#i know why i got this god forsaken illness. i know this period of my life calls me to undo the mess it manifested after what i lived through | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

cupidsintern · 3 years

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oho i would love to hear about that second one please please (and ill post a pic of my bellbottoms tomorrow lol)

its my virgin!billy fic. ill just give u some of it lmao:

the other night i cried (while thinking of having sex with you) pt. 1

Billy prayed for this.

Like, actually honest to god prayed- but in his defense he had been super drunk at the time. Drunk and crying. Alone. In his room.

One of his lower points. Definitely not the lowest.

And he hadn't put his hands together- but he was sort of sitting on his knees. Kind of.

And he’d tilted his head up to his god-forsaken popcorn plastered ceiling and blinked a couple times and closed his eyes and thought:

Please let me lose my virginity to Steve Harrington.

Shoot for the stars, right?

It had been one of those nights where he'd been at one of those parties and ended up in a room alone with one of those girls and she’d started pawing her way up his leg and he bolted.

Very subtly bolted. But still.

Made him feel sick. He took two showers.

Maybe he would have felt better if he could have just like, stared himself down in the bathroom mirror and whispered ‘what's wrong with you?’. But he knew.

Then he’d prayed.

Then he’d fallen asleep and been hungover at breakfast and was sure his dad would notice- but he didn’t- so maybe even if his prayers weren’t gonna be answered, whatever Higher Power there was, was still cutting him some slack today. On a random Saturday. Rather than literally any other day he could have used a deus ex machina.

Nobody knew Billy was a virgin. I mean technically, some of his old friends knew, back home. But they were usually cool about it, because why wouldn't you be if you'd been friends for someone that long. But no one here knew. And thank god because being 18 and still being ‘inexperienced’ would get you endless shit but they didn't. Mostly because they had no way of finding out. Billy could have bagged loads of chicks back on the gold coast and no one doubted that.

And it wasn't like Billy’d never gotten hot and heavy with anyone. It was just that. None of those people were. You know. Girls.

Nobody he could actually talk about. Especially now. Even if he had friends other than fair-weather lackeys.

And. You know. Steve.

Billy would never say he was friends with Steve outright, just because it seemed like one of those things that if you verbally confirmed it, then it would stop being true. Because he kind of couldn't believe that it was.

It was Max’s fault for making him apologize. She said she didn't want Billy and her to keep fighting so much, that she missed being friends, and it was like pulling teeth but he asked what he could do to make amends. She said to apologize to Lucas, then apologize to Steve. Billy did that.

Then Steve wouldn't leave him alone.

And it wasn't like he could keep pretending to hate Steve- he'd taken that way too far. Couldn’t exactly pull Steve aside and say “Look I know you're trying to be nice but if you don’t leave me alone I’ll start being queer about it and I can’t let that happen again.”

So Steve kept being nice.

And Billy got kinda queer about it.

He really tried not to. Honest he did. But then again maybe he didn't. Because Steve smelled like department store Christmas and if he bought a two pack of lighters he always gave Billy the second one. He’d walk over sit with Billy at lunch and always say “this seat taken?” even if there was no one else around like it was a cheesy sitcom and he was just waiting for the laugh track to kick in.

Then it got to the point that if Billy tried to avoid Steve, Steve would track him down and ask if he was okay.

“You okay, man?”

Wasn't always ‘man,’ either. Sometimes it was “California” or “Bills” or even one time “tiger,” and that shit knocked Billy out. Pulled the rug right out from under him but- “Yeah, Harrington. I’m fine. Just getting some air.”

Billy asked Max what the fuck she’d told Steve about Billys life. She said if he wanted to ask her something he couldn't just barge into her room he had to knock first so he had to leave her room, close the door, knock, and wait for her to say “yeah” to open the door again and “For the second time, Maxine. What did you tell Harrington about me.”

“Nothing,” She was being honest too. “I didn't tell him anything, weirdo. I think he just wants to be friends.”

Friends.

Which was maybe worse than enemies.

Because it meant the sad, sad reality that Billy was just some incognito perv that didn't have a snowball's chance in hell of sleeping with Steve Harrington was made even more apparent.

Then came the ‘let’s hangout’s.

Steve started asking Billy if he wanted to hang out outside of school. Like go for lunch, then maybe ditch school after lunch, just not go back and drive around for a while. Then just ditch a day of school altogether and walk around downtown. Then spend an entire school holiday walking around downtown, chasing pigeons off the sidewalk and window shopping and spending a whole two hours in the one and only record shop trying to track down a tape Steve said he remembered having in the 8th grade.

Then-

“Hey! Bills, slow down,” Steve was trying to catch up to Billy in the hall.

Billy caught a whiff of hairspray and the Cleanest Woods You'd Ever Stick Your Nose In before he even turned his head.

“What are you doing after school tomorrow?” “Light arson. Why do you ask?”

Steve smiled. “You could do some light arson at my house. Sure I have some old homework you could burn.”

Billy wanted very badly to tell Steve that ‘that is not what arson is’. But he was still kind of hung up on being invited to Steve’s house. Steve’s illusive, gigantic house to which he had never been but always secretly wanted to go.

“I’m more of a book burning guy.” Billy smiled back- couldn't help himself. “Get me your address in third tomorrow, yeah?”

Steve’s smile got wider. “Sick.”

Billy got Steve’s address passed to him by the platinum blonde that sat next to him in third period. She teased the shiny strands all to hell every morning but there were always halfway to flat by 10am. She flicked the note onto his desk kind of carelessly, which Billy hated because didn't she know it was precious cargo? But also he didn't care because it wasn't a big deal going to Harrington’s house anyway.

Steve had drawn little stars around his house address. Like it was some big Destination.

What a dork. Billy traced his finger over one of the stars before shoving the note in his pocket.

pt. 2 maybe coming soon???

#harringrove fanfic #steve harrington #billy hargrove #harringrove #my fic #billy x steve #steve x billy

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yourdeepestfathoms · 3 years

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for anyone curious, my newest book is about the Salem Witch Trials! it’s at the point of view of Mary Warren and how she went through trials, ultimately ending in her downward spiral into madness as the trials deteriorate her mental health. it’s called Servant of Evil.

here’s the first segment of the first chapter!

— — —

She was gathering crops the first day she caught wind of the hysteria.

It was late January and sunny, the last warm day in what would soon feel like forever. The sickle in her hand was wickedly sharp and gleaming in pale yellow light, and the stalks of the corn she was cutting away were rough and sharp beneath calloused fingers. Already, the skin on her hands was shredded, oozing ruby droplets of blood and staining bright green stems. Her legs ached from crouching in the dirt, muscles locked up and tense. Somewhere beyond the pillars of corn stretched out before her, she could hear her master’s children talking in high-pitched voices, dogs barking, and horses neighing. Even closer than that, however, she could hear heavy footsteps tramping through the field, and she knew the owner of this land would not enjoy such galumphing through his crops. But she also knew that the one who appeared through the stalks wouldn’t care much for the fiery point of John Proctor’s scorn.

“Something weirdish is going on in Salem.”

Without looking up, Mary Warren answered the unexpected visitor, “Something is always going on in Salem.”

That much was true, at least right now. Salem was a town of rich trade and sea salt, characterized by a sparkling harbor that was bested only by Boston’s and a habit of fighting with itself. For years, Salem had been split between two forces: the nobles up in Salem Town and the farmers down in Salem Village. The two territories were never not fighting with each other; they were always mad about something the other did, and it was easy to lose track of who hated who and for what reason. Salem Village didn’t like the control Salem Town held over it, while Salem Town was annoyed by Salem Village thinking it was its own settlement, but they all detested the British church, which was mutual. Salem Town often pulled men from Salem Village to be a part of the national guard, which made Salem Village nervous because then they would have nobody to protect them, and Indian attacks were a regular fear throughout the civilization. Aside from its harbor, the other thing Salem had to owe to its popularity was its unfortunate position in front of frequent ambushes. And if it didn’t suffer ambushes first-hand, then it suffered ambushes through the survivors of such raids, many of which populated the city and would soon help with the grisly events that turned the community over on its head.

But the only other thing Salem Village and Salem Town could agree on was that the Indians were an issue. Unfortunately, that was where agreements ended and arguments began- Salem Town wanted more men to train, promising protection; Salem Village refusing, saying they knew how Salem Town lied, and if they didn’t, then they only saved them because of their bountiful trade and not because they were their people. It wouldn’t be long until the yelling broke out, testaments from the Bible were quoted, and grown men argued like two children fighting over who was their parents’ favorite kid.

However, Salem as a whole had fallen silent recently. Things were peaceful. It was as though a grace period were opening up before them all--or, perhaps, it was actually ending.

Except for right now, in the Proctor corn field, of course. Because her visitor would only bring silence if she were dead, and she had proved to be too slippery for death’s fingers three times over after surviving several Indian attacks throughout her young life.

“This is different.”

Wiping a sagging green sleeve over her damp brow, Mary looked up and squinted through sweat and sun to look at none other than the Putnam’s maid, Mercy Lewis.

Mercy was a fine example of everything the Puritans didn’t want. Despite her name’s sake, she was stubborn, brash, and spitfire, though she was smart enough to never act in such a way in front of the church. And she was, indeed, smart. She was more clever than a fox, easily outwitting several situations despite the minimal education women had in their lifetime. The only thing she was merciful to was her younger cousin, Ann Putnam Jr. Her parents were better off naming her Big, Loud, and Vulgar.

