tea to her lips, eyes unmoving as they met Zafar’s golden gaze.

“Well?” He pressed, his tone anxious.

“You’re asking for a lot.” She admitted.

“It is nothing short of what we need.” He assured her. “We have access to supplies; food and water and there’s an Elerium deposit in the mountains of Al-Wahat.” He was trying to maintain a calm demeanor, but from the tapping of his finger on the table, she could see he was anxious.

“I know. But 100 soldiers is too much for us to spare.” She shook her head. “As it is, we only carry about 75 with us on the Avenger. The rest are stationed at other havens, and they’re already spread thin. Most don’t have more than a few.”

Zafar chewed on his lip. “We are being targeted by ADVENT.” He elaborated. “I only ask for what we need, and I would never ask this of you without offering all I could in return.”

“I can spare 50, at most.” Senuna said.

“It is not enough!” He snapped. Before Senuna could react, or Bradford could draw his weapon though, he sighed and sat back. “I’m sorry…”

“It’s okay.” She looked at him sympathetically. “...How have you been sleeping?”

“Poorly.” He admitted. “It is not me I fear for. I may be taken back to ADVENT. I will suffer, but what is the suffering of one man? It is my people I fear for: the Vipers have eggs here, and many are already nesting. At least one human couple has children. Besides them, the denizens of this oasis simply want a place to live in peace, and if ADVENT finds us they will all be dashed under a trooper’s boot.”

Senuna sat back, and Bradford spoke up. “What did you do that makes you such a hot commodity?” He said with resounding snark. “I kind of doubt you’re more important than the Commander.”

Zafar turned his golden eyes on Bradford. “It is not what I did, but who I am. Who…” He gestured to Nazira. “Who we were. Our mere existence could incite rebellion. You’ve seen it with the Skirmishers.”

“Indeed.” Nazira rose from her seat. “Imagine if the Elders old forgotten pets suddenly rose up and usurped them.”

“Old forgotten…?” Bradford narrowed his eyes. 

“You really don’t see it?” For the first time since they arrived, Zhang spoke up. “Look at their eyes, Bradford. They’re snake eyes.”

All of a sudden it clicked. The tall, lanky bodies, the black hair, the eyes, “You two are Thin Men!”

Zafar nodded, almost in relief, but Nazira crossed her arms, her confident smirk just a bit tense. “You’d be right, although ‘Thin Man’ is hardly the appropriate term for me, at least nowadays.”

“I don’t recall any female infiltrator units.” Zhang looked at her sideways. “There was only the Thin Men, was there not?”

“I’m well aware of that.” She fiddled with her tunic as she searched for the words. “The Elders changed us into the image they saw fit, with no regard for who we truly were. They stole us away from our home, molded us to their liking, and assigned us an identity. An identity that I knew was not mine.” She met his eyes with confidence. “I’m a woman now, I always was, and I always will be.”

“That is fair.” Zhang nodded. “That does leave the question of how you two escaped.”

“Each ADVENT unit has a chip.” Jane said. “I assume yours malfunctioned, like the rest?”

“Perhaps. One of the human engineers assumes it’s some kind of hardware rot.” Zafar spoke up. “Nazira’s broke before mine did, but mine followed suit quickly after.”

“Rest assured, Commander, we are chip free.” Nazira settled back into the loveseat, leaning back against Gur-Rai’s chest.

“That’s quite a story.” Senuna laced her fingers together. “You truly think ADVENT is hunting you? Don’t they have better things to do? Like hunt me?”

“I would have hoped so...no offense, Commander.” Zafar cleared his throat. “But before coming to Dakhla, Nazira and I were accosted constantly by ADVENT soldiers and troops. I would very much like to believe we are safe here in hiding, but I can’t be sure. I can’t take that risk.”

Senuna seemed to ruminate on this. “I’ll see what I can do to help you, Zafar. I can’t promise anything, but...maybe I can call in a few favors.”

Zafar’s face seemed to relax immensely. “...Thank you, Senuna.”

She nodded. “In the meantime, would it be possible for my soldiers to deplane and relax for a bit? Your city is lovely and they’d love to explore~”

“After what you’ve agreed to? Please.” He took a sip of his now cold tea. “It’s the least we can do.”

.

.

“So what is it you do for fun in this lonely little town?” Gur-Rai asked as Nazira took his arm in hers and dragged him through the streets. His siblings followed behind at a distance, walking slowly to give the two a wide berth.

“Farming, fishing, guard patrol…” She sighed and flipped her hair. “It is incredibly dull here, but maybe dull is what I need.”

“Really now? Haven’t found someone to replace me yet?”

“Replace the Chosen Hunter?” She cackled. “A few have tried. None can measure up, figuratively and literally.”

“Thank you…” He trailed off. “But I don’t go by ‘Hunter’ anymore. XCOM calls me Darkstrider.”

Nazira was silent for a moment. “Hm. I always figured your name was the one thing the Elders gave you that you liked.”

“It’s not bad…” He shrugged. “But let’s face it, I was never good at hunting.”

“Well, you found me.” She giggled.

“Yes.” He nodded. “And then I let you go.”

“You made the right choice.” She assured him. “I would have suffered a slow demise in the Elders’ grasp. Out here, people know who I am and actually respect it.”

He brushed a lock of long, black hair behind her ear. “I am glad you regret nothing, Nazira.”

“I only regret not knocking you out and taking you with me.” She said. “More for your sake than mine.”

“My sister would have hunted you down.”

“Maybe she would have actually found us.”

“Not likely, she can’t see six feet in front of her own face~”

“I can hear you!” Kon-Mai snapped behind them.

Nazira broke into a laugh and led them farther down the narrow streets, towards the oasis in the center. To one side, one of the houses was topped by a tall, magnificent tower with a makeshift satellite atop it. She stopped for a moment, pointing up at it. “That’s what we used to call your people.”

“They’re my people now?” Gur-Rai chuckled.

“They always were.” She beckoned them toward it. “Come, let's get out of the sun. I am burning out here.”

“I agree.” Dhar-Mon sounded hesitant. “But perhaps one of us should check on the Avenger?”

“Didn’t I just say that’s a radio tower?” Nazira raised a brow. “We can call them in there.”

“I…” He blushed, turning briefly purple. “Yes...you did.”

“His girlfriend is on the ship~” Gur-Rai leaned over, barely bothering to whisper.

“She is nothing of the sort!” Dhar-Mon was blushing so hard, he looked like a grape. “I am worried about all of the personnel! Not just Malinalli!”

“Girlfriend or not, she sounds lovely.” Nazira used her shoulder to heave aside the huge stone door that marked the entrance to the tower. “Come, we can place a call to them inside if you are so desperate to see her~”

The inside may have been narrow, but it was far from empty. The stairs leading up top were but an addition on the side: in the center was a maze of stone shelves that held various books, from fiction to technical know how, including a very worn out “Radio Communication for Dummies”.

“Are you not worried this will start a fire?” Kon-Mai asked.

“Not at the moment. All the electrical gear is at the very top.” She looked over the two. “I assume you know how to operate a radio? Or would you like to browse our collection?”

Dhar-Mon began to open his mouth, most likely to take her up on that offer to read books, but his brother cut in. “They’ll be fine, right guys?” He gave them a look. “Why don’t you go upstairs and put in that call.”

“But I do not-” Dhar-Mon was once again interrupted, this time by Kon-Mai sighing.

“Of course, Brother.” She sneered. “Protect yourself down here.”

“Oh I will.” He winked as Nazira pulled him into the maze of books.

Kon-Mai took her older brother by the arm. “Come. They want some time alone.”

“Well that is fine.” He grumbled. “But I still do not know how to use a radio.”

“I have some experience.” She assured him. “If we put our heads together, we can most likely figure it-”

Dhar-Mon snapped his fingers. “That is it! Psionics! You are a genius, Sister.”

Kon-Mai smiled. “Is that all I am?”

“No.” He put a hand on her back, both as comfort and to protect her from what was becoming a steep drop. “You are kind and beautiful as well.”

.

.

.

.

.

Summary: At the beginning of the chapter, we are introduced to a character named Nazira, who examines her hometown while reflecting on it’s inhabitants. The haven is made up of Vipers and humans at least, with one notable Muton. Suffering from a headache, she abandons her current thoughts and joins her brother, Zafar, in what appears to be meditation at an ancient temple, dedicated to three Ancient Egyptian gods. Nazira tells Zafar she saw the Avenger today, and the two agree that it is time to make contact, though Zafar is nervous in doing so.

On board the Avenger, Jane informs Senuna that Zafar has made contact, and Senuna agrees to meet with them at their home. Jane goes to the Chosen, who are relaxing after their day at the beach, and inform them that Senuna wants them present for negotiations, to which Dhar-Mon and Gur-Rai comment that their faces may only serve to scare them away. That night, Kon-Mai has a nightmare about Elder Abyzou, who made several disparaging comments about the former’s appearance in the past, which Kon-Mai still holds onto.

Landing in the desert, the group meets Nazira, who is revealed to have been one of Gur-Rai’s old flames, and they are excited to see one another. She leads them to Dakhla Oasis, where she introduces them to Zafar and negotiations begin. Zafar wants 100 soldiers to guard the oasis, and Senuna informs him that that is not a possibility. Zafar is adamant, saying that as he and Nazira are escaped Thin Men, the Elders accosted them regularly, and he fears his people will be caught in their wrath. Zhang expresses some confusion towards Nazira, who clarifies that she is a woman, despite the gender the Elders assigned to her while she was in their service. Impressed with the story of their escape, Senuna agrees to call in some favors, but makes no promises as to whether they’ll be able to help. In return, Zafar allows the Avenger’s crew to rest and relax at the oasis.

(Well, I meant to wake up earlier to post this but I hit snooze too many times and now it’s late afternoon! Oh well, at least it’s out, and I’m quite proud and excited for this arc of the story. Thing are about to get very, very exciting.)

Archive: https://chosenstories.tumblr.com/

#xcom #xcom 2 #xcom war of the chosen #cw gore #cw abuse

[glittergummy]

My Experience with monokingrps

Hello everyone, been off on my roleplay blogs so not much here! This also might not be the best place but it’s my main, so whatever.

This has been long overdue but I feel I should finally stop my silence on Mono and their behaviors, let alone with recent events. (The post I reblogged before this.)

Mono and I used to be ‘friends’, at least I was sure since we wrote a lot together. I’m not sure what I was to them but I digress.

The only problem I remember was when I made a rather ‘tasteless/dark’ joke towards them. Now I assumed it was fine since we usually wrote dark stuff with them, including suicide, alcoholism, and other things.

Now, think about this, what would be the right thing to do in a situation where your friend has made an offensive or maybe bad in taste joke towards you?

Talk to them and explain why it was upsetting and why they shouldn’t make the joke again, or at least not make it around them?

