#i just straight up am structurally dissociated from the ability to think about any other 'plays'

[system-of-a-feather]

Today I was invited to the table of the game of life. Everyone here is playing their cards, some are playing Magic, others Pokemon, some Yugioh, some playing cards, and even one guy over there has been playing Baseball cards I think, but as absurd as this game looks, they all appear to be building to a greater image.

The call me to the table to add to the game.

I walk up and pull out my deck of one, singular Skip Uno card. I sit down and shout Uno and play my Skip Uno card. I have won.

The table looks at me - paused in bafflement; a silent stare of bewilderment

They tell me that is not how this game of life works. We each create combos, chains, strategies and skills and build this massive play to form a much greater game.

They tell me that there isn't any winning in this game of life; they tell me that I need to bring more cards to the table, draw some more and join in on creating chained webs and supportive suggestions.

I tell them this is all that I have, there is nothing more to how my plays work other than this singular Skip Uno Card. I play Uno, the only function of Uno is to remove your cards. There is a limited amount of chain and skillful strategy that can be played in the traditional game of Uno; even less when your entire deck is empty and all you have is a singular card.

We have an issue. My game doesn't work at this table. We are incompatible, my deck simply doesn't work with the nature of this collaborative game.

I turn to the ref, solutions my good man. I can't fix my deck, I can't generate new cards. I can't make a play other than Skip Uno, what can anyone ask of me.

The ref checks the book, he checks the rules; he looks up and with a quizzical suggestion, asks if I could ask for someone else's cards

I say no, I don't have a card for that, all I have is a single Skip Uno Card. I do not have a Draw 4 or Draw 2. I only have Skip Uno.

He looks at me. He turns to the other players. He whispers in their ears as they chatter among one another. They each pull from their decks, donating one card each and collecting them into a stack.

They hand me the deck. In it, a Preordain, a holographic Charizard, a single piece of Exodia, a four of spades, and Babe Ruth. These cards now sit around my single Skip Uno card.

I turn to the ref, raising an eyebrow at this strange deck built before me; uncertain if this solution would work, if these cards could even possibly be played at this table.

Even so, new options have been placed in my hand. The bizarre game resumes. I play the four of spades.

The turn roles by.

#alter: data #you are free to reblog and comment and all that #writing #creative writing #recovery #actuallydid #this is an allegory for some system shit going on #allegory #allegory writing #data's writing #for myself or other parts that might not understand / remember the context #I have near to 0 foresight and ability to see the future and as a result do not have much ability to make strategies and solutions #and as the ocd ocpd fuck i am #I have one option my brain gives me and I functionably can not think of doing anything else #not even to the point of getting anxiety #i just straight up am structurally dissociated from the ability to think about any other 'plays' #which is even more apparent with how far ahead most parts in our system see #i dont consider myself to have a foreshortened future in the sense I dont think I will die soon or anything #but i do in the sense I literally cant think past the very instant moment #ptsd #c-ptsd #foreshortened future #also yes #this is supposed to be a bit comedic in nature #you can laugh

[kickingitwithkirk]

Regina Coeli, Regina Infernum

Pairing: Boyking!Sam Winchester x Reader x Knightofhell!Dean Winchester

Prompt: If you really wanna try it, experiment on me *Sense-Taste

Word Count: 3213

Warnings: 18+ cursing, dirty talk, flirting m/m f/m, kissing m/m m/f, oral m/f giving/receiving, p/v, p/a, dp m/f/m, grace/blood consumption, mentions of death/killing, wincest(kissing only)

**Blasphemy for content- if you are offended by religious tenets or altering of religious tenets please skip this story.

A/N: This is the original version I wrote for #bees5Ksenseschallange before realizing it was way over the max word limit. I’m linking the toned down other version too.

Edited version

Please drop me a comment, it’s appreciated.

A/N II: Latin terms: Puer Rex Infernum-boy king of hell. Regina Coeli- queen of heaven, Regina Infernum-queen of hell. Yeah, my Latin sucks

Divider: created by @writeyourmindaway​​ -I flipped original version for story.

*no beta, all mistakes are mine

Sam entered the room without acknowledging his council walked straight to his throne throwing himself onto it.

“Get out.” He said flatly. They looked at each other confused. “Sir, you summoned us here...” The demon exploded in a cloud of fire and smoke before finishing.

“Do I have to repeat myself?” Sam kept his voice level as he raised his left hand and placed his thumb against his middle finger ready to snap the rest of these sycophants out of existence.

Bowing deeply his subordinates back out of the room as fast as possible.