Mercy was nineteen-years-old, two years older than Mary, and built like a small bear. She was short, compact, and sinewy, her muscles and joints well-honed from rough maid work. Her temper was black and her teeth were sharp. Her curly dark brown hair was tucked up in her blindingly white bonnet, and she was dressed in a nondescript dress of purple. Storm cloud grey eyes bore down on Mary with bright amusement.

The two of them met three years ago in Elizabeth Proctor’s tavern. Mary had been struggling to wipe away a sticky stain on one of the tables; Mercy was looking for fresh meat. They both were in the right place at the right time.

Mary hadn’t heard her come in. It was as though the shadows of the tavern itself had unfolded the sixteen-year-old before her because she was suddenly there, towering over the front of the table, and Mary ended up spilling the bowl of soapy water she was using all over herself upon noticing her.

“My, are you jumpy,” the strange girl had observed, peering over the edge of the table. She didn’t offer Mary her help or even an apology. Mary didn’t ask for one. “Were your parents murdered by savages, too?”

“What?”

“Ooo, no, then. Got it.”

Mary blinked up at her for a moment, then carefully got up out of the sudsy puddle and retrieved a dry rag to clean up the newest mess. The entire time, the strange girl watched her as she dripped droplets and beads of white soap from the bottom of her old lavender dress.

“Can I help you?” Mary asked as she got back down on her hands and knees to clean the floor.

“Oh, no,” the strange girl answered. “I just came to say hello. Introduce myself. You work for the Proctor’s, yeah?”

“Yes,” Mary nodded.

“Interesting, interesting. I work for the Putnam’s. Thomas is my cousin, actually.”

Mary nodded again. She looked back down at the puddle, trying to focus on that. The girl didn’t move.

“Mercy.”

Mary looked back up again. She blinked. The strange girl blinked back. Was this a game?

“Pity.”

The girl stared at her for a moment, then burst into loud laughter that seemed to shake the walls. Mary was startled; she had never heard anyone laugh so hard in her entire life. Especially in a town as strict as Sakem.

“No, that’s my name,” the girl said after calming down. “My name is Mercy. Mercy Lewis.”

“Oh,” Mary’s ears heated up. “Right. Your parents were feeling pretty creative, weren’t they?”

Another bout of laughter. “Yes. Yes, they were.” She squinted at her. “And you are?”

“Mary. Mary Warren.”

“Well, Mary ‘Pity’ Warren, I think we are going to be very good friends.”

And she was right.

Mercy, as menacing as she could be, made life in Salem a lot more bearable, especially when Proctor’s whip frequently began lapping at Mary’s bare back. Together, they formed a cohort of sorts, sneaking away into the woods with other village girls, hiding away from the Lord’s watchful eyes to discuss the most sinful of things.

And today, Mercy wanted to carry on with their long-running traditions.

“Different in what way?” Mary asked.

Mercy rolled her eyes. She kicked a cloud of dust at Mary, and Mary sputtered, nearly falling backwards into the corn.

“Different-different,” Mercy answered. “Something is wrong with Abigail. Betty, too, I hear. We’re gonna go up to the Reverend’s house and see them. They’re ill, you know?”

“No,” Mary shook her head. “Mister Proctor didn’t tell me anything. They’re sick?”

“Yeah. Real sick. Ain’t wakin’ up. The Reverend has been throwin’ a huge fit over them.” Mercy explained, “I’m surprised you never heard him howlin’!” Then, doing a horrible imitation of Reverend Samuel Parris’s voice, she wailed, “Oh Betty, Betty! Wake, my sweet daughter! Wake! Why won’t you wake?!”

She clung to Mary’s arm dramatically. “God! God! Why have you forsaken me?! What have you struck my little girls with?!”

Mary couldn’t help but giggle softly. Still, her mind was made up on the whole ordeal.

“Tell them my pardons and prayers,” she said, grabbing the fallen sickle. “My master said I gotta tend to the crops. Then I can go to town. But I am not spendin’ my free time meddlin’ in someone else’s affairs.”

Mercy groaned loudly and snatched the sickle away from Mary, making her yelp.

“Live a little, will ya? Let’s go see poor Abby and Betty!” Mercy urged. “To Hell with your master right now. You can’t let him lead you around by a leash all the time. Deal with the consequences later. Let’s go!”

Mary stared into the older girl’s eyes and then sighed, giving in. She stood up- Mercy was taller than her, as she always had been. “Lead on, Mercy.”

Mercy brightened.

Together, the two of them snuck out of the Proctor property, careful as to not get caught by one of the many children roaming the plantation.

Technically, the Proctor’s had eighteen children, though four were dead and eleven were brought forth by two different women, both of which had also passed over the seasons. The only living child of John Proctor’s first wife, Martha Giddens, was Benjamin, a tall, lanky man who could never seem to grow a beard, yet had hair down to his shoulders. He was thirty-three and didn’t talk to Mary very often, but when he did, he greatly critiqued her work in the field. That farm was his pride and joy, and it was a challenge to not roll her eyes when he would go on about the importance of their crops and proper plant care.

Elizabeth II was the second oldest at twenty-nine, and helped Elizabeth Proctor run the tavern with her other siblings: Martha IV, twenty-six (the first two Martha’s had died when they were both infants, along with the woman they were named after); Mary II, twenty-five; John II, twenty-four; Mary III, twenty-three; and Thorndike, twenty. Why Proctor decided to have TWO daughters named Mary was beyond Mary herself, but it wasn’t uncommon for things to become confusing when their name was shouted for whatever reason.

Elizabeth Proctor’s children stayed on the farm, helping clean and take care of the livestock: William, eighteen; Sarah fifteen; Samuel, seven; Elisha, five; Abigail, three; and Joseph, one. Mercy often made jokes that Elizabeth had obviously been the one to name the kids, as they were actually creative and not repeating several times over.

But with so many watchmen on the property, Mary was surprised about how easy it was to slip away unseen.

The road was loose and crunched loudly beneath their footfalls. Mercy kept kicking a rock, and Mary watched it bounce across the ground.

“So, what’s wrong with Betty and Abby?” Mary asked.

Mercy smirked widely.

“There be witches about, Mary.”

#servant of evil #lizzie’s dumb book #my writing #original story #salem witch trials #mary warren #mercy lewis

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yieldfruit · 3 years

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I remember in the 70′s in Scotland as we sent out one of the young missionaries from our church, Colleen, we sent her off as a missionary to Senegal. She had been out there a couple of years; she had written back to say that she had been feeling unwell. She came home with abdominal pains that they were unable to tackle in Senegal and within a matter of days they had diagnosed her with a large carcinoma in the very central area of her lower abdomen and within a matter of weeks rather than months she had gone home to glory. Some people came over to her mother and father’s home on the evening that we had conducted the funeral and they had let them know that their daughter need not have died. Because it was apparent to them at least that we simply did not have enough faith when we were praying for her healing. Now let’s assume that these were well-meaning souls and just dreadfully misguided and they felt somehow or another that God was only glorified if Colleen was raised up from her bed in which she was stuck with cancer. They didn’t have a theology which said God is also glorified in taking to himself Colleen and leaving behind a legacy of those who will revere her memory and recollect on her faithfulness and tell others of the way she faced death with fortitude and with faith and with anticipation. Not a triumphal story about how she got up and danced around her bed, but a sad story of how a 24 year old girl was removed from apparent usefulness in a realm of missionary endeavor and in it all and through it all God never violated his faithfulness.

You see, God is glorified in the death of his saints. His faithfulness is so vast, it is so comprehensive that it embraces not only our successes, but also our disappointments, that his providence orders all things. The good days and the bad days. We don’t somehow or another need to dress up the deity and make him acceptable to the minds of pagan men and women who only have a notion of some triumphal God, our God is a God who manifested the essence of his faithfulness: My God, My God, why have you forsaken me? Was that an expression of faithlessness? It was the very apex of his faithfulness. Alas, and did my Savior bleed, and did my Sovereign die, would he devote that sacred head for such a worm as I - and in that, declare his faithfulness?

When you go back into the Puritan writers you have these wonderful illustrations of the same. One of the great stories that come out of the covenanting period in Scotland is that of Richard Cameron, and if you have read Man of the Covenant then you will know the story. Richard Cameron, one of the leaders of the covenanters, was known as the Lion of the Covenant and he was killed in a battle when he was just 32 years old. His enemies cut off his head and his hands, and on their way to the Netherbow in Edinburgh which is where the prison was, where they were going to display these trophies of war, mainly to take his head and his hands and impale them on the railings outside. They took them to Richard’s father who was being held prisoner in the Tollbooth jail. Displaying the head and hands, they asked him, “Do you know them?” We say, well, we live in a very brutal generation you know. The heart of man is desperately wicked in every generation. Can you imagine these characters walking in, holding a head, severed from his body, holding the hands of a man’s son and holding them before his gaze and saying, Do you recognize this? Languishing in a jail on trumped up charges, confronted with the bloodied head of his son, he takes the opportunity to declare the faithfulness of God in the midst of suffering. The hymn writer says,

Ill that He blesses is our good, And unblest good is ill; And all is right that seems most wrong, If it be His sweet will.