Nope.

Yes, when this happened. Mono resorted to just blocking me off-hand. At first I was confused, so naturally I messaged them on another one of their blogs to just ask calmly if or why I was blocked.

No response, and I was later blocked on that blog.

Now, I gave Mono the benefit of the doubt at the time. It was a very hurtful thing to me, basically having no clue what I did nor ground to apologize on or even speak about it.

I eventually did move on, just leaving Mono to block me and not interact with them. I didn’t agree with what had happened, at all. But it wasn’t anything too bad, Mono just blocked me and did nothing else.

Now. Move onto a few days ago and now today since pastelsugarstar has posted their side of the story.

I was afraid this would happen and tried to warn Pastel, but they really did believe Mono would never hurt them.

At first, I wanted to just offer comfort, yes, seeing it happen again was very shitty, but I know Pastel would just move on from this like I did, and forget about Mono in due time.

But no, that wasn’t even the end of it.

Mono decided to post ‘proof’ and ‘dirt’ on Pastel, claiming they were a fucking pedophile.

Pastel was so distraught and scared for their own self on whether they’d get arrested that they deleted all blogs.

Now, here’s what’s up.

Mono isn’t a good person, let alone mature enough to deal with others. I really think they need proper help like therapy and need to really stop being mad over every single thing and hurting others.

Mono. You don’t just block someone the moment you have a problem with them. If this was harassment and they kept messaging and bothering you, I could see that. That’s why I didn’t badger you about an explanation to the block on my end.

But the way you handled said ‘problem’ was very, very immature. It rather became you just wanting to sit in your own echo chamber and keep preaching to yourself that you’re a good person and are genuinely helping others by hurting those around you.

Yes, I read your ‘call-out’ on Pastel and other things you were posting.

Now, not handling a situation between so-called friends, that’s immature. But whatever, I just stayed away from the situation since you clearly have some growing up to do.

But. You coming out, pulling at bare straws trying to claim one of my friends is a fucking PEDOPHILE? That is unforgivable, and very disgusting of you to do.

I feel you’ve convinced yourself that you were really doing something good to warn others. But you don’t realize what power your words hold. You don’t realize this could RUIN Pastel’s whole life if word got out they were a supposed pedophile.

Go and read Pastel’s post as they explain their own side of the story. but let me focus on Mono here.

Mono, you can’t react over-dramatically to thing just to drag people through the mud, you can’t just block people because you don’t want to hear what they have to say.

You cannot start preaching about how you were abused as a child to give you a reason to call someone a fucking pedophile.

Cause guess what? I was abused as a child also, among many other horrible things that happened to me that I had no control over.

But you don’t see me blocking people out of my life over a dumb joke, or calling someone out on their ‘horrible’ behavior just to hurt them.

Yes, you put beneath ‘this isn’t a reason to send them hate’, but shut up, seriously. You damn well know that no one ever listens to those warnings, people sent Pastel horrible asks about them calling for ‘pity’ while also being a pedophile. 

ALL BECAUSE OF YOU, AND YOUR DUMB ‘CALL-OUT’.

Mono, you aren’t a good person, you aren’t some holier than thou person who saves the poor and picked on. You are hurting innocent people around you for nothing.

I don’t believe you should be hurt over this, but you really need help. You need to get professional help to talk some sense into you instead of hiding behind blocks and crying about all the good you’re doing while hurting others.

And that’s it.

My experience with Mono wasn’t a good one, and honestly I would advise staying away from them if they’re gonna come back and block you for some dumb reason.

Peace.

#drama

[jackshithere]

How would you describe each of the Rammstein members to someone who knew nothing about them?

Oh man… If we’re being honest, you don’t really start with the juicy bits (that keep making people come for more) if it’s someone who really doesn’t know anything about them. But I will try to make this as newbie-friendly as possible, and add enough simple details to maybe explain the level of fanatic adoration for them. (But I must admit that 1- this will be loooong as fuck and 2- I fangirl about them for their professionalism, so it won’t be as humorous as one might hope)

I’ll do a collection of posts later throughout the week tagged “Rammstein glossary” about each member, maybe get other blogs on board, but I’ll keep this exclusively newbie friendly, if a tad bit too long 

Ok, so, first things first. Facts you can gleam from any wikipedia, with a little introduction on the side.

There are 6 members of the band:

Till Lindemann - the singer, the poet and a professional pyromaniac

He’s an intimidating man, with tall frame and a build of a panzer tank. Till commands the stage with incredibly rich baritone voice and penchant for being set on fire, or carrying big ass flame throwers.

Matter of fact is he’s shy, introverted, doesn’t like being stared at (hence the fire, to distract from his form) and is a soft spoken, polite man - also, his speaking voice is much much softer and gentler. People generally find him fascinating for this paradoxical character.

Richard Z. Kruspe - the guitarist and founder of Rammstein

He is..how do I put this? The typical artist. Diva and control freak, plagued by doubt and striving for perfection, which all make for one hard man to work with. Richard is somewhat of a Tumblr’s sweetheart. He’s aware of those traits, and the most talkative of the group - especially about his mental health, and the problems he faced. Which means people often relate to him, and he’s genuinely a kind and engaging conversationalist, so there are a lot of his interviews to be found online.

Also, it helps that he’s easy on the eyes, let’s be real. Also, he’s a natural meme inducer. Everything that man does and say is meme-able as shit.

Paul Landers - the other guitarist

Always smiling and extraordinarily exuberant, he’s seen as the most approachable and somewhat of a goofball of the group, always up to some antics in the background. He’s the shortest and openly the silliest of the group, so Paul does sometimes get a bit.. infantilized by some fans.

He’s got an unexpectedly rich singing voice, and he’s probably a bit of a control freak himself. For a guy that talks a lot, he doesn’t share personal details as often as Richard, so he’s also somewhat of an unexplored entity. He used to be in a previously successful punk band “Feeling B” with Flake

Christian “Flake” (fla-keh) Lorenz - the keyboardist

This is all you need to know about him. Joking. He’s extremely tall, lanky and born with a soul of a cranky old man. He was with Paul in the previously mentioned band.

He’s.. how do I describe him.. I think he’s the only member you have to go anecdotal to explain him. When they play live, he has a treadmill that he paces on during the entire concert because he gets bored easily. Flake has this sort of… interpretive giraffe-being-tazed-by-electric-fence dance that he does. He’s …somehow he’s the craziest of the group, I really have no vanilla explanation for him. If you get into Rammstein, you’ll get it.

Oliver Riedel - bassist

True to the stereotype about bassists, he’s tall as fuck, quiet and people forget he exists most of the time. Ollie is the youngest of them all, extremely private, and generally a sweetheart. There really isn’t a lot to be said about him - he’s the outdoors-y, athletic type and he also joins in on Paul and Schneider’s antics.

That’s how you do proper crowd surfing

Christoph “Doom” Schneider - the drummer

The sassiest of the bunch. I would categorize him as an extrovert, but a very well contained one. He prefers being called by his last name, though the Doom nickname came from the time he needed a name for the German copyright agency (Christoph Schneider is like John Smith of Germany), and he was suggested by Paul to use Doom, because they like the game. Incredibly confident, but also quite silly man.

In one video, he was dressed as a woman - often referred to as Frau Schneider - and he did it so well (uptight mannerisms, pursed lips, sitting posture that would bring Petunia Dudley to tears all packed in a shockingly beautiful face - I mean, look at him!) that it’s now a part of the live show for him to appear with make up and a wig.

Now, the band, Rammstein.Let’s skip the things you’ll find out from a quick read through of wikipedia, like the name, when they were founded, and all that, instead let’s go for:

What genre are they even?

What songs would you recommend a first time listener?

Why are they so well liked?

What’s so special about them?

The debate about the genre is still on going. You have people claiming they are metal band, you got the German Neue Deutsche Härte genre, you got… tons. Best way to describe, if you want to go for a solid genre label, is Alternative Hard Rock - because they are not really a metal band. But if you’re aiming for the heart of it, it’s Industrial. It’s “abrasive and aggressive fusion of rock and electronic music, with a side dash of punk”. More on their style later.

For a newbie, you got different types:

Not a fan of metal or hard rock at all - If you want to go for easier sounds, where Till’s vocal’s are more prominent, and the instruments are not as aggressively in your face, I recommend Amour for an easy introduction to his vocal style, Ohne Dich, Rosenrot and then Seemann and Mutter

Preferes rock to metal - Amerika, Mein Land, Ich Will

Fine with metal, but generally sticks to upbeat songs - Ich Tu Dir Weh, Weisses Fleisch, Haifisch and Du Riechst So Gut

Open to metal, but prefers the gothic or more alternative genres - Mein Herz Brennt, Engel, Rammstein 

Metal (take it with a grain of salt, not everyone would call it metal, but the sound is hardest in these) - Mann Gegen Mann, Mein Teil and …Benzin? hesitant on the last one

Of course, this is purely my suggestion, and some won’t agree with this classification, but I think it’s a solid introduction to them. Also if you can convince a friend not to watch the video until they hear the song first, I think that would make it somewhat easier to get them into it (because hey, you made them listen to it twice, and they are watching a video so not as focused and they’ll get int— is it obvious that I forced 3 friends to do exactly that and that’s how I got them all into Rammstein?)

This is getting so long at this point, I am putting more effort into this than into my college essays..Why are they so well liked? In short: Fire, Professionalism, Democracy, Music and Controversy1) Fire. “Other bands play, Rammstein burns!“

 Ok, not just fire. Though it’s pretty cool.

2) The ultimate professionalism. I am not kidding when I say that giant, well planned Broadway Musicals pale in comparison to the sheer perfection and amount of panache they put in their live gigs.

It’s considered that it should be on everyone’s bucket list to see Rammstein live at least once. 

I don’t want to stereotype Germans and working like machines, but what makes Rammstein so good, is that they really stick to that stereotype where everything is a perfectly executed machine with no space for fucking around. 

3) Democracy. This influences the professionalism part in the sense that, since all the members of the band have an equal amount of vote over what gets done and how, it means that they all criticize each other’s ideas until they find the middle ground. That middle ground is how they kept their specific genre, while managing to churn out wonderful after wonderful album (I am being very biased here, I just really like every single album, all for different reasons), all with a firm idea of what Rammstein is for all of them

4) Lyrics

First of all, about the lyrics - they are all written by Till. Yet on all songs, credits go to all the members, because everyone gets an input. It really cannot be understated how much of a group project this is. It’s a democratic band where everyone holds the same weight. 

My personal favourite ones are Dalai Lama and Klavier. I am sucker for story telling songs and the words he uses are so perfectly chosen! The first one is a twist on Goethe’s poem while the second one is a very dark love song.