“What crawled up your ass and died today Sammy?” A disembodied voice inquired from a dark corner.

“Watch your mouth or you can get the hell out too Dean.” Sam says abrasively, not in the mood for his brother.

“Hey, I’m just concerned about you. That’s the fourth time this week you’ve called in the council and blew someone up.”

Sam tipped his head back, closing his eyes against the throbbing pain he felt. He barely hears the soughing of Dean's jeans coming towards him.

When he was human, Dean generally was loud on a regular basis unless they were hunting. As a demon, his brother can move so silently even the hell hounds, with their superior auditory senses, can’t detect him.

Dean stops next to his beautiful brother studying him. The strain of ruling hell by himself was showing the longer he sat upon this throne alone.

It had been over five decades since the Demon Curing Ritual had rendered Dean’s restraints useless allowing him to escape. After using a sigil to dispatch Castiel, he hunted Sam mercilessly throughout the bunker before knocking him out with that hammer.

Dean hauled his brother back to the dungeon and after securing him to the chair raided the infirmary searching for the blood transfusion equipment. He ignored a pleading Sam, finally begging to allow him finish the cure.

“Dean, I love you.”

He paused.

Dean’s green eyes shined with all the love he had always felt for his little brother, even before he was born saying, ”I love you too Sammy, but I like the disease,” proceeds to infuse him, pumping tainted blood until he couldn’t pass any more from his body, then sat back and waited.

The bunker's warding burned and its steel reinforced walls groaned from the pressure of an unseen power radiating outwards from the dungeon.

Receiving multiple calls of a strange glow the fire department arrived to find the multistory bunker reduced to nothing but smoldering rubble. When interviewed, the police chief decreed it to be a structure failure and the final resting place of its only known occupants, the eccentric Campbell brothers.

The inferno regions of the Underlands paled in comparison to the ferocity of the Winchester brothers as they stormed the Citadels hallowed halls.

Sam embraced his rightful place as the Puer Rex Infernum with his brother, The Knight of Hell, at his side for eternity.

Long live the Boy King of Hell.

Dean had been standing in front of him staring for nearly an half hour when Sam's sarcasm surfaced, “Take a picture, it'll last longer,” finally opening his onyx eyes. Dean knew he was physically in pain, Sam never wore those eyes otherwise when they were alone.

“What you need..”

“You made it obvious what you think I need Dean, they didn’t help.”

“How many did you get through?” His curiosity peaked.

“All of them.” Sam's voice was strangely dissociated.

Dean blinked in surprise, “You fucked all of them?”

“Fuck and drained, including the guards watching them.”

“Damn Sammy, I’m proud of you!” Dean couldn’t contain his elation, even after all these years, of his brother embracing this life.

Before giving in to their dark sides, Sam was his complete opposite when it came to sex. His encounters were few and far between, preferring, unlike Dean, to have a connection, not just a roll in the hay.

Sam should have been flying high on demon blood topped off by all that pussy and cock, but it was having the opposite effect. He was utterly melancholy.

Dean reached out and gently cupped his cheek, running a calloused thumb over his surprisingly soft, pink lips. Sam’s eyes shifted back to their engaging multi colored hues, softening with the forbidden love for his brother he’s always felt as he gazed at Dean.

Giving into temptation Dean leaned down to taste those lips, whispering against them, “Don’t worry baby brother, I’ll find what you need to stop your pain.”

Dean slammed the heavy ornate door of his private rooms having wasted his time on another fruitless, dead end pursuit. It had been nearly a year since he started his search with nothing to show for it but disappointment and a trail of corpses.

“You look like you need a drink.” A gruff voice called out from his bedroom.

***

Sam had negotiated a truce between Heaven and Hell shortly after taking over. Many of the stipulations we’re only known to the parties directly involved there was one specific item made public.

Someone was chosen to reside in the other's domain as a diplomatic hostage, anything happens to them, the truce was void and all out war would ensue on Earth.

Castiel was the obvious choice for Heaven, believing his close relationship with the brothers could be exploited. He was also granted the ability to freely go between Heaven, Hell and Earth.

What Heaven didn’t expect was his continued loyalty to the Winchesters after they became demons, informing his angelic brethren he refused to be a spy, saying he was neutral like Swedish fish.

Sam’s choice was controversial. He eventually convinced Heaven it was in their best interest for The Cage to be interred there. If it’s corrupted inhabitants were to escape, well, they’d be Heaven's problem to deal with.