- Alistair Begg

#Alistair Begg #suffering #Providence

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notesonfreedom · 5 years

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RETURN TO TIPASA by Albert Camus

You have navigated with raging soul far from the paternal home, passing beyond the sea's double rocks, and you now inhabit a foreign land. --Medea For five days rain had been falling ceaselessly on Algiers and had finally wet the sea itself. From an apparently inexhaustible sky, constant downpours, viscous in their density, streamed down upon the gulf. Gray and soft as a huge sponge, the sea rose slowly in the ill-defined bay. But the surface of the water seemed almost motionless under the steady rain. Only now and then a barely perceptible swelling motion would raise above the sea's surface a vague puff of smoke that would come to dock in the harbor, under an arc of wet boulevards. The city itself, all its white walls dripping, gave off a different steam that went out to meet the first steam. Whichever way you turned, you seemed to be breathing water, to be drinking the air. In front of the soaked sea I walked and waited in that December Algiers, which was for me the city of summers. I had fled Europe's night, the winter of faces. But the summer city herself had been emptied of her laughter and offered me only bent and shining backs. In the evening, in the crudely lighted cafes where I took refuge, I read my age in faces I recognized without being able to name them. I merely knew that they had been young with me and that they were no longer so. Yet I persisted without very well knowing what I was waiting for, unless perhaps the moment to go back to Tipasa. To be sure, it is sheer madness, almost always punished, to return to the sites of one's youth and try to relive at forty what one loved or keenly enjoyed at twenty. But I was forewarned of that madness. Once already I had returned to Tipasa, soon after those war years that marked for me the end of youth. I hoped, I think, to recapture there a freedom I could not forget. In that spot, indeed, more than twenty years ago, I had spent whole mornings wandering among the ruins, breathing in the wormwood, warming myself against the stones, discovering little roses, soon plucked of their petals, which outlive the spring. Only at noon, at the hour when the cicadas themselves fell silent as if overcome, I would flee the greedy glare of an all- consuming light. Sometimes at night I would sleep open-eyed under a sky dripping with stars. I was alive then. Fifteen years later I found my ruins, a few feet from the first waves, I followed the streets of the forgotten walled city through fields covered with bitter trees, and on the slopes overlooking the hay I still caressed the bread-colored columns. But the ruins were now surrounded with barbed wire and could be entered only through certain openings. It was also forbidden, for reasons which it appears that morality approves, to walk there at night; by day one encountered an official guardian. It just happened, that morning, that it was raining over the whole extent of the ruins. Disoriented, walking through the wet, solitary countryside, I tried at least to recapture that strength, hitherto always at hand, that helps me to accept what is when once I have admitted that I cannot change it. And I could not, indeed, reverse the course of time and restore to the world the appearance I had loved which had disappeared in a day, long before. The second of September 1939, in fact, I had not gone to Greece, as I was to do. War, on the contrary, had come to us, then it had spread over Greece herself. That distance, those years separating the warm ruins from the barbed wire were to be found in me, too, that day as I stood before the sarcophaguses full of black water or under the sodden tamarisks. Originally brought up surrounded by beauty which was my only wealth, I had begun in plenty. Then had come the barbed wire--I mean tyrannies, war, police forces, the era of revolt. One had had to put oneself right with the authorities of night: the day's beauty was but a memory. And in this muddy Tipasa the memory itself was becoming dim. It was indeed a question of beauty, plenty, or youth! In the light from conflagrations the world had suddenly shown its wrinkles and its wounds, old and new. It had aged all at once, and we with it. I had come here looking for a certain "lift"; but I realized that it inspires only the man who is unaware that he is about to launch forward. No love without a little innocence. Where was the innocence? Empires were tumbling down; nations and men were tearing at one another's throats; our hands were soiled. Originally innocent without knowing it, we were now guilty without meaning to be: the mystery was increasing with our knowledge. This is why, O mockery, we were concerned with morality. Weak and disabled, I was dreaming of virtue! In the days of innocence I didn't even know that morality existed. I knew it now, and I was not capable of living up to its standard. On the promontory that I used to love, among the wet columns of the ruined temple, I seemed to be walking behind someone whose steps I could still hear on the stone slabs and mosaics but whom I should never again overtake. I went back to Paris and remained several years before returning home. Yet I obscurely missed something during all those years. When one has once had the good luck to love intensely, life is spent in trying to recapture that ardor and that illumination. Forsaking beauty and the sensual happiness attached to it, exclusively serving misfortune, calls for a nobility I lack. But, after all, nothing is true that forces one to exclude. Isolated beauty ends up simpering; solitary justice ends up oppressing. Whoever aims to serve one exclusive of the other serves no one, not even himself, and eventually serves injustice twice. A day comes when, thanks to rigidity, nothing causes wonder any more, everything is known, and life is spent in beginning over again. These are the days of exile, of desiccated life, of dead souls. To come alive again, one needs a special grace, self-forgetfulness, or a homeland. Certain mornings, on turning a corner, a delightful dew falls on the heart and then evaporates. But its coolness remains, and this is what the heart requires always. I had to set out again. And in Algiers a second time, still walking under the same downpour which seemed not to have ceased since a departure I had thought definitive, amid the same vast melancholy smelling of rain and sea, despite this misty sky, these backs fleeing under the shower, these cafes whose sulphureous light distorted faces, I persisted in hoping. Didn't I know, besides, that Algiers rains, despite their appearance of never meaning to end, nonetheless stop in an instant, like those streams in my country which rise in two hours, lay waste acres of land, and suddenly dry up? One evening, in fact, the rain ceased. I waited one night more. A limpid morning rose, dazzling, over the pure sea. From the sky, fresh as a daisy, washed over and over again by the rains, reduced by these repeated washings to its finest and clearest texture, emanated a vibrant light that gave to each house and each tree a sharp outline, an astonished newness. In the world's morning the earth must have sprung forth in such a light. I again took the road for Tipasa. For me there is not a single one of those sixty-nine kilometers that is not filled with memories and sensations. Turbulent childhood, adolescent daydreams in the drone of the bus's motor, mornings, unspoiled girls, beaches, young muscles always at the peak of their effort, evening's slight anxiety in a sixteen-year-old heart, lust for life, fame, and ever the same sky throughout the years, unfailing in strength and light, itself insatiable, consuming one by one over a period of months the victims stretched out in the form of crosses on the beach at the deathlike hour of noon. Always the same sea, too, almost impalpable in the morning light, which I again saw on the horizon as soon as the road, leaving the Sahel and its bronze-colored vineyards, sloped down toward the coast. But I did not stop to look at it. I wanted to see again the Chenoua, that solid, heavy mountain cut out of a single block of stone, which borders the bay of Tipasa to the west before dropping down into the sea itself. It is seen from a distance, long before arriving, a light, blue haze still confused with the sky. But gradually it is condensed, as you advance toward it, until it takes on the color of the surrounding waters, a huge motionless wave whose amazing leap upward has been brutally solidified above the sea calmed all at once. Still nearer, almost at the gates of Tipasa, here is its frowning bulk, brown and green, here is the old mossy god that nothing will ever shake, a refuge and harbor for its sons, of whom I am one. While watching it I finally got through the barbed wire and found myself among the ruins. And under the glorious December light, as happens but once or twice in lives which ever after can consider themselves favored to the full, I found exactly what I had come seeking, what, despite the era and the world, was offered me, truly to me alone, in that forsaken nature. From the forum strewn with olives could be seen the village down below. No sound came from it; wisps of smoke rose in the limpid air. The sea likewise was silent as if smothered under the unbroken shower of dazzling, cold light. From the Chenoua a distant cock's crow alone celebrated the day's fragile glory. In the direction of the ruins, as far as the eye could see, there was nothing but pock-marked stones and wormwood, trees and perfect columns in the transparence of the crystalline air. It seemed as if the morning were stabilized, the sun stopped for an incalculable moment. In this light and this silence, years of wrath and night melted slowly away. I listened to an almost forgotten sound within myself as if my heart, long stopped, were calmly beginning to beat again. And awake now, I recognized one by one the imperceptible sounds of which the silence was made up: the figured bass of the birds, the sea's faint, brief sighs at the foot of the rocks, the vibration of the trees, the blind singing of the columns, the rustling of the wormwood plants, the furtive lizards. I heard that; I also listened to the happy torrents rising within me. It seemed to me that I had at last come to harbor, for a moment at least, and that henceforth that moment would be endless. But soon after, the sun rose visibly a degree in the sky. A magpie preluded briefly, and at once, from all directions, birds' songs burst out with energy, jubilation, joyful discordance, and infinite rapture. The day started up again. It was to carry me to evening. At noon on the half-sandy slopes covered with heliotropes like a foam left by the furious waves of the last few days as they withdrew, I watched the sea barely swelling at that hour with an exhausted motion, and I satisfied the two thirsts one cannot long neglect without drying up--I mean loving and admiring. For there is merely bad luck in not being loved; there is misfortune in not loving. All of us, today, are dying of this misfortune. For violence and hatred dry up the heart itself; the long fight for justice exhausts the love that nevertheless gave birth to it. In the clamor in which we live, love is impossible and justice does not suffice. This is why Europe hates daylight and is only able to set injustice up against injustice. But in order to keep justice from shriveling up like a beautiful orange fruit containing nothing but a bitter, dry pulp, I discovered once more at Tipasa that one must keep intact in oneself a freshness, a cool wellspring of joy, love the day that escapes injustice, and return to combat having won that light. Here I recaptured the former beauty, a young sky, and I measured my luck, realizing at last that in the worst years of our madness the memory of that sky had never left me. This was what in the end had kept me from despairing. I had always known that the ruins of Tipasa were younger than our new constructions or our bomb damage. There the world began over again every day in an ever new light. O light! This is the cry of all the characters of ancient drama brought face to face with their fate. This last resort was ours, too, and I knew it now. In the middle of winter I at last discovered that there was in me an invincible summer. I have again left Tipasa; I have returned to Europe and its struggles. But the memory of that day still uplifts me and helps me to welcome equally what delights and what crushes. In the difficult hour we are living, what else can I desire than to exclude nothing and to learn how to braid with white thread and black thread a single cord stretched to the breaking-point? In everything I have done or said up to now, I seem to recognize these two forces, even when they work at cross-purposes. I have not been able to disown the light into which I was born and yet I have not wanted to reject the servitudes of this time. It would be too easy to contrast here with the sweet name of Tipasa other more sonorous and crueler names. For men of today there is an inner way, which I know well from having taken it in both directions, leading from the spiritual hilltops to the capitals of crime. And doubtless one can always rest, fall asleep on the hilltop or board with crime. But if one forgoes a part of what is, one must forgo being oneself; one must forgo living or loving otherwise than by proxy. There is thus a will to live without rejecting anything of life, which is the virtue I honor most in this world. From time to time, at least, it is true that I should like to have practiced it. Inasmuch as few epochs require as much as ours that one should be equal to the best as to the worst, I should like, indeed, to shirk nothing and to keep faithfully a double memory. Yes, there is beauty and there are the humiliated. Whatever may be the difficulties of the undertaking, I should like never to be unfaithful either to one or to the others. But this still resembles a moral code, and we live for something that goes farther than morality. If we could only name it, what silence! On the hill of Sainte-Salsa, to the east of Tipasa, the evening is inhabited. It is still light, to tell the truth, but in this light an almost invisible fading announces the day's end. A wind rises, young like the night, and suddenly the waveless sea chooses a direction and flows like a great barren river from one end of the horizon to the other. The sky darkens. Then begins the mystery, the gods of night, the beyond-pleasure. But how to translate this? The little coin I am carrying away from here has a visible surface, a woman's beautiful face which repeats to me all I have learned in this day, and a worn surface which I feel under my fingers during the return. What can that lipless mouth be saying, except what I am told by another mysterious voice, within me, which every day informs me of my ignorance and my happiness: "The secret I am seeking lies hidden in a valley full of olive trees, under the grass and the cold violets, around an old house that smells of wood smoke. For more than twenty years I rambled over that valley and others resembling it, I questioned mute goatherds, I knocked at the door of deserted ruins. Occasionally, at the moment of the first star in the still bright sky, under a shower of shimmering light, I thought I knew. I did know, in truth. I still know, perhaps. But no one wants any of this secret; I don't want any myself, doubtless; and I cannot stand apart from my people. I live in my family, which thinks it rules over rich and hideous cities built of stones and mists. Day and night it speaks up, and everything bows before it, which bows before nothing: it is deaf to all secrets. Its power that carries me bores me, nevertheless, and on occasion its shouts weary me. But its misfortune is mine, and we are of the same blood. A cripple, likewise, an accomplice and noisy, have I not shouted among the stones? Consequently, I strive to forget, I walk in our cities of iron and fire, I smile bravely at the night, I hail the storms, I shall be faithful. I have forgotten, in truth: active and deaf, henceforth. But perhaps someday, when we are ready to die of exhaustion and ignorance, I shall be able to disown our garish tombs and go and stretch out in the valley, under the same light, and learn for the last time what I know."