5) Controversy

Since this has gotten embarrassingly long, let me say this in shortest way possible: Some people like provocative, others abhor it and together when they argue they market Rammstein like no other. Rammstein has been blamed like any other metal band for school shootings, Nazi imagery, promoting physically abusive relationships, inciting youths to unlawful/harmful behavior etc. while doing none of that.

But in general, Rammstein has a wonderful attitude of “Interpret out lyrics anyway you want to, we just draw the line at being called Nazis.” and they usually make a point of just telling a story/ presenting a song whose lyrics and/or video are but an element to the entire thing.

Oh my god, I finally scrolled up to check if I answered everything, and you didn’t even ask for all the rest, I just kept spewing on and on D:Sorry!Once I start about Rammstein, I keep going on and on and on. I hope that at least was a good enough introduction, I’ll do those little glossaries with in jokes and fun facts later, as I promised all the way at the beginning

#Rammstein #answered

[dhominis]

drunkblogging. Obvious CWs for alcohol use, brief mention of emesis. Also introspection.

(Until alcohol, I’d never experienced consciousness without rapid-fire dialectical barrages of thought.)

Until alcohol, I’d never experienced consciousness without rapid-fire dialectical barrages of thought. My experience of self is a constant stream of new topics and analysis and morally neutral whataboutism -- my brain is constantly sealioning -- nothing goes unexamined, though frequently poorly examined -- and I love it, I do, I enjoy existing as this self, but it never shuts up. Sleep: every night, at least half an hour (and generally more like an hour) of herding the thoughts into a little corner, telling the brain patiently parent-like no we’re not thinking right now we’re blank we’re pretending the whole world isn’t interesting --

Just this side of unsustainable. Every night; every minute of every day. It never shuts up. And the warnings about even mild alcohol intoxication -- drinking makes you stupid, doncha know? Until I started, I’d never understood the appeal of stupidity, but it makes sense. Not stupidity, but for once in my life, peace and quiet.

As much as I claim to hate my homeland, I sure drink like a native. Not beer, at least, there’s still that, but sizable quantities of liquor... the cheap stuff, shitty vodka that raises BAC fast. No lingering taste of hops. Low volume of liquid.

Sober, I cannot even aspire to unselfconsciousness. Even when it’s good. Successes I analyze to death: these are the actions I’ve taken, these are the aspects of my personality that contributed, these the environmental factors, these the key figures. This mind does meaning-making exceedingly well; this mind is beautiful but high-maintenance. I need people -- I need many friends, many mentors. I need polyamory, too. It is impossible for a single person to fulfill all of one role in my life. Except the self, because even if it’s impossible I have to; can’t have anyone fill in for me, for what I am to myself.

The mind is beautiful but the person, the I, the metacogniteur -- the self gets tired. When sober, at least.

Drunk I can listen to music and be engulfed. I can lie down and listen to a good song and that’s enough for the intoxicated mind. I can think, I can analyze, but it requires focus -- sober the base state is endless extrapolation of endless potentialities and eventualities and externalities. Drunk I can do this but not at as high a level, much slower, and only voluntarily. That’s the key; when drunk it’s voluntary. Sober a wide fast river filled with junk -- but not a river, a rushing estuary with the tide coming in --

I wasn’t sober while writing this post, though likely you’ve already picked up on that (or not? theory of mind goes downhill too). After two or three drinks, inhibition begins to plummet and my brain quiets a bit. Right now I’ve had... well, not two or three. More like four or five before starting to write, and more in the process. Excess, probably -- not something I indulge in often (two or three typically is enough for stress reduction, for sleep), but enough to be confident in saying excess. Enough to be drunk, and enough so that cognition is entirely unintrusive when I’m not trying to bring it to the surface. (When the self isn’t trying, rather. Good and accurate to think of I as instead the self.) Enough nausea I’ve been careful to ensure I have a suitable receptacle for vomiting... and that safeguard took a few minutes to put in place, but cognition still works when I’m drunk, just slower.

Slower. Usually I’ve got a sublime mismatch between the speed the brain is built to handle and the speed at which the consciousness moves. The quasireligious quasipsychotic experiences in which this brain specializes, those local maxima in meaning-making, they’re absent when the cognition of the self is impaired.

A hypothetical counterfactual billboard on one of my beloved Midwestern highways, right next to a warning of eternal damnation: Budweiser. Neurotoxicity you can trust. Not a real ad but not unrealistic. I don’t trust my homeland’s culture. Is this bad, though? Unhealthy? More unhealthy than my baseline?

Not a question I can answer. Yet. Probably yes, I know, but even so I’ll give it a while before [I decide|the self decides]. I don’t do this often and on both sides of the family there’s a history of alcoholism and other abuses of psychotropics. One parent uses (both use, if we’re being a bit more lenient) alcohol for purposes more related to coping than to enjoyment. In writing this: frequently I must backtrack, fix typos. It’s difficult. Accurate and coherent text is easy, usually, for me. This is (I think) coherent, if concerning in style and content, but this limited coherence required as much editing as my poor poisoned frontal lobe can take. The posting is more impulsive; generally when I present a facet of myself to any sort of public, it’s after quite a bit of deliberation.

Motor function is impaired. I am past the point of caring. So what if I struggle to stand? So what if the speech is slurred? Those traits shouldn’t be stigmatized, after all. (The willing induction of them should be, maybe -- the sober self would find that a patently convincing argument but the current self doesn’t care quite enough to find it even slightly compelling. Luckily the sober self is the one that makes that initial decision to imbibe.) And the brain is for once cooperative, it has at least shut up, the constant stream of thoughts has slowed to a trickle or even when lucky to a void vacant gully, a streambed. And so even if the body’s movements are fluid and unpredictable, I always have cared more about cognition than about motion. This I need, now.

There should, I know, be general takeaways from this disjointed painstaking impaired sequence of word-vomit... a gully filled less with void than with a heavingly toxic efflux, an unusually unselfconscious ejection of an overly verbose teen’s inner monologue. This is what it sounds like, in my brain; imagine not being able to step back. Imagine not being able to close the tab! Read this aloud to yourself and imagine it never shutting off, imagine whatever inner voice comes most naturally reading this aloud. This will, reader, last the rest of your natural life. Except when drunk.

I know later I’ll think this is stupid and overwrought and likely I’ll be right. Maybe. Either way it’s off-topic. The high-effort subset of the intoxicated self says I should search for takeaways and for once it took effort to ask myself that question...  and that’s useless effort, even, because I don’t know. Likely I’ll regret this disclosure in the morning.

Sober I find it easy to conclude a train of thought; the end of a sober monologue ties everything together. My text output isn't good, not always, but there’s always a conclusion. Usually that’s very important to me, connecting the style to the substance, ending well. Now, drunk and exquisitely slow and stupid, public presentation and infosec and narrative and ending well are orders of magnitude less important than that old joke. You know the joke or at least you should. Takeaway: what’s the difference between ignorance and apathy?

I don’t know and I don’t care.

#okay to reblog #I am more okay than this implies #(it is Just Like Me to try to write a brief thing but in fact produce >1k wds introspection!) #(I don't have the insight to say rn but it's also Just Like Me to [while drunk] present current insights as representative of general mood!) #fair warning: may delete this later #original post #news from meatspace #you will not want to come back #emetophobia cw #personal cw #alcohol cw

[if-u-seek-jamie]

A cry for help? No... I have the self control and I’m safe.  A cry for love and attention? Yeah, that sounds more like me lol I do way too much for attention.

This whole post is a major TW/CW for self-harm, depression, anxiety, BPD (and FPing), PTSD, mental illness, suicide, hospitalization, sex, sexual assault, abuse/intimate partner violence, trauma, substance abuse

I’m pouring my heart out and opening up more than I usually do on Facebook.  I’m feeling... desperately alone and misunderstood these days.  I basically am gonna spill everything going on in my brain EXCEPT for things that I am still ashamed of and keep secret.  LOL yeah, with everything I am comfortable being open talking about, I STILL have secrets.  Can you believe that?!  Me neither...  I’m also going to talk about some specific people in this post, as well, but as per my style of hiding/protecting identities, a lot of them are gonna be named “Bobbert,” “Bobbert 2,” “Bobbert 3,” etc., regardless of gender, because that is what I call everyone when hiding their identities.  There will also be names that I don’t protect, like Sara and Ivan, etc.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I have pretty good self-control lately.  I don’t know, I don’t think I will actually hurt myself.  But wow, I keep getting the urge to.

Wow, I’ve barely posted anything but selfies on here in ages.  wh00ps.

I’m pretty open about the fact that I have mental illnesses on Facebook.  I’m an open book, everybody knows.  But I think I keep it kind of tame, and sometimes make jokes about it.  Like “lol I think I have a makeup addiction hahahaha can’t believe the people at Ulta don’t know who I am by now!”

It’s not a joke, though.  I have no idea how to cope with life.  I just.... overspend and overspend and overspend on makeup.  I go to Ulta just about every day if I don’t have the late shift at work, if I don’t have plans.  I’m just like “I need to get out of the house and makeup makes me feel pretty and makes me feel happy so I’m going to use that as an excuse to leave the house and go buy more.”  And I can’t stop.  And when I’m at home, I spend a good amount of time watching makeup videos on YouTube and reading through threads in Makeup groups on Facebook to come up with other products to buy.  I just cannot stop.

And eating.  I just keep overeating.  “I’ll save leftovers for lunch at work tomorrow.  hahahaha jk I’m gonna eat the whole thing now.  And then I’m gonna cook more food.  Midnight runs to the supermarket for some ice cream?  You bet!”  The binging is definitely real.  I’m glad I haven’t relapsed on the purging, though I get the urge.

I keep getting the urge to cut myself.  It has been over a year since I’ve done it and I hope I don’t give in.  But, oh my god, I have had the biggest urge to do that lately.  And I accidentally cut myself shaving last week while I was having these urges the most and that just made me want to do it more, but I also think it satisfied the urge at the same time?  I don’t even know.  I’ve also gotten the urge to get high but I refuse to ever let myself fall back down that hole.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When I began high school, I was bitter.  I was very very bitter about the last couple years in my life.  These two girls...  We’ll call them Bobbert and Bobbert 2...  They bullied me relentlessly in middle school for being gay and fat.  It got so bad, I had to get the school’s police officer involved.  It was when I first felt suicidal.

And then that last summer before high school, I was the chosen target of my bunk at summer camp.  I was the chosen target of their bullying.  Why?  I have no idea.