Sam then eradicated all of Lucifer’s remaining followers, permitting Dean a public display of what would happen to those who challenged his reign.

***

Dean walked in to find the angel on his bed, casually reclining against the large headboard reading an ancient scroll.

“What are you doing in my bed Cas?”

“Waiting on you Dean.”

Dean’s talented tongue peaked out as he toed off his boots and climbed up onto the bed, crawling across to straddle the angels thighs leaning towards him, “Should've sent for me…” Castiel placed a firm hand in the middle of Dean’s chest halting him.

“I’m not here for that and have no intention of fornicating with you.”

“Come on, play with me Cas, you know you’re dying to know what it’s like to have a big cock deep down your throat,” Dean, using his whiskey roughened tone, blinks slowly as his sexy, makes women instantly wet smile graced his plush lips, “or would you prefer I slip it up that tight ass of yours, help you release those pent up frustrations? If you really wanna try it, experiment on me.”

“You're trying to provoke me only because you are frustrated,” Dean’s expression turned frosty, “but I have found information that will lead us to what you’ve been searching for,” Castiel holds up the scroll for him to read.

Dean takes the scroll from him frowning, “What language is this shit?” He asked, sliding off Cas onto the bed.

“An obscure form of an unpronounceable language. It has taken me the better part of the year and I called in several favors to gain access to Metatron. After persuading him to translate what he could of it, I have now obtained the location of the Regina Coeli.”

“Who?”

“The Queen of Heaven? You want me to take the Virgin Mary as my consort!”

Incredulousness was written on Sam’s face as he looked between Dean and Cas as they sat across from him in his private receiving room.

“I can just see it Sammy, you and the blessed mother. Damn, if we weren’t already in hell.” Dean smarted off, earning “It’s Sam,” and bitchface #127 in response.

Castiel released a long-suffering sigh at his friend's inappropriateness.

“No Sam, I was not referring to her nor the ancient sky goddesses erroneously given the illustrious title,” Cas points to a nondescript illustration of a woman seated upon the throne of Heaven, “I am referring to the one true queen God himself chose to rule over all of his domains in his stead.”

“Chuck's firstborn was an Archangel girl? What’d she do to piss off dear old dad, take the family car without permission for a joyride?” Dean's joke falls flat.

“The translation was vague on the specifics but she is not an Archangel, more of a composite, created from the Light and the Darkness. The rumors indicate she took the Darkness’s side in a disagreement between them. God banished her here as punishment with the stipulation that only a descendant of the First Ones of Father can lay a claim for consort and make her their queen.”

“First Ones? I thought those were the Archangels,” Dean asked, giving Cas a confused look.

“According to the eldest demons Lucifer did try on more than one occasion. Obviously, he was not the one nor any of the other rulers that followed.”

Traveling into the labyrinth beneath the Citadel, Castiel led them through an ancient part of the Underlands neither brother knew existed and stopped in front of a nondescript wall.

Dean cocked his head to the side scrutinizing it, “Fandamntastic wall Cas.”

“Yes, it is.” The Angel replied and walked through it.

Dean reached out his hand coming into contact with the solid surface, “The fuck?”

Castiel’s upper torso reappeared, “Coming Sam?”

Sam shrugs and stepping forward is pulled in. He finds himself in a large catacomb, torches placed statically around to illuminate it. He turns to ask Cas where they are and stops.

In the center sits a raised, polished, black marble obelisk.

Sam stands in front of it studying the carved inscriptions in the same language as the scroll. “It’s a nice piece of marble Cas.” He comments unimpressed.

Castiel did something strange. He smiled at Sam, a full on grinning like the Cheshire Cat from Alice in Wonderland smile.

Sam’s ingrained hunter’s instincts kick in before his eyes shift to their onyx color, using his demonic powers to scan the area around them searching for an immediate threat but encounters something unexpected.

“I have been waiting a long time for you.”

Sam found himself standing in an expanse of pure white, it’s vastness of nothing surrounding him. There is the barest of sounds behind him and in what was empty space seconds ago now sits two high backed thrones. One is from illustration on the scroll, the other his. Sam wonders how he missed the fact they were matching except for color.

Drawing up to his imposing height ready to defend himself he walks towards them cautiously. Sensing no imminent danger Sam takes a seat upon his and waits for what is to happen next.

Sam's eyes snapped towards a subtle sound of feathers rustling beside him. On the throne sits a woman staring at him.

“Are you the Regina Coeli?” Sam inquires in awe that she isn’t anything like he imagined.

Slowly blinking Y/C/E, she nods once.