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stresseddepressedsleepopres-blog · 5 years

Text

“For the Love of the Sun”, an Essay Devoted to the Life and Passions of Vincent van Gogh

92 million miles. That’s how far the sun is from the Earth. If the sun were any closer or farther away, we would be dead in about eight minutes. But nonetheless the sun has a way of capturing an audience (mostly on a particularly hot summer’s day). In art, the sun is often present. It represents light, joy, and even celebration. And for one famous artist, Vincent van Gogh, the sun aroused the ecstasy of his life.

Vincent van Gogh (1853-1890) is known today as a famous artist. He is known most for his works Starry Night (1889) and The Potato Eaters (1885). But throughout his entire life he only sold one piece out of the close to nine hundred works that he created. Vincent spent his life in his sorrow and channeled that into his art. He didn’t just paint things, he felt everything while he painted. His constant growing depression and insanity furthered his drive to create his artwork and express all the things that were creating the ever unstable storm inside of him. Until, in 1890, he borrowed a revolver and shot himself in the stomach, lying against a tree in a meadow. “Misery will never end.” he had previously declared to his brother.

Vincent hadn’t originally set out to be an artist when he began his adult life. Art had just been a hobby, introduced to him by his mother when he was only a child, sick in bed. He was a gentle, passionate, unsociable red-haired boy. He respected his father, who was a clergyman, and he held an inward affinity towards his mother. But no one was as close to Vincent as his brother, Theo. Theo sacrificed everything for his beloved brother. He used his money, his patience, his time, and his effort to help Vincent up again whenever he had fallen. As the eldest over five other siblings, Vincent’s parents constantly worried about him making his way in the world. They had arranged for him to go to the Hague where they had obtained him a post as a salesman at a branch in the Paris firm of Groupil through the influence of his father’s brother, who was also named Vincent. In the three years that he worked there, Vincent became very clever at packing and unpacking boxes of books and pictures. When he was twenty, he was transferred to the London branch. While living there, he would constantly sketch in his free time and send his drawings to his mother and Theo. There were many opportunities to study art in London and Vincent soon began to develop his own preferences and tastes.

Vincent’s first fall came from his landlady’s daughter, a beautiful young girl that constantly led him on while he fell for her and then crushing him when he learned that she was already engaged to another man. He became upset and temperamental with customers and bosses and was soon dismissed from their branch. He disliked all the artwork he created and instead constantly visited the English church and decided to devote his life to the poor.

He had always wanted to be a preacher and to take care of the less fortunate. He began by going back to school to fill the gaps in his education. But fourteen months into studying, he gave up. Vincent just wasn’t up for the scholar’s life. So instead he became a preacher on his own account. The biggest problem was that Vincent was very bad at giving sermons. But, nonetheless, he kept on his evangelical mission. He gave everything he had to the poor and travelled from town to town in worn out clothing and he slept on the ground in a wooden hut. He constantly took care of sick and injured miners in Borinage.

His father didn’t understand Vincent’s almost crazed religious zeal. But Vincent continued his journey and gradually his health grew dangerous. He ate bad food, slept outside, and was constantly around disease. He eventually began drawing again to help keep his peace of mind and, eventually, took refuge with his father. He struggled with his desire to be a preacher and his artistic tendencies. Finally, the art won him over and he abandoned his life as a missionary to begin sketching and painting again. His brother Theo supported his decision.

When he was twenty-eight, another woman came into his life and he fell in love with her. The only downsides were that she was his cousin and that she did not love him back. Her name was Cornelia (Kee) Adriana Vos-Stricker and she was a recent widow left with an eight year old son. When Vincent professed his love for her and proposed marriage she replied with “Never, no, never”. In a letter to his brother Theo, Vincent wrote, “But now you will realize that I hope to leave no stone unturned that might bring me closer to her, and that is my intention: To go on loving her until in the end she loves me too.” His parents, aunt, and uncle did not take well to his immense affections and scolded him and rebuked him for it. But Vincent held steadfast, convinced that she was the one for him. “She, and no other.” He would constantly say. After many refusals and denial to even speak with her or see her, Vincent wrote to Theo, “Then, not at once, but very soon, I felt that love die within me; a void, an infinite void came in its stead. You know I believe in God, I did not doubt the power of love, but then I felt something like, ‘My God, my God, why hast Thou forsaken me,’ and everything became a blank. I thought, Have I been deceiving myself? … ‘O God, there is no God!’ That cold, terrible reception in Amsterdam was too much for me, my eyes are opened at last.” And he gave up on loving Cornelia and his first real bouts of mental illness had ensued.

And so, alone, broken hearted, and mentally unstable, Vincent travelled to the Hague in Paris and remained there for two years. While there he met Clarisa (Sien) Maria Hoornik. As it’s practically in her last name, Sien was a prostitute. A pregnant prostitute. She was also a drunk, she smoked cigars, she spent her life in physical and moral sorrow, and she had a young daughter and soon a son. Nevertheless Vincent fell for her and took her and her children into his small studio home with him. She became his muse and he sketched her in one of his more famous pieces called Sorrow in which, at the bottom, he writes, “How can there be lonely, deserted women in the world?” Vincent got to live as if he finally had a family of his own for eighteen months before Theo came to the rescue for Vincent’s sake. Vincent had been spending all his time and money for Sien and her children and didn’t even buy food for himself. Theo encouraged Vincent to go to Drenthe to paint and Vincent did, ending the only domestic relationship he would ever have. Sien went back to prostitution, later married another man, and in 1904, threw herself into the Schelde river and drowned.

Soon Vincent went back to his parents in Nuenen and set up his atelier in a church. He devoted all of his time to his artwork and was rapidly growing into his artistic maturity. His palette became lighter and his mood lifted when he went to practice in the Academy in Antwerp. Once he had exhausted Antwerp, he and Theo moved in together. Vincent got to know many artists, most of them in their artistic prime, in 1886. But Vincent was always different. He had very strong opinions on art and he saw life in a way on one else could understand. Being partially mad did help with that a bit. Vincent absorbed, learned, and always held to his love of yellow and the sun. Paris had liberated and awakened his sensuality. “How wonderful the colour yellow is. It stands for the sun.” Vincent once said.