So when I started high school?  I was bitter.  I’m not going to protect names this time.  I met this girl Audrey.  My instinct was to stay away from her because she looked like an angry person and she reeked of cigarette and marijuana smoke.  But we were assigned to be “phone buddies” in our literature class because everyone else was partnered up and we were the only two left.  And then she was in my gym class.  And somehow, we ended up becoming best friends.  I thought she was the coolest thing since sliced bread.  I really wanted to impress her, I really wanted her to like me and think I was cool.  She literally taught me what I should and should not like.  And she was... mean.  If you did’t agree with her on things, she would be mean to you about it... but it was always played off as a joke, and you had to laugh along with it, all the while seeking her approval.  But I thought that was admirable.  I thought it was so cool and badass and I wanted to be like that.  I became a meaner person when I was best friends with her.  And, a couple of my close friends know this, and it’s weird for me to admit on something that I am posting publicly...  But I eventually had convinced myself that I was in love with her.  She was my first BPD “favorite person.”  I was very codependent on her and I convinced myself that I was in love with her and I would do literally anything and everything to try to impress her or make her happy, or get her attention.

So when I went to her house and we met up with all her friends and they all decided to get high?  I wanted to try it.  And it was fun!  But after that?  Suddenly, every time I went to hang out with her, all she wanted to do was get high.  Every single time.  So I went with it.  I always just did whatever Audrey wanted to do.  And then she started hanging out with Alex (who she only became friends with because Alex and I were friends since like Kindergarten or first grade or something, but whatever).  Audrey and Alex had multiple classes together that year, and I had no classes with either of them.  So they grew closer with each other.  So then all three of us started hanging out together, and instead of just me and Audrey, it became me and Audrey and Alex.  And then we started doing harder drugs.  It got to the point when we were doing MDMA on a regular basis and my serotonin levels were shot because MDMA kills the serotonin in your brain.  I’d also steal medications from people, including morphine, which is a form of heroin.  Sometimes, we’d take pills even when we didn’t know what they were.  My brain was shot.  I was at the lowest I had ever been.  To top it off, Audrey and Alex were getting closer and closer and I was slowly but surely feeling shut out and neglected, like I didn’t matter.  One morning at school, I met up with Audrey and Alex and Audrey’s other friends in the morning before 1st block like we always did, and everyone stood in a circle and I was literally closed/blocked out of the circle, standing on the outside of the circle.  Ignored, unnoticed, neglected.  I decided that was the last straw, I lost it.  My FP didn’t give a FUCK about me.  All she fucking cared about was drugs and getting high and Alex.  But I was literally nothing in her eyes.  So I got home from school, and both my parents were at work and my brother was staying after school and my sister was away at college, and i was all alone.  So I grabbed a bottle of pills and chucked some down and I tried to kill myself because “She will notice me and care about me when I am dead.”  I was hospitalized.  When I came back home, I found out that nobody even noticed I was missing.  The only reason Audrey noticed - after a few days - was because my friend Jessica messaged her, “Do you know what happened to Jamie?  Didn’t you see her post on tumblr?  She took a bunch of pills and I don’t know what happened.”  When I got home, Audrey’s solution to my depression was just to get high.

Anyway, the reason I don’t protect Audrey or Alex’s names comes up now.

That summer was the first time I drank alcohol.  Like, yeah, I do all these drugs but I have never drank alcohol LOL go figure, right?  Anyway, we got our drug dealer, David...  he also had a fake ID so we got him to buy us alcohol.  And since he got the alcohol, we let him drink with us.  I’m drunk off my ass for the first time in my life.  David sees this “opportunity.”  He literally asks Audrey for her permission to take me off to a separate room and do whatever he pleases with me.  And she “consents” on my behalf.  So I’m laying there, 16, drunk, pants off, not really sure what’s going on.  And then I feel something rubbing against me.  And I guess I wasn’t as drunk as David hoped I would be.  Because I realized what he was doing.  And I flipped out.  I was not about to let him have sex with me.  He goes “Shh, shhh!  Stop freaking out or your friends are going to think something is happening!”  But I don’t really drop it so he gives up and we go back to join my “friends.”  Audrey literally gave me up to a rapist, and Alex was complicit in this.

That wasn’t the last time it happened.

A few months later....  It’s my 17th birthday.  I go to the zoo with my family, but then instead of going home with them after, they drop me off at Audrey’s house so I can have a “birthday sleepover” with my friends.  We smoke.  We take some pills that we don’t even know what they are.  We meet up with David again so that he can get us alcohol again.  This time, he’s got a couple friends with him... Jeff and Ivan.  Jeff was like 23 I think, Ivan was his older brother, so mid to late twenties.  This is my 17th birthday with these grown ass men.  We break into this gas station that either Jeff or Ivan worked at, and we party in there.  I’m smoking, I’m on pills, and I’m drinking.  3 substances mixed together in my blood.  I’m on cloud 9, I’m barely even mentally there.  Next thing you know, the guys decide to play spin the bottle.  The oldest one, Ivan... he lands on me at one point.  And he just goes at it.  Just full on making out with my barely conscious body.  I felt myself fading.  Next thing I know, he picks me up and carries me to the corner of the room, and next thing you know, my pants are off, and I feel myself fading and fading and I’m not really sure what’s happening.  Ivan asks me “Sex?”  I can barely speak, but I mutter out a “No!”  And he asks me again.  And I say “No!” again.  “Why?” he asks. “I don’t know!”  I can barely speak, I can barely move a muscle.  I feel myself leaving my body.  I have no control.  And he starts going down on me.  And next thing I know, I pass out and I’m unconscious.  And I wake up laying motionless and drooling, naked on top of this naked grown ass man.  I don’t know how I got there.  I start shaking.  Trying to move.  I find out that my dear friend Audrey just stood around drinking beers with David, watching this grown man rape me.

I tried to remain friends with them, but that only lasted another month.  Apparently after watching Ivan rape me on my birthday, Audrey and Alex decided to start telling all of their other friends that I was a sloppy slut and I just went and fucked this older guy, and they started saying horrible things about me every chance they got.  And I stopped being friends with them... and they played it off like “Good!  Now we can go to more parties and do more drugs because we couldn’t go before because nobody likes you!”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Then there was Sara.  The only person I ever “fell in love” with who ever claimed to love me back.  My next MAJOR “Favorite Person.”  I met her at an event the first semester of my sophomore year of college/her freshman year.  We were sat at the same table at this event, and I could tell right away that she was gay.  She was so butch and obvious.  And DAMN, was she fucking CUTE.  It was the very end of the semester when I met her.  Then we were on Winter Break.  And she found me on Facebook somehow and added me, and started messaging me and flirting with me.  I thought she was so adorable.  She talked to me about Disney.  She asked me about my dog.  I found out that my dog was sick and dying in this time, and she asked me about it and was there for me and that really got me right away.  I was already head over heals because “this super cute girl thinks that I’m beautiful and cares about if I’m doing okay?!?!?!”

So then Spring semester started and we met up right away.  And the very first day we met up, we kissed.  And just a couple days later, she started coming to my suite every day and sleeping over.  She would bring cookie dough and treats for my suitemates and me.  She spoiled me right from the beginning and it felt GREAT.  Everything happened VERY QUICKLY.

The first night she slept over was unintentional.  We were just hanging out in my room.  My roommate had moved out because she got pregnant, so I had my own room.  We were cuddling.  And then she attempted to get sexual with me, but I was clearly nervous and hesitant, but she was very persistent.  And then she just ended up sleeping over and rushing to class in the morning.  She messaged me later in the day, apologizing for pressuring me into sexual activity; that she could see I wasn’t ready and she “felt bad” for pressuring me.  I said it was fine.

A couple days later, I was in my suite when I got a phone call from her.  She had vertigo and had to go to the ER.  All she wanted was to talk to me.  So I talked to her on the phone.  She came back to campus not too long later.  We were hanging out in my suite.  She said she had a club meeting to go to.  So I was like “Oh, okay, I also have a club meeting to go to.  I was on e-board for this club but I had to quit, but I was told they were doing something nice for me tonight so I have to go.”  And she was like “Okay.”  But then later she was mad.  “Why are you going to that club meeting?  I was in the hospital today.  All I wanted to do when I got back was to be with you and feel better.  All I could think about, all I wanted was you.”  And I said “But you were going to a club meeting, too?”  And she says “Well I was going to skip it because I wanted to be with you.”  “But I made a commitment.”  “Well I should be more important!!  I was testing you!!!”  “But you told me that it was okay if I go and you said you were going somewhere else anyway!”  “FINE!  Go!  But we’re done!”  Keep in mind we’re not even an official couple yet...  So anyway, I go to the club meeting anyway...  But all I can think about is how Sara is mad at me.  I’m having an anxiety attack.  I leave early, crying, texting and calling Sara and begging her to forgive me, I’m so so so sorry.  She eventually goes “You’re right.  You made a commitment and I told you I was going somewhere else anyway so it wasn’t fair for me to get mad at you.  I overreacted.”  And we were fine.  Or not really....  I should have taken this incident as a red flag, but I didn’t, I blamed myself.

Superbowl Sunday/Puppybowl Sunday that year was February 1st.  Apparently, at the Puppybowl Party, my friend Erica touched my thigh???  I don’t remember.  But according to Sara, it happened.  And I was no longer allowed to hang out with Erica without Sara’s permission.  “Sara, Erica doesn’t even like women!”  It didn’t matter.  She touched my thigh.  It meant she wanted me.  It meant she was a threat to Sara.  I wasn’t allowed to be her friend.

Sara wanted to wait until Valentine’s Day to ask me out officially.  She thought it would be cute if our anniversary was on Valentine’s Day.  I was NOT having it!  I didn’t want the holiday ruined forever if we ended up breaking up.  So Sara liked to joke around like “I’m breaking up with you!”  And I would keep pushing her by saying “You can’t break up with me if we’re not dating!”  And I kept pushing her and making it obvious that I was NOT happy with the waiting.  So on February 3rd, she caved in and asked me to be her girlfriend, and I was ECSTATIC.  I had a club meeting for Disney Club later that night.  I was on the e-board, so I was obligated to go.  Sara had work.  She texted me after her shift ended, she wanted to see me.  I was in the club meeting, so she had to come to the meeting.  She walks in the room and her face drops.  Erica is there.  Sara sits next to me angrily.  Her face is scaring the fuck out of me.  She’s clenching her fists.  She’s whispering nasty things to me.  She’s being so horrible to me.  Nobody notices.  I’m holding back tears.  After Disney Club meetings, everyone usually goes to Late Night Dining in the dining hall together, but Sara was ANGRY, so I told everyone I was gonna call it a night and Sara and I head back to my room.  Once we’re away from everyone else, she starts yelling at me.  “I told you not to hang out with her without me!”  “I can’t control who goes to the meetings!  I can’t tell her she’s not allowed to go, and I’m on e-board, I HAVE to be there!”  “Well you could have at least texted me and told me she was there!”  The yelling escalates and she’s screaming at me and I’m crying.  And then she very quickly stops and turns at me, and that was the first time she ever raised her fist to me.  The very first day we were “official.”