“Why did you bring me here?” Sam gestures to the empty space surrounding them.

“It was necessary, I have no other way of communicating otherwise.”

Sam cocked his head unable to figure out how she is projecting her thoughts to him.

Long ago he learned how to shield himself from others when one of the late Princes of Hell tried using a telepath to oust him from the throne. It had taken ages for the cleaners to remove all the bits left after Dean eviscerated them.

She dropped her chin given him a coy smile, “It is because you were made for me.”

“What do you mean made for you? I don’t understand.”

“The one who can claim me as consort is descended from the First Ones of Father and that is you.”

“The First Ones were the Archangels.”

“The Archangels were created from The Nothing. The First Ones of Father were created on Earth.”

“The First Ones...you mean Adam and Eve?”

“Adam and Lilith.”

“They didn’t have any children before God cast Lilith out as a demon.”

“Yes, they did. You and your brother are their descendants.”

“We’re descended from Cain and Abel...”

“Who were Lilith’s offspring, not Eve. It is why those directly descended from her were marked for the Apocalypse.”

Sam ponders this information a while, yet another piece of the puzzle that was their lives clicking into place.

“Lilith possessed free will, unlike Eve. It was passed on to her descendants as punishment.”

“And has led you here to me.”

“What's your name? I can’t just call you Regina Coeli.”

“Father gave me no name like his son’s, he only called me daughter.” She told him sounding sad, “what name do you like?”

“You want me to give you a name?” She nodded eagerly waiting for his answer. Sam looked at her contemplatively never having had a favorite female name, the only one that truly mattered in his life was Dean.

“I’ll call you Y/N.”

She stood up and moved to stand in front of Sam.

“Before you commit to this, know that this is a symbiotic relationship, you won’t need to feed on demon blood anymore, we’ll feed off each other.”

Y/N produces a knife more delicate than Ruby’s and runs it across her wrist leaking some of her grace, and offering it to Sam, he takes her arm and sucks on the wound briefly.

“But there’s one stipulation....”

“Whatever it is you can have it.” Sam breaths out, his body craving more than just a taste of her grace.

“All domains are mine, including the Underlands, as decreed by Father.”

Sam's eyes shifted onyx with displeasure, “Hell is my domain and I don’t play well with others who try to subvert me.”

Y/N smiled mischievously and climbed onto his lap, “I freely give it to you but remember, the others are mine and I don’t play well either. Do you agree to my terms?” she retorts in a dark, cheeky manner. Sam picks up her long braid, playing with the trailing silver ribbons tied around its end.

“Agreed.”

Sam and Y/N stepped through the wall to find a relieved Dean and pissed off Castiel, who took his leave.

As they traveled back to the Citadel Dean couldn’t take his eyes off of Y/N. This would have normally angered Sam but she had informed him even though they were technically demons, Dean was still his soulmate so she could bond with him too if Sam wished.

After introducing her to the court, who insisted their bonding was completed in front of a witness, they retreated to Sam’s private chambers.

Dean moved in front of her, caressing her cheek and licked his plush lips, “She looks so sweet Sammy.”

Sam hums in agreement moving behind her drawing her flush against him and kissing along her neck asks, “You wanna taste Y/N Dean,” as he grips the material around her waist and lifts her dress upwards, slowly unveiling her body to his brother. Dean’s eyes dilate with hunger as it teasingly travels upward, revealing she is nude under it.

“Lift your arms,” Sam tells her and pulls it completely off, dropping it and resting his chin on Y/N’s shoulder and starts playing with her nipples as she wraps her arms behind his neck for balance, spreading her legs to give Dean access between them.

Dean dropped to his knees and looking to Sam for permission, runs his tongue over her outer lips, tasting that she’s already wet before parting them, making her quiver with pleasure.

“Dean loves the taste of pussy, he could eat you out for hours. Would you like that Y/N?” Sam moaned at her response, “He will later,” reaching down gripped his brother's short hair tugging him back roughly, “it’s my turn now.”

Sam laid back on his bed high on her grace as Y/N straddles him, pinning his arms down next to his head and leaned in brushing her lips across his in a tender kiss.

“Keep your hands to yourself till I’m done with you.”

She kissed down the long line of his neck pausing below his tattoo to tease his left nipple with her tongue before biting down making him shiver in pleasure. Sam’s cock hardened even more as her lips, light as the dusting of a feather, traversed downwards over his abs halting at the v of his hips and gripping his cock in her hand dipped the tip of her tongue into his slit, tasting precum pearling out before taking just the head into her mouth sucking on it, her tongue over moving in random patterns over the sensitive nerves underneath it.