“Oh the beautiful sun of midsummer! It beats upon my head, and I do not doubt that it makes one a little queer.” Wrote Vincent in Arles. He loved the colour yellow and there was no better example than the sun. He glorified the sun in his artwork, it was his greatest love of all. But, like his many female loves, the sun did not love him back. He was a fanatical worshipper of the sun and devoted himself to it nonetheless. In his piece The Night Cafe (1888) the lights hanging from the roof were like smaller versions of the sun, giving light to the night. Yellow flowers could also represent the sunshine to Vincent. Vase With Fourteen Flowers (1889) was like a vase of fourteen little suns for Vincent. It was like Vincent could feel the “soul” of flowers, his sister would say. The sun was a symbol of warmth, light, and happiness. In Enclosed Wheat Field With Reaper (1889) it can almost feel as if the warm morning sun is beating down on the neck of the admirer. The colour yellow helped Vincent express himself more in his work. At one point, he had even rented a house, painted it yellow, hung up pictures of sunflowers and named it “The House Of Friends”. His original idea was to have communal living between artists where they could all paint together and live happily. But only Ganguin would accept his invitation.

Despite this happy period in his life, Vincent’s mental health was still diminishing. He was always searching for the answer to happiness. He thought it would be the sun, but the sun could not love him like he loved it. He thought it could be a woman. He wrote to Theo in 1881, “Then I thought to myself, I’d like to be with a woman. I can’t live without love, without a woman. I wouldn’t care a fig for life if there wasn’t something infinite, something deep, something real.” But later, in 1887, he wrote to his sister Willemien, “For my part, I still continually have the most impossible and highly unsuitable love affairs from which, as a rule, I emerge only with shame and disgrace.” He spent a lot of time in brothels and even cut off his ear and left it at one at three in the morning, assumingly for Sein. His friend Ganguin also had a taste of Vincent’s insanity. Vincent had been known to have thrown a glass at Ganguin’s head and, at one point, had threatened him with a razor. Vincent was soon after taken to a hospital where his mental health diminished him to hallucinations. Theo came to take care of him and a fortnight later Vincent had calmed down. But by then the inhabitants of Arles had a petition stating that Vincent was a madman and could not be left to himself again. He went back to the hospital and soon he checked himself into St. Remy, a mental asylum. He painted many amazing pieces in this time and he put his heart and soul into it. He felt peace for a while and had clarity of mind. But fresh crises of life pressed on him and he ended up swallowing a quantity of his paints. At his brother’s suggestion, Vincent placed himself under the care of Dr. Gachet in Auvers-sur-Oise. Vincent began to show great attitude and health with his cheerful appearance. His time with Dr. Gachet was pleasant and Gachet was kind to him and complimented his art. Vincent painted many wonderful pieces in his time with Gachet and showed his amazing skill and technique.

On July 27, 1890, Vincent borrowed a revolver. He claimed he wanted to shoot at crows. He went out into a field, leaned up against a tree trunk, and shot himself in the stomach. To know what was going on in his mind as he bled out would be to know and love another even though they have died too early. Maybe in his time at the hospital and with Gachet, Vincent had finally found what he had been searching for his whole life. Maybe he found it and it was enough and he could finally be released from his sorrow. He painted some of his best work in the six years before his death. Maybe, just maybe, Vincent had finally found happiness. Through a lifetime of sorrow and pain and disappointment and of constantly searching for the key to life, there’s a possibility he had. And I hope to God that he did.

“For my part I know nothing with any certainty, but the sight of the stars makes me dream.” -Vincent van Gogh

Theo followed Vincent to the grave six months later and they are buried side by side in the little churchyard of Auver-sur-Oise.

Sources:

Hughes, Robert. “The Portable Van Gogh”. New York: Universe Publishing, 2002.

Uhde, W. “Van Gogh”. Michigan: Borders Press, 1951.

“His Unrequited Loves”, https://www.vangoghmuseum.nl/en/stories/his-unrequited-loves

Sonya. “Vincent van Gogh and Cornelia (Kee) Adriana Vos-Stricker”, The Van Gogh Gallery. July 17, 2013. http://blog.vangoghgallery.com/index.php/en/2013/07/17/vincent-van-gogh-and-cornelia-kee-adriana-vos-stricker/

Wikipedia. “Sien (Van Gogh series)”. Last edited: April 14, 2018.

https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sien_(Van_Gogh_series)

#vangogh #vincentvangogh #essay #paris #art #writing #lovevincent

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jackofftao · 6 years

Text

Jeno Boyfriend AU !

It’s been a while since I’ve done this so excuse the rust that clouds my writing. It shall clean with time. (lmao that made no sense)

anyway

lets get to it !

OKay so we gonna do a like getting together story because I’m a lonely roll

School ! no one loves it

except for that one weird kid in the back of your class

you ride the bus alone

and you meet your friends when you get to school, suffer for a bit, eat lunch, suffer a bit more, cry, -lmao you get the point

then you ride the bus home again

alone

someone bout to change that

Jeno hardly goes to school because of schedules

and crazy fangirls lmao

promotions had just ended tho

so now he’s stuck in this hell hole with everyone else

he rides the bus with Renjun and loud ass Chenle

also Jisung but he has to stand up because that boy too tall

Renjun is usually drawing, Chenle is doing last minute hm, and Jisung is trying to figure out how to kill himself with that hand strap thing if he has to stand up while riding this god forsaken bus one more time lmao

tHATS WHEN

he notices that theres a girl who goes to their school (and doesn’t chase them down like a maniac) and always sits alone in the back of the bus

so he gets his nerves out of the way and asks if he can sit next to you because he hates doesn’t want to stand

and ofc ur like “Ya sure my dude”

Things are honestly v quiet and weird to start off with

and he always is looking at you with his mouth opening and closing like a dam fish

so you start up convo

“whats ur name ?”

“Jisung”

“Nice, I’m y/n”

Jisung is honestly relieved because obviously you don’t know who they are if you asked for his name.

“What are you listening to?”

you hand him one of your ear buds and thats how u two become friends

You two listen to EXO all the time on the way to and back from school

The group™ asks where he’s been and Jisung is just like “I made a new friend”

The group™ watch you two like all the time lmao

especially Jeno

soon enough you are talking about classes and such

“Hey! You have the same classes as my friend Jeno!”

jeno ???

Jisung never really talked about his friends tbh

you figured he didn’t have any since he was standing all alone

LMAO RIP JISUNG

anyway so you ask to meet his other friends and he’s like suRE

He told you that they ride the same bus

u were dumbfounded

you agreed to meet them after school at an ice cream shop

The ride to the ice cream shop that day was like playing where is Waldo

“Is that them?”

“no”

“Them??” “still no”

“The bus driver ???”

“What- nO”

“well I’ve guessed everyone on this bus so i just figured-”

“Oh my god you’re the worst”

When you finally got to the ice cream shop you were kinda annoyed because you had guessed them but he said no

“You owe me ice cream now”

“for what”

“,,,,,ummm,,,,emotional distress”

“You’re so dramatic lmao”

he still didn’t buy you ice cream

When you all sat down it was really quiet and weird

You and Jisung sat next to each other on one side of the table sharing earbuds and everyone else was on the other side

“are u 2 dating or what” - Chenle

“No oh my god they’re ugly” - Both u and Jisung

everyone ended up laughing

“My name is y/n, nice to finally meet you all. Tbh I didn’t even know you guys existed till this morning.”

Chenle gasped and held his chest and pretended to have a heart attack or something but it just looked like a dolphin out of water

then Renjun body slammed Chenle into the ground while Jisung cheered Renjun on by yelling “WORLD STAR WORLD STAR WORLD STAR”

thats when you knew these were a fine™ group of boys

while the younger ones are off trying to keep Chenle from jumping all over the place

you strike up convo with Jeno

“Hey ur in my grade right”

turns out you have the same first period and 5th

you two hit it off nicely and get really involved in convo

you two don’t even notice chenle, renjun and jisung leave

until you look at your phone to check the time and see a text

From: Jising sang sung

Have fun on your date lmao

Que you laughing but also planning his murder

Jeno walks you home because you live close

what a gentleman

the next day at school you sit next to Jeno in first period

for the next month you two get close

group projects, free time, ext

you even start sitting with him at lunch

he even replaced Jisung on the bus

bye bye Jisung

Until one day

Jeno isn’t there

neither are the boys™

SO your dumb ass finally put 2 + 2 together

Jeno was an Idol

so you did some Research™

If found my new punch line its ™

and BOOM

The boys™ are actually NCT Dream

so you start watching some of their MV’s

and like wow

Jeno is a visual ?

And he can Dance?

And hes super sweet

Thump thump is that a crush growing ?

i think so

You decide to keep it a secret that you know

and wait till he tells you

after a week you text him

To: jeNO Bub where you at :((((( Still Sick ? To: jeNO I miss you and >:’0 GET BETTER SOON HOW DARE YOU LEAVE ME

He didn’t reply till like 3 am lmao

and it was just “Oof ya its a real uh nasty cold,,,,be back soon !!!”

and ur like laughing because you know that he has a comeback soon but he out here pretending to be sick lmao

what a dork

After a month you start becoming really impatient

and he still hasn’t replied to your 50 unread messages

after the second month you stop texting

on the third month you stop saving his seat

on the fourth month you move back to your old seat

you check your messages one last time and you see that your 125 unread messages remain unread

a couple of weeks later you hear a roar of girls in the halls

and they are comping your way

and u don’t know why tbh and ur terrified

but they just run right pass you????

escaped death

but you just continue to the lunch room to sit with your friends

but someone grabs your shirt sleeve panting

“y- y-y/n”

“Jeno ??????”