It got worse and worse every day after that, but I remember that one more than most of the others because it was the first time.  But every day after that...  She would find some reason to scream at me and insult me and throw punches towards my head.  Sex suddenly became rough sex and rough sex only, and no, she wouldn’t change it up because all of a sudden she “didn’t know how to have sex without being rough.”  I knew this was untrue because she wasn’t like that before.  But now, suddenly she was.  I had no choice.  There would be times when I wasn’t in the mood for sex, but to her that became all I was good for.  “I’m not in the mood.”  “I’ll put you in the mood.”  I would literally try to fight her and push her off of me.  My own girlfriend raped me.  So many times I lost count.  One time when she did it, I said “You just assaulted me.”  And she said “Fine, then I’ll never touch you again!”  And that was not what I wanted at all.  So then I just started taking it.  She would scream at me and throw punches at me and threaten to leave me at least three times a day.  I don’t even know how many times she raped me.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Then there was Bobbert #3.  I loved him so much.  I still do.  He is still my FP, but we both handle it so much better now, and I’m not as attached as I used to be.

We had a relationship, but it wasn’t a *relationship.*  You see, he never loved me the way I loved him, and he never could.  He admittedly used me to experiment with his sexuality... and he tried to force himself to want me, but he couldn’t.

And he has opposite mental health issues from me.  We handle our mental health very differently.  I became exhausting for him to deal with...  He began to neglect me.  I started feeling worthless and unlovable and like I meant nothing.  Feelings were becoming similar to how I felt with Audrey, but nowhere near as bad.  But I did end up having meaningless sex with someone else when I felt lonely one night (it wasn’t cheating; we weren’t monogomous or in a *relationship relationship,* ya feel?).  Bobbert #4, I guess?  And Bobbert #4 disgusted me and violated my boundaries, and I went with it to try to fill this neglected void, but I just fell into another deep depression.  But I stayed with Bobbert #3.  All I wanted in my life was for Bobbert #3 to love me.  I kept feeling neglected.  I eventually had a mental breakdown and tied a noose in my closet, and the breakdown got worse when I realized the material wasn’t strong enough and wouldn’t work.  Bobbert #3 and my other suitemate found me crying in my closet.  They got together with someone else and reported me to counseling services and I was so angry.

And I was just in this great depression from my PTSD from being with Sara and my obsession with Bobbert #3 and I failed all my classes that semester and didn’t graduate school on time.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A month or two later, I was finally diagnosed with BPD and everything started to make sense and I have been able to learn when I’m being irrational or splitting, I haven’t engaged in self-harm behaviors since then, I have been able to pin-point and control my symptoms and I’m doing so much better with self-control but the thoughts and feelings I have are still real and I don’t know if they will ever be normal, but I haven’t gotten a new FP since the last story so who knows, tbh....  I’d like to think that I will be able to figure out how to love and be loved back, and I’d like to think that I will be treated right one day, and that I will have a non-toxic relationship one day.  I don’t know if it is possible, but I’d like to think it is.  I mostly blame like everyone else in my life.  My therapist blames certain family members of mine and things from my childhood, but I don’t feel comfortable writing about that.  BUT, while it feels good to be able to say “Hey, I was never the bad person in these situations!” I still know I can’t deny any responsibility.  Right?  I mean, maybe?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A few friends already know this story and know exactly who I am talking about even though I’m concealing the name for the sake of this post so if any of you actually read this far, for the sake of this post, his name is Bobbert.

Some background info: 1) In my friend group(s), I am the most vocally sex-positive person of the group, and the least innocent friend. 2) In the past when I have had random hookups with people I didn’t love, it ended with me crying and self-harming and ultimately falling into a deep depression.

So back in April, my friend Bobbert randomly hit me up on Facebook messenger to ask me to “hook up” with him.

This was a man who...  I had ultimately *convinced* myself I had a crush on him because he liked to give me hugs and cuddles, and although he liked to do that with all of his friends, it seemed more excessive with me.  And so I felt special, so I convinced myself that I HAD to like him because he gave me attention because LOL me being me, I don’t know how to differentiate touchy-feely-attention from true feelings.

But I also never thought he would pull such a douchebag move.  To just be like “sooo you wanna hook up?”  He never seemed like the type of guy to do that.  I mean, just a few days before he asked me this, I could have sworn he was dry-humping me while we were cuddling- IN FRONT OF OUR FRIENDS- but I convinced myself that I was imagining that because he certainly wouldn’t do something like that without saying anything first, and CERTAINLY not IN FRONT OF OUR FRIENDS.  So I brushed it off.  But I still had a feeling that there was some tension between us of some sort, and I figured something would happen between us eventually.  But I did not expect it to be done so disrespectfully.  I thought whatever was going on would come up naturally, in a respectful manner, in person...  Not “do you wanna hook up?” over Facebook messenger.

My initial reaction was that, as the only vocally sex-positive and least innocent friend of the friend group, I was being objectified by my friend.  My heart honestly sank as I realized that I didn’t mean anything more than a body to this person who I considered a friend.  That I was being treated as an object.  After everything all of my friends know I’ve been through, and with all of my friends being fully aware that I have BPD and RAD.  I just felt like everything was becoming clear, and I am worthless, disposable...  I am an object that does not have feelings.  In addition, because I am prone to self-harming after meaningless sex, I wanted to try this thing where I *don’t* hook up with people that I am not in a relationship with.

So anyway, I eventually answered him and said “ummmmm I don’t really hook up with people like that...”  And he was like “omg I’m so sorry I made this awkward blah blah blah.”

Anyway, I was like 45 min away from home when this happened, and I was with friends...  So at the end of the night, I took the 45 minute drive to think and reflect and when I got home, I messaged him again and I was like “Listen...  I was flustered when you messaged me because I was at this club meeting...  I have noticed there has been some tension between us, I would be lying if I said otherwise, I think we need to have a discussion.”  So then the next morning, Bobbert reads my message, but doesn’t message me back for a few hours and when he does he’s deflecting like “oh sorry I was just sleep deprived and loopy, I don’t want to complicate our friendship in any way....”  biiiiitch, you already complicated our fucking friendship.  So I’m not taking his bullshit, I’m like “nah but we still need to talk.”  Again, he reads my message and waits A COUPLE HOURS to respond and he just says “yeah you’re probably right.”  So anyway, this goes back and forth with him leaving me on “read” over and over again and I’m feeling more and more disrespected and angrier and angrier the longer he keeps me waiting.  But eventually we agree to meet up for dinner a couple days later so we can talk.

So we meet up... and I’m pretty good at standing my ground at first.  He’s kind of derailing, avoiding the subject, and I’m like “Bobbert.”  So eventually he’s like “Jamie....  I would be lying if I said I wasn’t attracted to you....  But I’m not wanting to date anyone while I’m in grad school.” And I’m like “Okay....”  And I just basically tell him I’m not attracted to him at all.  Even though I had just a week earlier been convinced I had a crush?  I don’t know, And anyway, he’s like “So I’m sexually attracted to you but not romantically, like, at all.” Like, ok Bobbert, then why did you bring up dating half a minute ago when you said you’re not ready to date while you’re in school?  Like if you already decided you didn’t wanna date at all, why did you bring that up in the first place.  Are you deflecting or are you just that dumb and heartless or? So I’m basically just like “ok.” & he’s like “So we’re on the same page?  Not romantically interested in each other at all?” & I’m like “Not at all.”  Whatever. So then it’s my turn to talk  I wanted to make him realize why the way he objectified me after all my experiences with sexual violence and dating violence was an issue.  I wanted him to realize that trying to build up intimacy with me just for sex, knowing that I have BPD and attachment issues, was extremely disrespectful of my well-being.  But then I realized that I didn’t really want to talk about my history of sexual assault and domestic violence and mental illness in the middle of a crowded restaurant.

So we went back to my house to talk somewhere more privately.  I set clear boundaries.  I explained to him why I was offended and hurt.  I explained to him that I have trouble saying no to people because I really really love attention, and he was giving me a lot of attention.  I asked “Do you respect me?” and he said “Yes.”  I believed him and boundaries were set.  But then two seconds later, he cuddles up to me.  And then he starts groping me.  And I say, “Ummm... what’s going on?”  & he’s like “I’m cuddling you... sexually...  Is that okay?”  And because he had just told me he respected me, and I felt like we just had a respectful discussion, I was like “Yeah I guess.”  And one thing led to another, and even though I had set boundaries, we somehow ended up hooking up anyway??????  I was not enjoying any second of it.  I even told him “I am not enjoying this.  At all.  This is never happening ever again.”

And then we didn’t see each other again for almost 2 months???  I really want to remain his friend.  I don’t know how possible it is.

We went to Six Flags together a couple weeks ago.  And then things got a little too flirty again.  And ya know what?  A lot of that was my fault.  I instigated and initiated a lot of that.  There was excessive hand holding and hugs and cuddles and hands on thighs.  And a lot of that was MY fault.

I just tell this story to show how vulnerable I am right now, how desperately I desire and crave love and affection and attention.  I literally cannot resist it.  Even when I know I’m just hurting myself...  I will engage.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Anyway, I kind of just hate myself.  I think that I am too much to deal with.  I will never be loved and I don’t deserve to be loved and I am meant to be lonely forever.  And I try and try and try but I’m only 23 years old and I’ve already dealt with so much abuse and assault, I’ve lost count.  These weren’t even all of the stories, either...  Just what is the point of life anymore when I’ve gone through all this?  I’ve gone through enough personal trauma to last 3 lifetimes, and I’m not even 25 years old yet.  This is just SOME of the stuff I have to battle with every day.  Just a little glimpse.  I just don’t understand why me...

[coucoumelle]

In an effort to be empathetic recently, (literature on the subject describes good listeners as empathetic, and one way to be empathetic is to affirm someone’s emotions), I told a friend of mine who has been dealing with a lot of physically and emotionally draining and difficult things in the last… over five years, that I was sorry that walking into (a certain place) brought her tremendous anxiety and that I didn’t know what to say to that.

This particular friend has had encounters with racism, to add on to everything else she had to deal with in her personal and family life.

It would seem that empathy no longer cuts it these days, as my effort backfired.  I was lambasted by a friend of hers, no one I know, a complete stranger, who chastised me with this:

“You could start by apologizing for not realizing how your privilege can further wound the people around you that don’t have it. When you can’t look outside your own experience to be able to understand why so many people are overcome with profound anxiety at the idea of walking into (said place) in America that today is indeed a hidey-hole for all manner of white supremacists, it’s a problem.”

I would just like to point out right now, that this person has NO IDEA what my experience has been; absolutely no clue. But she probably took a look at my profile picture, and assumed, from the paleness of my face, that I was a white person who’d lived in white privilege in a white community all my lovely white life.