Sam groaned in pleasure feeling the sweetest sting of the blade along the crease of his leg, his hot blood pulsating to the surface. He watched as she released his cock, lowering her head and, without breaking eye contact, licked along the flowing wound, tasting his deliciously tainted blood.

Y/N continuously moved her hands over every bit of his skin she could reach while nursing at the wound. Sam started feeling light headed from being drained but at the same time euphoric with desire as he unabatedly cums on his stomach.

Dean, writhing in his seat observing them, presses down on his cock to deny himself cumming watches Y/N using her tongue to clean Sam’s spending's as he’s still spurting.

Resting her head on his hip Y/N asks Sam something making him smile, “Y/N wants to know if I will allow you to join us now,” his eyes telling Dean to hurry the hell up and get naked.

He strips in record time, climbs on the enormous bed straddling him behind Y/N, teasingly rubbing his cock through her folds. “How do you want us sweetheart? You want Sammy’s unrelenting cock pounding this scrumptious pussy and me down your throat?” Dean strokes her throat, “How about both us in your tight cunt, ravaging it together?” He trailed his left hand down Y/N’s torso and inserted two of his thick fingers in her feeling her clenching.

“Or maybe prefer me here,” tapping his cock head against her tight little hole before slipping his dripping tip in past the tight ring of muscle making her jolt then quiver with pleasure as she pushes back till he’s fully seated in her.

“That’s it, get nice and stretched out on my cock,” Dean bit his lip moaning as she worked herself up and down on him, “ ‘cause once Sammy’s been in here, you’ll know it for a long time.

Sam, unwilling to wait any longer, grabs his self and pushes in next to Dean’s thick fingers, ramming his massive cock into her drenched cunt, forcing her to stretch around him and not stopping until he was balls deep in her. Y/N gasped silently, overwhelmed by the sensations she hadn’t felt in millennia.

“Easy there tiger, we have eternity to play with our new toy.”

Forever tags: @donnaintx

#all saints day reblog #boyking!sam winchester x reader #sam winchester x reader #sam winchester x y/n #supernatural #knightofhell!dean winchester #supernatural fanfic #supernatural au #dean winchester x reader #knightofhell!dean winchester x reader

[yourtransgendersocialworker]

12.31.2019, On an Inside Scoop of a Mental Health Crisis

I’ve been thinking, lately, about how a person who is in the middle of a mental health crisis may have a very different perspective than those watching. I wonder what it may look like when those who experience a crisis together debrief the sequence of events. I tried to piece together my memories of my last mental health deterioration and verbalize how I felt and what I remember.  I experienced the entire thing. 

Before the night, I had been bad off for a couple weeks. I had a few triggering events which led me down a shame spiral. Over the course of about two weeks, I started to lose touch with reality. I felt very confused and embarrassed. I was struggling to pay attention and I couldn’t remember anything. Bad thoughts ran rampant. The voice inside my head was loud, non-stop and confident with suicidal ideation. 

It started when I posted a Facebook status. It was cryptic and vague, something like, “I don’t belong here anymore.” I don’t remember much about that night anymore, but I can imagine what it might have looked like. I posted that status and then I paced around the house in a panicky daze. Pacing around the house in a dissociate state was becoming a nightly routine*. My mind was on fire, so loud and certain with bad thoughts. I was in so much pain. 

People reached out on Facebook, asking if I was okay, but I didn’t respond. It was comforting to see the love and support but it was too overwhelming to engage with it all. Ryan called me and I didn’t answer his call. Theo’s mom texted me after I was asleep asking if I was awake. I didn’t see that until the morning so I did not answer. When I woke up, my friend texted me asking if I was okay, saying they didn’t want to have to come over if I didn’t answer. I texted back saying I was okay and they got mad that I posted that status online. 

Later I wrote a blog journal about how bad I was feeling and I reflected on my poor decision to post that Facebook status. I wrote about how it felt to be told to not post shit like that, about how it hurt and about how I shouldn’t worry people. I quoted what the friend had told me but I didn’t say her name. I wrote that I agreed and I talked about the right and wrong ways to ask for help and how scary it is to ask for help. 

Meanwhile, I am still in the middle of a mental health crisis. 