And ur like happy but also pissed

“You mug where were you ??? Why didn’t you answer my texts!! Ive been worried you know that! I checked my messages every day for 2 months ! Two months Jeno ISTG u better explain urself rn or I’m deleting your number”

“I know I know Just its- I don’t know how to say this but uh okay follow me and I’ll explain everything”

So he takes you to the fountain our front and explains that he’s an idol and everything and he got really busy with comebacks and felt bad for lying to you about being sick and he didn’t want to keep that up for four months because he would have to have some real bad illness for it to last four months and he didn’t want to have to pretend to be in the hospital and everything just because he had promotions but didn’t wanna tell you because he was afraid you would look at him differently and-

tbh u were like shut up you mug I already knew you were an idol but it still hurt :(

and he was so sorry this poor kicked puppy

“How can I make it up to you?”

“A date would be nice”

“A-a date?”

“yea I think the ice cream shop would do, you’re paying btw”

“Wait you like me??”

“,,,well ya ? I wouldn’t have asked you on a date otherwise”

“Oh okay good. I like you too!”

“Can I call you my boyfriend now or???”

“I’d like that, Girlfriend”

“Stop oh my god you’re greasy”

and he just laughs with his eyes like crescent moons

#lee jeno #nct jeno #jeno scenarios #jeno imagines #jeno x reader #jeno bf au #jeno boyfriend au #nct dream #nct scenario #nct scenarios #NCT Dream Scenarios

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goffilolo · 6 years

Text

Demise of Midoriya Izuku Part 8

God this was a long chapter. I hope you will enjoy it. you can read the full fanfic on ao3 here: https://archiveofourown.org/series/776826

I’m currently on a christmas break, however i have a very long essay to write so im not sure if ill be able to write/draw any more demise!au stuff.

Izuku was tired.

It was nothing new per se, as for the last month the teenager has become very well acquainted with the feeling of exhaustion as a side effect of his medication. “It’s normal” said Shin during their last appointment “Your brain is still going through an adjustment period, and insomnia is a rather common side effect of a lot of antidepressants”. So yeah, it was all good.

Except it wasn’t.

Given that no one was willing to rid the boy of his sleepless turmoil, Izuku decided to take the matters into his own hands. Because fuck Shin. In the hindsight, all of this was a very bad idea.

It all started during one of his usual conversations with Mrs. Todoroki, only this time they were joined by her daughter Fuyumi. The first observation Izuku made upon her entrance, was that this young woman was almost a splitting image of Mrs. Todoroki, save for the hot red streaks in her hair, undoubtedly inherited from her asshole father. After talking to her for a bit, Izuku was quite pleased to learn that she has not in fact inherited her father’s god tier assholism. Izuku has never met the man, he doesn’t need to, at least not yet.

After brief introductions they have resumed to their previous conversation.

“So how did meeting with piece of shit go?” asked Mrs. Todoroki, her question quickly followed by Fuyumi’s scandalised expression at hearing her mother use such foul language.

“Meh, it was your typical melodrama bullshit. Some shouting and insults were thrown around, well mostly by me, and crying” replied Izuku in a rather nonchalant fashion, completely disregarding Fuyumi’s shock and confusion.

The word got round quickly in this ward, meaning that most of the patients and staff were in on Izuku’s personal drama and so they all came to a silent agreement to refer to Bakugou as ‘piece of shit’ and never call him by his actual name. And so over time Bakugou became the psychiatric ward’s very own Voldemort. But Fuyumi doesn’t know that yet, bless her soul.

“You actually cried?”

“Oh no, not me, piece of shit did. Honestly you should’ve been there, Shin was there for emotional support and kept staring daggers at him, it was hilarious” sneered the boy upon remembering the Bakugou shitshow with some sort of twisted fondness. His enthusiasm was however quickly disrupted by a long, loud yawn coming the boy’s mouth.

“Didn’t get a good night’s sleep?” asked Fuyumi.

“More like a good month’s sleep” snapped Izuku, rubbing his temples as much as the bandage around his head allowed him to. “And that bitch Shin won’t prescribe me anything cause it would clash with my antidepressants” scoffed the boy.

“You know that Dr. Iyashi cares about your wellbeing and wouldn’t want to give you anything with nasty side-effects” said Mrs. Todoroki as she stroked Izuku’s shoulders in a gentle, matherly manner.

“Wait a minute” chimed in Fuyumi “Prescription won’t do, but what about over the counter stuff? There must be some sleep relief that you could take”.

“Oh, really?” said Izuku, with a hint of amusement and sarcasm “What are gonna do? Smuggle some Quil into the hospital for me?”

The determined smile on Fuyumi’s face told Izuku that indeed, she would. ‘Well then’ thought Izuku ‘This is going to be fun’.

The next day Izuku has found two bottles being dropped onto his lap, while the boy was busy filling up his notebook with sketches of Endeavour being eaten alive by crocodiles. If you looked closely enough you’d also notice that some of them contained an already half eaten Bakugou.

He raised his brow at the bottles, then looked up to see Fuyumi looking very smug.

“I got the Quil” she said, very proud of herself.

“I can see that” replied Izuku, looking back and forth between the two bottles “Why two?” he asked, confusion and curiosity seeping into his voice.

“I forgot whether you needed DayQuil or NyQuil so I got you both!”

Looking at very pleased Fuyumi, Izuku didn’t have it in him to grace the statement with a proper reply that wouldn’t point out the stupidity and irresponsibility of casually getting two substances that are meant to do the exact opposite, which then lead to a train thought of ‘what if you mix them?’.

“Thank you Fuyumi-neesan!”

And thus Izuku was left alone in his hospital room, the notebook long forgotten, staring at the content of the two bottles, as the nerdy part of his brain deciding to wake up and cause drama. ‘If you mix DayQuil and NyQuil, you end up with what, ForeverQuil? Or given that the substances are meant to do the opposite would they cancel each other out and have no effect when consumed simultaneously? No, that doesn’t seem right, it’s more likely that they would disturb a sleeping pattern, but given that mine is already fucked, how would I be able to tell...’

“SHIT, I’m mumbling again!”

So many questions that demand to be answered, a hypothesis that needs a confirmation and a curiosity waiting around the corner, ready to kill the metaphorical cat.

“Ugh, fuck it” said Izuku as he gulped down both substances in one go.

That’s when everything went to shit.

At first he didn’t feel any different. He spent a good portion of time looking out of the window, admiring the weather - it’s almost May so the days were getting brighter, warmer - waiting for something, anything to happen.

Things got a bit blurry after a while. Izuku could feel his BRAIN getting blurry, which he didn’t even know was possible. But apparently losing contact with reality does things to you.

As Izuku slowly regained clarity, the first thing he noticed was the sluggish feeling and the pounding in his head, reminding him of the first time he woke up in this god forsaken loony bin.

The second thing he noticed was the darkness. At first, he thought that one of the nurses has closed the curtains while he was out of it, but no, the curtains were open, and upon closer inspection Izuku came to realisation that it was in fact, night time. Which was strange...to say the least, since it was still sunny just a few seconds ago. ‘Is this some sort of a quirk? Probably not.’ he thought, which meant there was only one option left.

“FUCKIN HELL I TRAVELLED THROUGH TIME!”

His shout was followed by a tired groan, which definitely did not belong to him.

“Dr. Iyashi, he’s at it again!” shouted Mrs. Todoroki.

Wait a minute, Mrs. Todoroki? When did she get here?

Izuku whipped his head to the side, where the woman was sitting in a chair by his bedside, with Shin standing in the doorway, looking down at a clipboard.

“What the-shit did you get in here?” asked Izuku, his brain still sluggish and disoriented about the whole situation.

Shin chooses that moment to walk into the room “Do you remember what happened?” he asked.

“No? I was sitting here and it was day and suddenly it’s night, so obviously it was Quil induced time travel” said Izuku, as his lagging brain allowed for all the ridiculous bullshit to spill out of his mouth.

Shin does not look impressed.

“You absolute, fucking idiot!” shouted the doctor “Why in the world would you mix DayQuil and NyQuil together? Are you completely insane? What did you think would happen?!”

“First of all, if I was sane I wouldn’t even be here. Second of all, who told you about my Quil?” asked the boy, his eyes suddenly focused, full of suspicion.

At that moment Fuyumi poked her head through the entrance and waved at Izuku as she made her way through the room and stood by her mother’s side.

“Sorry, I had to tell him since it’s all my fault you went delirious in the first place” she said, her face portraying nothing but guilt.

“It was very irresponsible of you!” said the doctor, his gaze switching between Izuku and Fuyumi “Not only did you take medication against a doctor’s recommendation, you even roped others into smuggling unauthorised substance into the hospital…”

And Shin went into the ‘ranting dad’ mode. It was a perfect time to zone out.

While the doctor was busy lecturing everyone about the dangers of overdosing and mixing medications, Izuku picked up the discarded notebook in hopes of finishing that sketch of Endeavour being devoured by crocodiles. His drawing skills were improving, that’s for sure. Maybe once he’s finished he’d show it to Mrs. Todoroki.

‘I think she would like that’ thought Izuku.