Let me tell you about my white privilege.  I didn’t grow up in a white community. I grew up in a Cree community where I was almost always the only non-Cree child in my class. I was very privileged to be called “white-man” every day for years, the worst insult anyone could throw at you, on the same level as a swear word.  I can still hear the contempt in the other kids’ voices as they spat out that word. I was a CHILD. I did not know what my people; my government had done to their people. I didn’t understand the reasons behind the hate. More importantly, I myself had done absolutely nothing to them.  It wasn’t MY fault.

What I DID understand is that when I was in grade four, my father had to come to meet me every single day, twice a day, at noon and after school. If he didn’t, other children would be waiting at the doors for me, ready to beat me up, because I was white.  I understood that my mother was at her wit’s end, trying to keep me in mitts and a hat because other children consistently stole them away from me.  I understood that people put worms and burdocks in my hair, because I was white. I understood that no boy would ever want to go out with me because I was undesirable.  I was a loser.  My classmates found out that my first name is Mary, and they laughed.  Mary Jeanne Chabot… no one would ever want to marry Jeanne Chabot.

I understood that I could never be proud of any of my achievements, because that brought on the next worse accusation: “Ever proud that one.” I learned to never be proud of myself, to never cry for anything, to never show happiness.

I was an outsider.  My very presence was a burden on my classmates.  They were obligated to tolerate my existence at school, on sports teams and on class outings. For years, I tried to figure out what was wrong with me. If I reread my diary from my teen years, entry after entry sounds like a constant self-critique. “Did I laugh too much today?  Maybe I should just not make jokes anymore.  People don’t like my jokes.  I shouldn’t have said this, I shouldn’t have laughed at that.  I was too happy, or too talkative or too something. I am too gross.” Many of my peers made fun of my hair, or my clothes. It took a long time for me to realize that THIS WAS NOT NORMAL and that most people (elsewhere at least) did NOT automatically hate me on sight or think that I was a homely, repulsive excuse for a human being.

THIS was my white privilege.  A word to the wise please, DON’T assume you know what anyone else’s experience is, especially not a stranger’s, because you don’t. That’s just not something you can tell about someone by the colour of their skin or their profile picture.  In fact, that could be considered (*gasp*) racist.

As an adult, I found out that I was not the only one who dealt with this kind of bullying. Any child who was paler-faced or who had mixed parents also had similar experiences, although to a  lesser degree. These others, after all, even those of mixed race, could all claim to belong there, could all claim their Cree heritage, whereas I could not. They had their extended family; aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents, in the community, a kind of support circle, while I did not.

I have since heard the stories of some of my peers who grew up with parents and grandparents who had either gone through residential school, or were the children of those who had gone through residential school. Stories of parents unable to show affection to their children because they didn’t know how.  Stories of parents saying the cruelest things to their children because of the pain they kept bottled up inside.  Stories of broken families and multiple half-siblings from different step parents because people had never learned from their parents how to have a relationship and stay together. Stories of substance abuse brought on by depression and a feeling of worthlessness. Stories, many, many stories of suicide.

When a WHOLE population grows up in institutions, no one has their parents’ example to go back on.  You don’t get individual attention or affection or care from adults in an institution when there are a hundred more children with the same needs. Children need their parents.  What happened to First Nations people is exactly what would happen to ANY society if you put all the children into State run orphanages or boarding schools instead of letting their parents parent them.  Try to imagine the social dysfunction that would cause.  This is what, ironically, most conservative Christians are against.  This is why so many choose to home-school.  We should be the FIRST to recognize what a huge mistake residential schools were. We should own that, and recognize that social dysfunction is passed on from one generation to the next. It is NOT just something that happened years ago, it is STILL happening.  We need to recognize that and support them in their efforts to take back their culture and their lives, to deal with their hurts and become strong people, capable of mature relationships, communication, showing affection, and building each other up instead of tearing each other down.

When I moved away from my community, I had to relearn social norms.  I grew up in a place where you don’t offer money for a favour because it is understood that what comes around goes around.  I moved to a place where my new friends would constantly be upset with me because I didn’t offer to pay for their gas, or for some other thing. It didn’t occur to me because I, in turn, did things for free for them. I learned the hard way that you have to at least OFFER or people will think you are profiting off them. Had I been from an obvious ethnic minority, my friends might have been more understanding, might have explained things to me. But I was WHITE. I was supposed to know these things.

Even now, I have to consciously make myself do things a certain way in certain circumstances, because it doesn’t come naturally to me. Although I know this is how it is done here, it is alien to where I grew up. Job interviews are bad, because I dislike trying to sell myself.  I grew up learning never to be proud of myself remember? This also makes it hard for me to insist on getting something I am due, (at work or elsewhere) if someone doesn't feel like giving it to me. Bargaining is another thing I have a hard time with. (I usually leave that to my husband - yes a boy finally DID want to marry me, imagine that!) Where I grew up, you don’t try to pay people less for what they are selling. It makes you seem cheap.

“You could start by apologizing (for your white privilege).” so I am told.  I am sorry, but I already spent half my life trying to avoid aggravating other people simply by the paleness of my face. If there is ONE THING I REFUSE TO APOLOGIZE FOR, it is for being white. I’m pretty sure I know what racism is.  As ironic as it may seem, not only have I seen it first hand, I have experienced it first hand. If you think my white privilege is so great, you’re welcome to it.

What is more, dear friend-of-a-friend who presumes to know my experience despite being a complete stranger, I COULD HAVE BEEN CREE for all you know.  Yes, you looked at my profile picture, and you assumed I was white, and white-privileged, and while you were assuming that I, in my narrow-minded white experience and white privilege couldn’t understand the anxiety of being a victim of racism, it NEVER OCCURRED to YOU to look past YOUR own experience. Not all pale-faced people are “white”.  

You see, I grew up with children who had one Cree parent and one white parent.  Some of those children weren’t any darker than I was, but they were STILL Cree. Some of them grew up to have children blonder than the blondest of my own children.  They are STILL Cree and being brought up as such.  Had that been my case, for you to tell me that I needed to look past my experience and white privilege would have been quite hurtful.

Actually, to be honest, it WAS rather hurtful to me. I go back to visit my community and even now, years later, I STILL doubt the sincerity of people there, through no fault of their own.  I remain not quite convinced that they really want to spend time with me, and are not just being nice. I have no rational reason to doubt. But I do. I still cannot quite believe that you can genuinely like a “white-man”. It’s unnatural. I just do not belong. Thanks for bringing all that up again. Sorry, still not sorry for being white.

#white privilege

[autumnhobbit]

I've grown up in an extremely conservative and religious home, and I feel as though that is something you can relate to. The thing is, your faith seems strong and fully intact, whereas mine has faltered throughout the years. And today I don't even know if I believe at all. Do you have any explanation as to why your parents devotion and zeal for religion hasn't affected your own personal connection with God? Because it did for me.

Honest answer: it hasn’t.

I used to be easily moved by faith, easily enthusiastic in my love for God, easily compassionate and easily kind. Easily trusting. I’m not anymore. That part of me was thoroughly, completely broken, and my parent’s behavior played no small part in that. It’s hard to grow in your faith when you’re suddenly realizing that every single action you make has consequences; sin is not a joke, it’s serious, and it’s inside you, and you know it’s inside you, almost inexorably linked to your being….and at the same time, you have a parent—especially a father—who *thinks* they’re a good Christian, and (loudly) preaches Christ….and in private they are literally your hardest challenge and your own private hell.

I’ve spoken about this before, but I firmly believe that parents are almost unbelievably important, and their behavior towards their children is critical in all facets of life. Having an abusive parent can quite literally wreck even your physical health, let alone your emotional and mental health. I think maybe it’s even more important in Christianity if we believe that God made the family in His image, after the Trinity. God gave the newborn their loyalty and love towards their parents, and I believe it is truly one of—if not the—deepest, most intense loves that exists between humans, because it is completely unconditional…at least to start out with. When a child is born, they don’t care what their parent’s name is, or what job they hold, or how much money they have, or how smart they are, or what they’ve done in the past. That child will love their parent with all their heart and soul, simply because they’re theirs. They will trust their parent completely because their parent is their tether to the world, to reality, to themselves. I thought once about how a child, if they’re scared of something, goes to their parent, and their parent will pick them up and hold them and tell them it’ll be okay, and even if the parent is lying through their teeth and it won’t be remotely okay, the child will believe it, because their mom or dad, whom they love, told them it would be.

At the time, I was thinking about it in the context of how much I wished I could go back to the time when it was so easy for my fears and insecurities to just go away, back before I knew that the same parent I was going to for comfort was the source of most of my fears and struggles. But later I thought about it in the context of the gospel.

Jesus tells His apostles that unless you accept the Kingdom of Heaven as a little child, you cannot enter it. I think I finally understand that line, now. Because it is difficult as hell to trust, anyway, but especially so if the anchor you thought you had for as long as you can think or remember was torn away from you….or it never really existed, at all.

I can’t tell you what it is that makes me keep going. I know there are plenty of people who give up on God because they can’t reconcile His goodness with the cruelty they received from their parents. I myself have struggled with it immensely; I have a tendency to project my father onto God, to expect disgust and hatred and abandonment from Him even when it doesn’t jibe with His personality at all. When I logically examine my position I can pick out all the inconsistencies, but in the heat of the moment, it feels impossible to stop from drowning in the despair of being despised and unwanted. And in some ways it’s even harder with God because I know I shouldn’t be greedy and demand things; but that swings the other way, and I preemptively prepare myself for disappointment. I don’t dare to hope that things will get better, because when they don’t I’ll be angry with God, so I try my hardest to convince myself that I never wanted to be happy, anyway. I don’t dare to hope my father will ever truly heal from whatever is preventing him from being a father to me and my siblings, a husband to my poor mom…because he’s been this way all his life, and it’s unlikely he’ll ever recover, and if he does it’ll probably be too late to ease any of our sufferings. I don’t dare to hope even that I somehow won’t end up right back in this position with another man with children of my own; because I want a good marriage unlike my parents’ and I long for it too badly for it to ever have a chance of happening.

I want to give up. Trust me, I want to. I wish I could sway myself enough that I could say ‘f#%^* all of this, I don’t need this pain, and I don’t need God.’ It would probably be easier. I wish I could do it, but I don’t. I suppose I could if I wanted to, but I can’t. I like to think sometimes that maybe it’s fortitude. I don’t know.

It’s hard to sum up. I know I wasn’t supposed to exist….in man’s mind. If it were up to my parents and the Holy Spirit hadn’t moved, I would not exist, and neither would any of my siblings. I wonder if maybe it’s that previous way of looking at life that lingers on when my dad looks at me and treats me like a burden that ruined his life, even if he would never have the ability to admit it, even to himself.