I go to the therapist’s office on a Friday. I tell him how bad I am feeling and I tell him how I would want to die. He tells me I can’t leave his office until I make safety plans with him. I texted my friend asking if I could stay the night at their house, or if they or their boyfriend would come stay the night with me because I was in my therapists office and he wouldn’t let me leave. My friend stopped texting back when I asked that. I made plans with Ryan to meet halfway between us, in Lexington, Kentucky. We both drove around 5 hours and stayed in a hotel for the weekend. We played Bible golf. I told him my thoughts about mental illness as a terminal illness and he spent the weekend trying to convince me to stay alive. I was so sure of myself and referred to myself in the past tense. Ryan said he felt like he was already grieving my death. I was happy we could do that together. 

I saw that my friend deleted me from Facebook. My other friend texted me the next day saying they were glad I was able to make a different plan. My family here was suddenly gone. I just continued to spiral. I left Lexington still determined to kill myself. I made it about a week.  I went to work but I couldn’t work and people were taking me on walks and I talked openly to my coworkers about my suicidal thoughts. Words would pour out of my mouth before I processed them, startling the both of us. The coworkers started talking to each other. Gwen and I hid in my office for a couple hours while she gently warmed me to the idea of seeking help. I was determined to kill myself. I couldn’t think straight but I knew things were bad. I eventually agreed to go. We went to my house and prepared a bag and prepared me for what was next. Gwen took me to the crisis center and we joked about the decorations on the wall and she came back for the assessment and reminded me to tell them my theory on terminal mental illness. 

I got sent to the same hospital I went to the first time. Staff remembered me and I remembered them. I spent 32 days in the hospital watching people come and go, 32 very lonely days without many visitors. I recognized the hospital kinships as structured and contained. I tried my hardest to understand what exactly had happened up until this point. I couldn’t wrap my head around losing my friend family and I began to question everything. Was I toxic, causing more pain than pleasure in my relationships? Was I worthless, worth leaving when I needed help the most? The only relief from self-interrogation was the anxious peace of my impending death. I realized I was living my last days and that was comforting. I did 16 rounds of shock treatment and didn’t feel any different. 

I came back home and tried to piece my life together. Nothing had changed. I couldn't trust myself or anyone else. I still had no idea what was real and what wasn't real. I still didn’t understand what warranted the abrupt abandonment of my support network. I read a lot of books and prepared myself for death. I stopped telling people my plans. I did research. I cried hysterically to the Nurse Practitioner and she hugged me and referred me to an outpatient program.

I started intensive outpatient treatment and I told them about my terminal mental illness and they cried and increased my time to partial hospitalization. I made a couple friends and got along well with the staff. I made connections and I made granola and I made a mask. It felt good but I knew it wasn’t the real world. I talked a lot about suicide and the therapist tried to respect my thoughts while also trying to convince me to stay alive. I thanked the therapist for trying so hard and I told them how I was going to kill myself. People reminded me that a couple weeks ago I said I was doing okay but I couldn’t remember that. 

I started back at work. I didn’t arrange any more therapy. I have done enough and I know another person isn’t going to change my life. I am here now. I am tired. I sleep most of the day. I don’t move very much at all. I worry that my friends feel obligated to reach out to me. I want to be a kind friend but I don’t want to spread my dark energy. I am more calm than usual. I'm moving a lot less so there is less about my reality to question. I still feel the same. I'm not talking about it as much because there is no point.

————

Since writing that last paragraph, I was in a bad car accident. The morning after, I called the numbers I had memorized, my mom, Ryan and Theo, to ask for help getting a ride home from the Emergency Room. I was covered in blood and positioned casually in the waiting room for someone to come claim me. My supervisor picked me up and I vomited in her car and dribbled blood onto the passenger door. Friends showed me they cared for me. Kiley drove from Illinois and stayed with me over Christmas. Her presence in the midst of my hardest time reaffirmed my ability to connect and share loving-kindness. The news of a suicide brought reflection and pain. The lens shifted. 

2019 was incredibly hard. It’s right up there with 2009 as the hardest times so far. I’ve learned a lot about family- the word, the concept, the reality. I’ve learned about true friendship and true love. I’ve learned I’m not always to blame. I’ve learned that despite all of the dark, I am still filled with love. I’ve learned that growth isn’t a synonym for progress. You can grow into an ugly thing. I know one thing to be true- I have not turned ugly.

This decade tried its hardest to destroy me and towards the end, I eagerly chipped in. I’m not one to hold weight to the date changing, but it feels like the right time for me to try again. 

_____

*Try to explain the spiral of depression and dissociation. 

It usually starts with feeling ashamed or embarrassed about something.