Except when he opened his notebook on the most recent page, instead of Endeavour massacre, Izuku was met with lines upon lines of text, written in what can only be described as very rushed and frenzied handwriting, which undeniably belonged to Izuku. The pages were also adorned with big bold letters at the top stating ‘ENDEAVOUR THE ROOT OF ALL EVIL’.

‘When did I write that?!’ Izuku was rather astonished as he started to skim through his writing and came to a conclusion that what he was reading was in fact a conspiracy theory. A very detailed one at that.

“Izuku, are you listening?” asked the doctor.

“No” he replied absentmindedly.

But the writing in his notebook and the overall situation left Izuku very confused. The moonlight illuminated parts of the room, a reminder of a mysterious time slip, which apparently was not quil induced time travel. Izuku needed the answers, and he needed them NOW.

“Can anyone tell me what happened?”

His question was met with a long, awkward silence, as the other individuals in the room looked at one another, not knowing what to say.

“Alright…” Mrs. Todoroki broke the silence “...where do we start?”

………………………………………………………………………………

Iyashi Shin was finally having his well deserved lunch break. After starting his shift at 6 am, he felt exhausted and he was barely halfway through. And so Shin planned to have a short nap during his break to recharge. ‘What am I, an old man?’ he thought to himself ‘Probably, at least I’m on a good way to becoming one. Not getting any younger either, I’m turning forty next year.’

‘Ugh, this calls for a mid-life crisis nap’ he thought while lying on the couch in his office, being slowly lulled to sleep by the ticking of the clock.

Suddenly Shin was awakened by an obnoxiously loud laugh coming from the corridor. He was annoyed at having his nap interrupted, but the annoyance was outweighed by sheer curiosity, as one does not get a lot of laughing in this part of the hospital.

The doctor soon got up and opened the door he was once again met with the obnoxious laugh, only this time louder as it came from a man who was currently walking out of Izuku’s room.

“Haha...it was nice talking to you Midoriya. I’m glad you’re in a good mood” called out the man “I’ll be back tomorrow to check your homework!”

‘Homework? Ah, it must be Izuku’s teacher’ thought Shin with a bit of suspicion as he remembered his patient talking about his homeroom teacher in a … less than friendly manner.

‘So why would the laugh? I thought Izuku hated the guy.’

As the teacher walked away from Izuku’s room he bumped into Shin, who was standing in the middle of the corridor, lost in thought.

“Ah, Dr. Iyashi didn’t see you there!” exclaimed the teacher. He sure was in a good mood, a stark contrast to his usual visits.

“Good afternoon, how was your visit?” asked Shin, trying to squeeze out some details out of the man.

The teacher laughed again trying to get a hold of himself “Oh it was great, I haven’t laughed so much in ages. Whatever meds you put him on, they’re doing god’s work!”

“Really? What did Izuku say?”

“You know Bakugou-kun, right?”

“Of course, the one responsible for the shitstorm that is Izuku’s depression” stated the doctor as a matter of fact.

The teacher stilled his movement, unprepared for the blatant statement. Trying to dissolved the tension, he continued “Yeah, him. Anyways, Midoriya was asking about him and he seemed stuck on on his name so he said…” he stopped for a bit, trying to mimic his student’s voice and speaking manner “ ‘you know the angry, shouty one, what was his name...Fuckugou?’ and I just lost it right there! Buahaha!” sneered the teacher, waiting for Shin to have a similar reaction.

And boy was he not disappointed.

“Fuckugou!” exclaimed Shin “That’s a good one, gotta tell it to the nurses, it will spread like wildfire!”

………………………………………………………………………………

“Fuckugou?” asked Izuku.

“Fuckugou” confirmed Shin.

“That...is funny as hell, but it doesn’t really sound like me.”

“I know, which is why I was concerned. Mind you I still needed my nap, so I asked Mrs. Todoroki to keep an eye on you in the meanwhile” explained the doctor as both him and Izuku turned their heads in the direction of the white haired woman.

………………………………………………………………………………

Mrs. Todoroki was having a good day. And by good she meant boring. In all honesty there’s only so much a person can do in this place before being driven further into insanity. She was currently sitting in the common room in the company of her daughter who has dropped in earlier to give Izuku the sleeping medication they talked about yesterday.

Which is why she was more than a little surprised when Dr. Iyashi approached her, asking to keep an eye on Izuku, who right now should be sleeping like a baby from the medication.

Nevertheless she agreed, as the doctor seemed deeply concerned about the boy who has managed to settle himself nice and cosy in a particular place in her heart; reserved exclusively for her children. ‘Well then’ thought the woman as she came to a realisation ‘Looks like I now have five children.’

Just as Mrs. Todoroki considered brushing off Dr. Iyashi’s concerns, her train of thought was disrupted by a maniacal laugh that belonged to no other than Izuku himself.

The teenager in question wheeled himself into the common room at a speed that should not be achievable for a wheelchair, his hair wilder than usual, eyes wide open, pupils dilated. The boy’s face was devoid of any sanity.

“HOLY SHIT MRS. TODOROKI!” he screamed.

“Are you high?” she asked, full of disbelief at the state the boy was in.

“I got the answers” announced Izuku, completely disregarding the woman’s question.

“What answers?”

“All the answers! To everything! I CAN FEEL THE UNIVERSE EXPANDING IN MY BONES!” shouted Izuku, further disturbing and scaring other occupants of the room.

‘Oh, is this why Dr. Iyashi was concerned? What do I do with him?’

“Right…” said Mrs. Todoroki, hoping to distract the boy for a bit “...why don’t you sit with me and Fuyumi and tell us all the answers? Just remember to keep your voice down” she added in her motherly tone.

Although Izuku seemed quite out of contact with reality, he did as he was told. After wheeling himself next to Fuyumi he whipped out one of his notebooks seemingly out of nowhere and began to speak.

“From the evolutionary standpoint my existence is a liability to human advancement. Every year the number of people born quirkless decreases as our gener are to be replaced with the superior ones of those with quirks. I’m going extinct! Both my parents have quirks, yet I was born without one, I’m an anomaly I SHOULD CEASE TO EXIST!” screeched Izuku as he seemed to be having an existential crisis that was accompanied by what he thought were diagrams from his notebook, which to everyone besides him looked like a bunch of gibberish and nonsense.

“WHY DO I EXIST?” screamed the boy in agony as once again he began to wheel himself at an impossible speed out of the room.

The Todoroki women were left stunned, looking at one another and then back at the spot previously occupied by the insane teenager.

“What did you give him?” asked the mother.

“The Quil”

“What Quil?”

“All the Quil.”

“Go and get Dr. Iyashi. I’ll stay here in case Izuku comes back” she said while rubbing her temples out of frustration.

………………………………………………………………………………

“Oh, fuck, what happened after that?” asked Izuku, no longer in disbelief, but amusement. While he had no recollection of any of this happening he felt like he was listening to a rundown of an episode from ‘it’s Always Sunny In Philadelphia’.

He seemed to be the only one enjoying himself though. The adults in the room on the other hand were very much tired of his shit after having to deal with Quil induced Izuku the whole day.

“You wheeled yourself around the ward while screaming ‘I challenged God to a knife fight’. What actually happened was you stole a scalpel from a surgeon, don’t know how, and started stabbing one of the All Might sketches in your notebook” relayed Mrs. Todoroki in the most flat and no-bullshit tone she could manage.

“Haha, yeah that sounds like me!”

“Now then…” announced Shin as he stood up addressing everyone at once“...it’s been a long day for everyone. Mrs. Todoroki please go back to your room for today. Ms. Fuyumi, thank you for everything. I will see you again. Izuku, you little shit, we’re going to have a talk.”

As the two women got up and left the room, Izuku was left alone with his psychiatrist. While he knew that Shin was only concerned about his well being he didn’t look forward to being nagged by the doctor again.

Instead of talking, Shin just ripped of a piece of paper from his clipboard and handed it to Izuku without any explanation.

“Any what is this?” asked Izuku, eyeing the piece of paper suspiciously.

“ A prescription for Ramelteon” says Shin “It’s most commonly used as antidepressant, but it also works as a sleeping drug. It’s also one of very few that does not lead to a dependence. Take this to the dispensary now, they will sort everything out and you will be getting your dose from tomorrow evening onwards.”

“I know I was very reluctant to give you anything besides antidepressants…” he continues “...but I’d rather do this than have you going batshit crazy with whatever alternatives you’re willing to try. Please be careful in the future Izuku, I mean it” he finishes with a warning tone.

“Can’t promise anything” said Izuku, his voice full of mischief.

“In that case I can’t promise that I won’t smack you on the head next time you pull of shit like this” replied the doctor, as he walked out of his patient’s room, hiding his smile behind the clipboard.

#bnha #boku no hero academia #demise!au #fanfic #demise of midoriya izuku #chapter 8 #midoriya izuku #iyashi shin #mrs. todoroki #todoroki fuyumi

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ruffoverthinksthings · 7 years

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God Loves You, Which Is Why You’ll Burn In Hell (Part 2): A “Good, Christian Child,” Claudine Frollo Is Not

All Frollo ever truly wanted from his daughter was for her to become a “good, Christian child” in the midst of all the sin, the debauchery, and the faithlessness that is life on the Isle of the Lost.

As mentioned in part 1, Claudine Frollo was the product of a very brief, tumultuous marriage between Frollo and a woman whose name is lost to time and even his memory, whom he only ever refers to as “Not Esmerelda.”