But God wanted me to exist. I would not be here if He didn’t want me to be, I would not be Catholic if He didn’t want me to be, and I would not know of Him as much as I do if He did not want me to. For better or for worse, God wants me to be alive. Not needs, wants me. And my heart and mind scream otherwise more often than I would like, sometimes seemingly nonstop, but I do not believe that He put me here solely to be the world’s punching bag. I don’t know what will happen to me, or whether my heart will ever heal, or whether I’ll ever be able to trust again or to smile again, or to accept love again, but I believe that my Lord isn’t cold and distant and uncaring about my pain and my broken heart. I believe He knows my pain as well as He knows my face, because He suffers it too, when His children reject Him. If He broke His own heart by giving me life, and giving me the chance to reject Him, and whether by my own strength or His I somehow did not, I do not believe it was for nothing. I do not believe that He will forget all the times I’ve cried myself to sleep and asked why this happened to me, what I did to deserve this, whether He’ll ever take this pain away, whether it’ll ever end and whether I’ll ever, ever just be at peace.

It’s not remotely easy to love God. Not remotely. Anyone who tells you that loving God is for wimps is dead wrong. I can’t say yet that it’s worth it, because I truly don’t know. I can’t say it will end with you perfectly happy and whole again, because I doubt that will ever happen for me, because I was never truly whole to begin with.

But I don’t listen to the voices in my head and my heart that tell me I’m hated and that I’ll die abandoned and unloved, with not even people to remember me, let alone God. I don’t give in to my intense desire to make my father hurt as much as he’s hurt me, because my Lord tells me that He is my real father now, and He doesn’t want me to repay hurt with hurt. I don’t bury my pain in alcohol or porn or drugs or self-harm, because He’s never allowed a desire for those things to touch me, and also because I know they won’t fix me. I don’t give up on others just because I’ve been hurt, even if I want to run away and never speak my mind or my heart to anyone ever again. And I don’t believe, no matter how much I just want to curl up and die to avoid the pain to come, that any of the things that hurt me are any match for Him.

When I was born, I gave my heart to my daddy because he was my daddy. He broke it because he was never capable of putting anyone above himself, even if he wanted to. I gave my heart to God—whether before or after that, even I don’t know. Whatever else I do or don’t believe, I do not believe that He will crush it just because He can.

I’m not going to tell you you won’t despair, because in all likeliness you will, if you’re not already. I’m not going to tell you it will pass, or it’ll get easier, or that it’ll be worth it in the end, because for all I know it might not.

But I will say that I choose to ignore my screaming thoughts. And when I can’t ignore them, I tell Him that I don’t want them, and wait them out until they quiet down some. I will say that even when I want nothing more than to punch through a wall, I don’t. I leave the room or take a bath or go outside instead—generally screaming angry curses or nihilism in my head, but I still leave. I hold up my end of the bargain as best I can, and I apologize and ask for forgiveness and strength when I fail.

And I haven’t been fixed. I’m still a mess, and I suspect I probably will be, to some degree, for the rest of my life. But I made it through today. And I’ve made it through today for the last awful ten years of my life. The fact that I’m still breathing and still here is a miracle as well as a gift, and I choose to remember that even when it feels more like a curse. I will never be perfect, I will never be what I feel like I should be, I will never be the perfect picture of a Christian faithful. But I am still here. And I don’t believe God is ignoring that. And I don’t think He’s ignoring that you want to believe, either. I don’t believe for a second that He doesn’t know where you’ve been and what you’ve suffered. And I don’t believe that your prayers for the ability to love Him will ever be wasted, no matter how much it feels like they are.

“Be not deceived, Wormwood; our cause is never more in jeopardy than when a human, no longer desiring but still intending to do our Enemy’s will, looks round upon a universe in which every trace of Him seems to have vanished, and asks why he has been forsaken, and still obeys.”-C.S. Lewis

#replies #anon #personal #catholic #catholicism #narcissistic abuse

[planetwalker]

Reflections on 6 years of sobriety

Today, May 18th, I officially have not had a drop of alcohol in my system for six years. It has been a long road, and without the support of my family, my friends, and my therapist I would likely be dead or in prison. More that likely, dead. Also, I would like to thank a doctor I knew personally (she shall remain nameless) who risked her professional career by prescribing me medicine to keep me from going into seizures when I quit drinking the first time at twenty (for a year and a half), because of my refusal to go to rehab or do it any other way than in my house, alone. I woke myself up with an alarm every four hours for over ten days to manually check my own blood pressure and administer the medicine that would keep me alive and not convulsing, seizing, or having delirium tremens. It wasn't pretty.

My alcoholism had taken me to a depth of insanity that ended in me finally drinking nearly a 1.5 liter bottle of hard liquor a day, plus beer to wash it down. That's when your tolerance has beaten you so far into the ground that you pretty much just wake up and begin drinking again. There's just not enough time in the day to drink that much otherwise. That is no exaggeration. From about 10am until 5am the next morning, I would drink whiskey in a nearly constant way. There would often only be a half-inch of the largest bottles of liquor they sell left in my freezer by morning. A hair of the dog that bit me, which would get me to the liquor store for a fresh new dog. I think I spent about 25 dollars a day on booze for those 5 last (and worst) years after my initial relapse. That's about 45,000 dollars, more than triple what I have ever made in a year of my working life.

On this sixth anniversary of sobriety though, I'm not really reflecting on my accomplishments in the past, but I'm using it as an opportunity to talk about something far more deadly and much more hard for me to deal with, or speak about. I have to begin at the beginning, but every word of this is difficult to write, I will try my best to speak openly and honestly.

After many years of denial, after being psychologically tested at fourteen years old and severely misdiagnosed and mismedicated, put on lithium, and poisoned to a point of amnesia. After a week in a psychiatric hospital at twenty due to suicidal ideation, and after eleven more years of waiting (including these six sober years), I finally went to a psychiatrist to get a full mental health assessment, at the behest of my family. A multitude of tests, by the most progressive and up to date standards were administered by an expert clinician. I waited to hear the conclusion I pretty much have known my whole life was coming: I have Bipolar II, without a shadow of a doubt, and on the nose.

The good news: I have rote number memorization in the 99th percentile, as well as a smattering of other high-functioning brain abilities that I cannot take any real credit for. I just know how to memorize and remember things in a way that seems insane to most people. I can recite texts I read when I was ten forwards and backwards. I once made a rap out of the alphabet being recited backwards. I remember memorizing decks of randomized playing cards as a kid, just for fun, to see if I could name the last card in the deck. I found out many years later after requesting my transcripts that my IQ had been tested at fourteen as well during those psych exams and largely said the same thing, I was in the 99.975 percentile, something like 151. Unfortunately then, their only concern was me being able to "sit down and listen in school", which I found to be impossible, boring, and frustrating to the point that acting out was my only recourse. I remember refusing to say the pledge of allegiance in the 4th grade after reading a book on my own about the genocide of American Indians, and the horrors of slavery instituted by the very same people who wrote these documents. I was a little shit, too smart for my own good, and I needed to be controlled.

I was expelled from school in the 6th grade for printing out "The Devil's Cookbook" (essentially a bomb making guide, and anarchist literature), from the schools library, hundreds of pages. I went to a "democratic school" run by hippies for the rest of the year where I mostly skateboarded and flirted with girls. I spent 7th grade with my father living in South Africa, and was quickly shuffled out of middle school after arriving back halfway through 8th grade. They couldn't wait to get rid of me. My one saving grace was my music teacher named Ken Johnson, who always let me stay late after school and practice guitar, piano, singing. I don't think I could have finished that year without his support, he turned me on to great music I never would have heard. Mostly, he just got that was talented and interesting, and not just a little shit. That pretty much ended my formal education. I read manuals and textbooks in my spare time and proceeded to get my GED at 15 and tested again to receive a stamped and signed high school diploma (with honors!) from the Rockville Board of Education (the same document all my fellow graduating seniors would get at 18, after wandering the halls for four years of the hellhole I abandoned). I still think skipping high school was the smartest decision I ever made in my life. I have never met anyone who says they learned almost anything in high school except "I still have friends that I know on Facebook", which really says a lot. I was accepted into The Evergreen State College two days before my sixteenth birthday. I had not filled out the small line that asked for age on the application, and apparently nobody noticed. I flew across the country to Olympia, Washington that spring and began my studies in creative writing, ecology, and a self-created major with my friend Sky Cosby: "Liberating the voices of incarcerated youth", which we had a brilliant and very optimistic professor graciously sign off on. We called it "Celldom Heard". We threw a great hip-hop showcase in Red Square that year, as well as producing a DIY chapbook of prisoner literature. My drinking career also really took off at this time, as I was a seventeen year old on a college campus thousands of miles away from home. My gambling too, playing poker anywhere I could, often at seedy clubs and online with a pre-paid debit card, as well as hosting poker tournaments with everyone I knew and could convince to lose their money to me. I could do anything I wanted. I never lied about my age, but simply refused to tell anyone for quite a long time. Age is just a number, right? Says any self-righteous seventeen year old.

My grandiosity surely impressed people; I have been a performer since as long as I can remember (my mother always jokes that I was ready to go entertain people since I left the womb). A magician at five, playing piano and performing music by ten; writing, slamming poetry at the national championships at fifteen, it never stopped. I was in the center of the room, and I thought that meant something, not just that I was an egomaniac, sure to be on the cover of Rolling Stone by the time I was twenty-one. My parents couldn't understand why I could never get up for school, they didn't know till years later that I would put a towel under my door to block the light and stay up all night reading and writing, until about 5:30, where I would sleep for thirty minutes before my father came down the hall to wake me up for the bus. I don't know how I survived. Years pass; trying to drink my hypomania away, trying, jamming alcohol down my throat followed by NyQuil, Ambien, Benedryl, all to try to just get to sleep, that one unattainable goal I could never quite reach. At some point my dreams just disappeared into darkness. As the years progressed further, some of the darker sides of hypomania began to present themselves; impulsive spending, reckless gambling, strings of unhealthy sexual relationships, all of which were doomed to failure from the start. Anger, rage, darkness, depression, and finally, the scariest points of this last year of my life: Mixed-Episodes.

In the past year and a half, I have had to experiment with a regimen of drugs until finally finding the right dosage and medicine to help me live a functional life. And as much as people can be proud of you for conquering alcohol, it's a much harder beast to speak out about your mental illness. I remember once going on a date, and the first thing my date started talking about was her "crazy bipolar ex-boyfriend", he was an "alcoholic too, so I'm so glad you don't drink". What to even say? I'm a fucking mess, girl, you don't want to get anywhere near me, trust me. And what to do? Deny, deflect, and continue to function (sobriety will buy you a lot of time in doing this, as you can use it as an excuse that you've gotten help and are doing fine). Hypomania, actually also keeps you functioning at such a high level. I have been able to operate on about 4-5 hours of sleep for as long as I can remember. I produce music all night in my solitary zen wonderland, read about 3-4 non-fiction books a week, about topics from psychophysiology to economics to super-string theory. Memoirs about drug abuse to politics to mountain climbing. Anything I could get my hands on. People wondered at work out loud often to me "where do you find the time?!". My response was always the same: I am awake and doing things when you are asleep. My hours of extra work were from 10pm-5am. That's seven hours of intense, single-minded focus that hypomania can provide you with, and it is a very very hard thing to want to give up, especially if your depressive spells are severe, but not all that frequent.