You come home from work and you start to panic. You think to yourself, “Be gentle with yourself. If you’re tired, just sit on the couch.” You sit on the couch and feel like a waste for not being productive. Your mind is on fire and you can’t think about anything. You are overwhelmed with static noise. Your legs shake and you scroll through your phone so much that it tells you there is nothing left to look at. You start to think about dying. You get up but you don’t know what to do so you smoke a cigarette and look at your unfinished projects. You wash your hands and stumble back to the couch, the cigarette being just enough of a distraction to trick you into thinking you actually did something. You zone out. You watch the house dirty around you, let things pile up. You start to move through space differently. The air feels thick and your body moves in slow-motion. You start to feel like you are looking at a “Magic Eye.” Your eyes are out of focus all the time and they blur and shift throughout the day. You cry often and uncontrollably. It does not feel like a release, but like you are made of clay and you are cracking. You realize you’re not paying attention to anything anymore. You think about killing yourself every free second you have. You think about the act of killing yourself, you think about your funeral, you think about your dog, you think about your family and your friends. You think about everything you’ve done in the world. You think about everyone you love. You think about the idea of a good future. You know what you’ve got to do. You think things through and come to the same conclusion after each hypothesis you try out. You can’t hear your friends speaking to you anymore because you are thinking through everything. People are talking to you but you are wild inside and trying to hide it as best as you can but you can't hide your suicidal ideations when you are telling everyone goodbye. You surprise yourself with the things you let pour out of your lips. You aren’t answering messages anymore. That's too much. You feel a sense of peace and determination. You know you need to be brave and you are worried about that. And that is where it whisks off.

#ptsd #depression #dissociation #transgender #trans #ftm #mental health #social work

[agosnesrerose]

Thank You For Coming: Talking with transdisciplinary performance artist NIC Kay about balance, Blackness, and hope

NIC Kay. lil BLK performance. Photo: iamkiamstudios. Courtesy of the artist.

NIC Kay and I met just after I moved to Chicago from Los Angeles in the fall of 2014. I was coming from the world of sunshine and contemporary dance, and was thirsty for brick buildings and East Coast aesthetics. NIC was a Chi-by-way-of-the-Bronx theater kid, deep in their vogue femme practice: soft and cunt. (NIC uses they/them pronouns.) We were both Black, conscious, weird, and queer, and became friends fairly easily. Since that initial meeting, our respective work has grown more experimental and far-reaching in terms of influences, while at the same time more focused on who it is we make work for and why. We are both explicit in our desire to use performance as a way of connecting with and lifting up Black folks, and especially Black queer femmes and women (trans and non-trans).

I’ve been working with artists in Chicago, New York, and New Orleans on several projects that orbit around what I deem “Black time,” a sense of the temporal that loops, rewinds, doubles up, and goes deep. NIC, who now splits their time between Chicago, Rotterdam, and New York, just completed the Chicago iteration of their touring show, lil BLK, and they are now embarking on a new project and fundraiser, GET WELL SOON! They’ve recently released a Web series about lil BLK called “Bronx Cunt Tour” for the queer people of color platform Open TV. We had a conversation just as NIC was wrapping up lil BLK at the Hamlin Park Theater, two weeks after I closed my show, S P R E A D, at Links Hall.

Anna Martine Whitehead: A friend of mine saw S P R E A D, which opens with a twenty-five-minute meal while my body lies prone upstage. She mentioned that a former professor of hers—also a person of color—once told her that he was so over seeing women of color make performances where they “pretend to be dead.”

I’m trying to switch off my need for validation from traditional structures and ask myself who, ultimately, am I making the work for?

NIC Kay: And I’m over seeing shows with people standing erect. I’m over ballet. I am making work for Black people, things we can connect to. I work really hard to make sure Black people can show up to performances, by inviting friends and family via text, email, calls, and the Internet. There should always be at least one other Black person in the audience. Those are the conversations I’m trying to have, based on the content of the work. I’m trying to switch off my need for validation from traditional structures and ask myself who, ultimately, am I making the work for? Why must the show really go on? That’s hard to answer if you’re not being real with yourself. But I have community. I don’t need to be on stage, with people clapping for me, to feel good about my work, about my Blackness, queerness—my otherness.

AMW: We’ve both been busy producing shows in Chicago, which is a kind of second homecoming for you.

NK: Being back in Chicago is beautiful and extremely gruesome. I was in Switzerland when it was announced that 45 would be our president. A sense of dread began to build inside of me when I thought about all the white people I occupy space with.  A fatigue hit right away. I’m tired; my friends are tired; we’ve been arrested how many times? I collapsed within myself. So I began reading Frederick Douglass and Mariame Kaba’s goodnight posts on Twitter to help regain strength.

I began to understand that this election was just the beginning of a series of elections. The same way Brexit has been the beginning of a series of turns toward fascist, xenophobic ideology. There are many more such elections and bad decisions to come. And we need to take this seriously: we need to hold news outlets and pundits accountable for the way they did not take his campaign seriously. It’s like everyone went to the circus, thinking it was going to be some cute clowns, and then they realized the door’s locked and they’re not going home—no one’s going to go home. And they all should’ve done their research.

In terms of white empathy, knowing [Black people] through our virtuosity does not seem to help. If we could get free by singing and dancing, we would’ve been free a thousand times over. We’ve been ruling the artform since before we got to this continent. And the display of Black pain does not seem to help. Millennials are no less racist than previous generations. So, knowing a few Asians, or being married to a Black person, or listening to world music, or watching a killer-cop video on YouTube, obviously is not helping.

AMW: It feels especially hurtful to hear the white liberals, who often are our producers and presenters still saying in regard to the election, “What happened?”

NK: As our foremothers, forefathers, and trancestors said, these people don’t care about us. I’ve decided it’s my business to not worry about it (chase after white people). Many of them are intent on killing themselves and taking us all out with them. At the end of the day, we Black people just need to talk with each other, listen to each other, fight, and grow. It’s what I’m doing. It scares me, but it’s way more rewarding than what I feel in all-white spaces, where I find myself asked and centered to plead for my very humanity. My people may be trying me with their inability to get pronouns right, but I believe we can at least meet on some human level and grow together.

The neutrality that white liberalism supports is essentially erasure. They waiting around to see if the threats are real or what… Martin Luther King, Jr. told us: “The hottest place in Hell is reserved for those who remain neutral in times of great moral conflict.” But that’s what’s happening. The reality of the situation is bad, and I’m struggling with a sense of pessimism that I now wear as a blanket.

AMW: Having worked closely this past year with an all-white majority-straight theater company, I too have been struggling with nihilism. Sometimes I feel as though I’m just perfecting the art of shutting down internally as a means of building my resume. I can get very depressed sometimes thinking about how easy it is for me to have a great time working in a one-hundred-percent-space because my ability to dissociate is so on point.

NK: I meditate on hope as a discipline. I need hope to be able to do the work—the “wake work,” as Christina Sharpe says.

AMW: I listen to John Lewis interviews. It helps me synthesize my sci-fi Black feminist perspective with a more historical, faith-based practice. Lewis talks about preparing ourselves for the futures we already know exist. Instead of understanding the struggle as a fight, Lewis comes from this Southern Christian Leadership Conference (SCLC)-type practice of maintaining faith that you are already in the kingdom and all you need to do is prepare yourself to make a home there. For me, that is a very quantum sort of ideology. It is about recognizing the radical black hole of liberation that already exists all around us.

knowing about ourselves as best we can is a choice that we can make to bring us closer to thriving

NK: Okwui [Okpokwasili] and I talk about the space between the human and the interstellar. Reading Octavia [Butler]’s work has helped, too. For a very long time, I felt that Afrofuturism was beyond my understanding of what a future could be, considering all the weight of being Black and femme and masculine and queer and all of that good stuff. I always felt like sci-fi was white people’s genre, so that they could find other worlds to go and fuck up. Octavia said, ‘Actually, this is what happens when you fuck up this world, and here’s how we go and make other worlds.’ Her futurism was embedded in a proto-Black pessimism. She said, ‘Let’s continue to state that we’ve gone through extreme amounts of pain and violence that can never be apologized or pathologized or written away.’ We can try and thrive within this situation, or we can barely survive. And knowing about ourselves as best we can is a choice that we can make to bring us closer to thriving. Some would say it’s a privilege to thrive. But acknowledging ourselves is a right that we all have.

AMW: This conversation is making me think about how useful group therapy would be for artists. I’ve often thought this should be a line item in any presenting institution’s budget.

NK: Yes! Can you imagine a therapist on staff at an artist residency? We could call it “Artists Anonymous” or “Untitled or Unknown Conceptual Feelings Gathering.” Because sometimes the girls be out here eating paint. Someone would be like, “I haven’t shown my work to anyone in ten years… I’ve just been collecting stuffed animals, and now my house is full of stuffed animals.” And we could all say, “Hey, girl. Thank you for coming.”

NIC Kay is a 2017 Movement Research Artist-in-Residence Van Lier Fellow in New York City.

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