This went on for years. I traveled the world, studied all manners of healing and spirituality, motorcycling through the dirty terrain of Cambodia at night, swerving around cattle barely visible until hitting the glint of my low-beams, yards ahead. Being chased by wild dogs on a night I was sure I was going to die and be ripped to pieces. Nothing could stop me. Ever. I was a star exploding at light speed through the galaxy, burning as bright as anything you had ever seen, but sure to collapse upon it's own weight and gravity eventually. I paid this no mind, as I had decided at about twelve that I was sure I would never make it to my 30th birthday alive. I didn't really want to. I wanted to live, hard, fast, intense, non-stop, now. I came pretty close to making that pact a reality. I'm only 31 now, but this year I finally made strides to comprehend and look deeply at who I am and what is happening to me, and what factors are chemical imbalances in my brain, rather that just my insane hyperactivity. I had never even thought to blame anyone but myself. Or thank anyone but myself. My choices were my fault. Everyone else's judgements about me were right, but fuck them, I didn't care, I'll move on to someone else who sees the good parts with the darkness hidden.

The mixed episodes began, and got worse quickly. This is where you have the intensity of the hypomania mixed with the self-hatred of the deepest and darkest depression you have ever felt. Suddenly all that energy I had to conquer the world was turned inwards into a pattern of suicidal ideation, agoraphobia, blowups with close friends, despising my family, hanging up on my father after screaming matches, all of it, more. So much more I can't even write it all down. It was the hardest time of my life, a thousand times harder than my worst days of drinking, without a doubt. At least then I had something to numb out the pain, something to try and quell the manic thoughts and get some sleep. I always used to say "drinking *is* a coping skill, it's just not a healthy one." It's true. Now, instead, I had hypersomnia, sleeping 14 hours a day, unable to get out of bed, whole weeks where I never left my house, fear of everything outside. I was so scared I bought a gun. Then I was scared that I had a gun in my house. Worried I might shoot myself, or worse, mistake some passerby as a burglar and shoot some innocent stranger. Afraid and anxious about the outside world, uncontrollable sobbing for hours at a time, the inability to pull myself out of it for more than 20 minutes before collapsing back into the despair and pain I can't describe as anything short of brutal psychological torture.

The first doctor I saw in New Orleans (who I later found out accepted thousands of dollars from big pharma, of course) told me outright that he didn't care about the tests, he was sure I had Bipolar I, which is much scarier and involves hallucinations, delusional thinking (I am Barack Obama, people are out to get me, etc.), psychosis, and far worse symptoms. He prescribed me tranquilizers that nearly killed me in the following three months. My depression worsened. He suggested I up my dosage. I declined. I am very fortunate and lucky that he was wrong about me having Bipolar I, and that I have the lesser of these two evils, and I never forget that.

That didn't matter though: my agoraphobia worsened to the point that I couldn't get into my car, could barely make it to my porch to check my mail. I didn't go grocery shopping for three months and ate chinese food ever night. Agoraphobia, means literally "fear of the public square", and comes from our (very smart) reptile brains that were afraid of the open savannah. This is because birds of prey could see us from above and pick us off while exposed without a tree to hide beneath. It is a very primal instinct, and hard to counteract. My anxiety attacks got worse and worse, the medication wasn't helping, it was making things worse, but I continued to swallow them down, convinced I was just adjusting. I was not.

My parents finally begged me to come home to Connecticut and see a doctor who was a specialist with Bipolar males of my age, and after months of fighting them off, I reluctantly agreed. And he likely saved my life. He took my off the tranquilizer immediately, and I began to experience emotions again. Not great ones, but at least something. And then I was put on Lamictal, the only Bipolar medication that has been approved for Bipolar II and come on the market since Lithium did in 1948. Lithium is the aforementioned drug that I refused to ever try again, after I was put on it at fourteen, and which cost me a year of my life I can barely recall but for hazy half-memories, lost in a sea of white noise. And to the gracious angels, goddesses, or simply to the smart psychiatrists diagnosing me correctly and providing me with a plan of action including proper medication and therapy, have saved my life.

I cook dinner every night. I went to the grocery store the other day, then the bank, then the post office. I didn't even mind. It felt kind of great. I always ask how people are doing, a habit I've always done. It's amazing how the little things can go such a long way. When I call Cox to complain that my internet has gone out again, I always start with "Hey, my name is Sam Dillon, how are you doing today?". The other night I was met with "No one has asked me that in a week". Try it, it's pretty fun. Sometimes a grocery store clerk will literally break down in tears and tell you about her bad day. That happened not to long ago too. I still go to sleep late still, up reading books, but when I'm ready to fall asleep, I drift off into the odd and vivid dreams I remember having since I was a child, the same ones that disappeared for more than a decade. I am on the path to recovery, not there yet, and as with my alcoholism, I take small steps and don't get ahead of myself.

I was born with a strange chemical imbalance, not much different that someone with diabetes or anemia or Crohn's disease or autism. The large difference is the stigma. When you are an impulsive, grandiose, gambling, alcoholic maniac, nobody gives you much slack that you can't just "get your life together", "fix your problems", or simply "stop acting this way". There is no discussion of treatment (other than AA, a religious doctrine started by holocaust-deniers, sorry AA folks), not much in the way of offering help, a lot of blame and a small amount of empathy. You can only burn so many bridges before people don't want to come near you. And I've burned a lot. Lost of a lot of good friends. Sometimes I'm amazed that most of my family still even talks to me. Some of them barely do. I understand. I empathize. I get it. I know why, even though I know they also just don't understand what I have been struggling with my whole life and simply blame me and say I "always play the victim".

I have not been easy to deal with for many, many years. Even in sobriety I have been a raging asshole to deal with at times. At the height of my hypomanic episodes I have been explosive, unpredictable, and stubborn beyond belief. Impossible to deal with. I have always been this way, in a sense, and for many years, it served me. I skipped high school completely, choosing to get my education through books, following politics and world affairs, listening to everything around me, absorbing knowledge and skills like a sponge, learning from the world and by trial and (a lot of) error. When I made a decision, there was no challenging me or changing my mind. I followed my gut to the ends of the earth and back. Nobody could have stopped me, though many tried.

So on this day I celebrate six years since I touched a drop of alcohol, I guess I would like to begin not by celebrating at all, but by admitting what I was actually trying to drink away, the hypomania, the depression. By admitting that getting to the root of a problem is often just the beginning of seeing a deeper one. That hitting rock bottom only happens when you stop digging, and try to find a way out. That stigmatizing people who are mentally ill is killing millions of people every year. That suicide recently surpassed homicide as the second-leading cause of death in teenagers each year, after car accidents. That our military veterans come home wounded in body and mind and have a suicide rate that is drastically high, with little to no mental health treatment available. Just "be a man and deal with it" leads to guns being put to heads, nooses being wrapped around throats. That we as a society must change the way we treat the mentally ill, simply as people who have an illness no more controllable or treatable alone than Parkinson's. What's the difference? There is no difference but our mind-state, that's the difference. I worked in a Psychiatric hospital for almost 7 years, and I am still amazed at the daily comments from doctors, nurses, staff in general: "Oh, she's just Borderline", "He's just an attention-seeking teenage brat", "He's just classic Bipolar, throw him on Seroquel". "She's just a Benzo-head", "He's just a fucking drunk", "If he even starts acting up, throw him into isolation and we'll put him down with a shot of B52", (this is what we called the injected cocktail of Benedryl 50 with 2mg of Ativan, the B50-2). "He's crazy as a loon". "Don't even try to talk to her". "He's just an old asshole". "Homeless grunt trying to get a free meal". "He's not nice enough, I don't think we should let his kids visit". "She's a classic cutter, let her find a paper clip and do her worst, just ignore her". Daily. During "Report", as they called it. On the floor of the hospital within earshot of other patients. Sometimes directly to a patients face. Adults, Adolescents, Children as young as four years old. I worked directly with them all. And every time I heard "YOU JUST DON'T UNDERSTAND", I remember distinctly thinking: "You're right, I don't understand your exact nature, your exact chemical imbalance or behavioral disorder, but I refuse to not try and help you in whatever way I can. I will show you as best I can that I am WILLING to try to understand, not just that I do", because most of the time, you just don't. But you can try. Empathize. Don't be scared of us. We're your mailmen, postal workers, neighbors, bartenders, waitresses, telemarketers, local business owners, bosses, employees, co-workers, friends, family, loved ones, heroes and heroines.

Which leads me to my last thought. Last night we lost another amazing musician and gentle soul to suicide, Chris Cornell. Add him to the list of amazing artists we have lost to suicide, drugs, and alcohol over the last few years, decades, and the list is too great to comprehend. And the biggest killer of us all is the inability to speak out without being judged, I can speak to that from experience. Saying (or writing) all of this is very hard, when I could be taking myself out to a steak dinner and saying "I used to spend 25 bucks a day on booze, time to treat myself to something nice". I could be getting a relaxing massage. I used to do that. I don't anymore. Now I reflect on what comes next, what the future looks like, what I can do about it personally and globally, and what is beyond my control. I urge other members of my community, and communities around the world to speak up and speak out for themselves and those they love when confronted with the silence that permeates mental illness and awareness of all kinds.

We can't afford another Robin Williams, Chris Cornell, Aaron Swartz, Kurt Cobain, Hemingway, Hunter S. Thompson, Van Gogh, Sylvia Plath, Virginia Woolf, David Foster Wallace, et al. The thousands of unnamed teenagers and unknown mothers and fathers who have to live every day knowing their child is gone. We as the mentally ill need to speak out, and we as a culture need to speak out against the stigma, which increases mortality rates more than any chemical in our brains, of that I am sure. So, help us. Stand up for us. Yes, ask us to get help for ourselves too, and be patient when we need time, or aren't sure, or don't want to talk about it, but keep on pressing. We need the reminder, even when we don't want to hear it. We need the reminder that someone needs us on this earth, and they refuse to let us go without fighting for our lives, and without us fighting for our own.

"Most of us are acutely aware of our own struggles and we are preoccupied with our own problems. We sympathize with ourselves because we see our own difficulties so clearly. But as Ian MacLaren noted wisely, “Let us be kind to one another, for most of us are fighting a hard battle.”

Good luck and godspeed.

May 18th, 2017

Sam Dillon

#suicide #suicide prevention #mental illness #bipolar #bipolar 2 #alcoholism #recovery #chris cornell #robin williams #van gogh #kurt cobain #david foster wallace #hemingway #sylvia plath