Even more so than the other VKs, the deck was stacked heavily against Claudine: the infamy Frollo had already accrued over the past four years and the overzealous behaviour of his flock made her a social pariah by association, the strict and rigid standards for good behaviour imposed on her were even more inflexible than her peers’ and the punishment all the more severe, and the fact that the parents of everyone else were praising them for sinning, misbehaving, and generally being very bad, un-Christian like children made for a very difficult life.

But still, she persisted, abstaining from pranks and parties, casual kissing and cruelty, stealing and sex (the sinful, pre-marital kind), being bullied, picked on, and victimized relentlessly, but never lashing back, always taking her lot in life with a smile, comforting herself at night with prayers and the thought that when Judgment day comes, she will be taken away from this Hell and to an eternal Paradise.

Unlike the rest of the Isle parents, Frollo also loved her truly, supporting her, praising her, and doing his damndest to care for her despite his ever failing health and the fact that the Isle was not kind to such “pure, holy people” as them.

Then, puberty came, and all of that went into a hand-basket headed straight down.

The problems all started when Claudine got her first period, and Frollo insisted that she had to deal with her “private shame” all by herself, while also reminding her about all the many things she couldn’t do whenever she was “unclean.”

Her body began to change, from a little cherubic angel to a devilish succubus in the making, and Frollo began to rant and beg her to cover up lest she unwittingly lead others to temptation, or rile up the “slavering dogs” (teenage boys, and some of the girls) even more than they usually are—never mind that Claudine could literally cover herself head to toe in a sack, and Frollo would still complain that her “piercing eyes” were still too much temptation.

New, confusing, interesting but dangerous feelings started to stir inside of her, and the only things she got from Frollo were violent, fiery admonitions that she ever let herself be overcome by such temptation, before being ordered to pray to God for mercy, that through His divine will she may become stronger and overcome the shortcomings of her flawed, mortal body.

And things sure didn’t improve when she confessed she was feeling them for girls, not boys.

Still, Claudine persisted, refusing the advances and temptation of her peers, dedicating so much time to patching up and sewing clothes to make sure she was covering up where everyone else was starting to intentionally bear more and more skin than usual, and continuing her nightly prayers, though they were now recited while she scrubbed menstrual blood off everything she owned, and cleaning the things she had turned “unclean.”

It was around this time that the little, obedient girl was starting to question her faith, all the things Frollo had told her were true and infallible, of the value of eternal Paradise some far-off, vague time in the future when God declared her stay on this plane over, VS earthly pleasures now that everyone else was enjoying and seeking.

Still, she trusted her father, her faith, and God more than anything else.

So inspired was Frollo by his daughter’s devotion amidst this tumultuous time that he started a convent, a section of his church renovated and dedicated to the proper education of the young girls of the Isle, so they may know how to serve God for the rest of their lives, or become good, Christian wives to the wholesome men they would find in the future.

(The boys were on their own; in his wisdom as a man himself, Frollo declared them truly lost causes that was beyond even Saint Jude.)

Never mind that the prayer services Claudine was assisting with was oftentimes an extra hour to nap, or gossip in the pews. Never mind that her fellow “nuns” were constantly sneaking out, partying, and staying long enough to sleep and enjoy a free breakfast before going straight back to sinning. Never mind that within the walls of the holy ground, sacrilegious things were happening between the other girls who found they weren’t very interested in boys, like the Good Book said they were supposed to be.

Then along came CJ, the herald of the beginning of the end.

Frollo had never liked CJ, thinking her the worst of Hook’s children, the very epitome of everything that is wrong with the Isle, all the sin, the evil, and the selfishness of the world given form as a teenaged girl—and for the few times in her life, CJ actually sincerely thanked someone for saying that.

Claudine didn’t either, thinking her her ultimate project, what was going to be the true test of her faith, the one thing that would prove to herself and everyone on the Isle that God was Great, God was Good, God was Almighty, that she would convert this wild child going around serving no one but herself, bring her to the light and the joy of serving God and others.

Never mind all the “unholy” things CJ had initiated and that she went along with, flawed as she was and prone to temptation.

Never mind that the “lies” coming from her mouth were starting to sound more true than anything Frollo had ever told her—though her growing suspicions that he was turning senile might have been part of that.

Never mind that for all the “wrong” feelings she had for her felt—as the cliché went—so right.

The convent dwindled, until it was just the two of them plus a handful of the children of Frollo’s flock. Suddenly there were no services to distract herself with, no other people to try and save and get a break from CJ, no excuses for not seeing her and interacting with her. No busying herself and avoiding all the things she’d tried not to think, tried not to feel, the things she prayed and prayed to God to please take away, that she’d listed when she asked if she’d already suffered enough, that He thought she should still endure as part of her “test.”

All of it came to a head in the storeroom of the convent, where CJ had finally managed to break into the locked cabinet containing the (tarnished, but still) silver candlesticks Frollo had lent for the convent’s services.

“Put those back,” Claudine growled.

CJ chuckled as she casually stuffed the sacred artifacts down her dress, along with her other ill-gotten treasures. “Why? Going to tell me off to Father Frollo? Ooh, ooh, oh wait: I’m going to incite the wrath of the Big Man Upstairs, and He’s going to strike me dead where I stand, isn’t He?!”

Claudine’s scowl grew deeper as CJ threw her head back and laughed. “CJ, I have been patient with you all this time, spending all of my precious time and effort, trying my damndest to save your soul--”

“And why have you been doing all this, exactly?” CJ asked. “It’s definitely not because I won’t make-out with you if you weren’t all high and holy on me, though I must admit, the Old Boys talking about the joys of making women of the cloth ‘fall into temptation’ certainly had it right~” she said, licking her lips.

Claudine blushed. “Is it really so unbelievable to you that I just want to save your soul, CJ?”

“Yes, actually, considering we’re all damned here!” CJ replied. “Have you looked around you, Claudine, or have you just been blind all this time and none of us have noticed? We’re the dregs of Auradon, their forsaken, their outcasts—we have literally been cast out to die and rot in our own filth just because their Big Guy Upstairs decided we didn’t belong in their world.”

“That was King Beast, not God!” Claudine said, fuming and shaking now.

“God, Beast, what’s the difference?” CJ asked. “They’re both powerful men who just decide on a whim who lives a luxurious, comfortable life and who deserves to suffer and struggle, reassuring the former that they did something to deserve it, and the latter that if they obey, don’t complain until the day they die, and keep on praying and praising them and calling them the Best Thing Ever for all of eternity, they’ll go to some magical place where everything is all well and good.

“Oh, what’s that, you say? You can’t see this Paradise? No one knows for sure if it exists, because you have to die naturally to go there, and no one that’s ever died has ever returned to tell us mortals about how great and how worth it is, because Paradise is just that good, so we have to rely on wrinkly old men in dresses asking us to believe them when they say it is?”

CJ scowled. “Admit it, Claudine, this is all because of your father, isn’t it?”

Claudine had no words, only unintelligible fuming and sputtering.

“He’ll never love you like he did when you were still his ‘sweet little angel,’ Claudine,” CJ said flatly. “Look at yourself: you’re just like that ‘Esmeralda’ woman he despises and hungers for so much, temptation on legs—and I should know! Do you really think that if you try hard enough, that if you pray hard enough, that if you rely on that ‘God’ of yours to swoop down and use His ‘mysterious magical powers’ on you that it will change the fact that you’re going to get fucked every single day, and not in the fun sense?

“Your fate was sealed when you were born a girl, Claudine.”

Claudine stared at her, her hands balled into fists, her knuckles white and her nails digging into her palms, already starting to draw blood.

“What’s going on down there?!” Frollo cried.

CJ sighed. “Well, fuck, there goes my nice, clean escape plan!” she said as she picked up a box of matches on the side. “I hope you’re happy, Claudine, you’re directly responsible for what’s about to happen.”

Claudine blinked. “Wait—what in God’s name are you doing?!”

CJ’s eyes twinkled like the lit head of the match in her hand. “Making myself a distraction, is what~!”

She flicked it onto the meticulously dried and cleaned cloths for the altar.

Frollo’s convent burned that day, that section of his church rendered permanently uninhabitable for the acrid stench, the collapsed brickwork, and the superstition surrounding that forced his flock into inaction.

Claudine herself barely escaped the flames, screaming like a banshee as her long hair and her ankle-length skirt had caught fire.

They say the old her died there, burned to death and reborn anew in the ashes, for the very next day, the Isle saw a very different Claudine Frollo:

One with her formerly long, luxurious locks savagely cut short into a bob; the foulest and filthiest of words coming from her mouth, almost always taking the Lord’s name in vain; and all too eager to drink, smoke, and fuck till her body gave out.

She still wore a long, white coat, pristine and pure by the Isle’s standards, but once she’s out of sight from her church and her home, she sheds it to reveal a shirt a size too small and the top row of buttons conspicuously undone; a plaid skirt from Auradon’s many academies, cut dangerously, scandalously short; and high, spiked heels that force her to sway her hips with every step.

Frollo still believes Claudine is a good, Christian child like he always wanted her to be, unfailing in his support of her in spite of the evidence, always assuming the best of her, and the worst of everyone else, “sinners, sycophants, and heathens that they are.”

But everyone else knows the truth.

#descendants #disney #religion #god loves you which is why you'll burn in hell #headcanon

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trishhyoungg · 7 years

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What is Grief? And 5 Ways to Deal With Grief

Long time no see my Tumblr readers :) Since my last post I’m guessing many of you might we worried to see such a topic come up on my blog. Well fret no with most things that don’t get revealed on social media.. Life happened and with that comes the Circle of Life.

Post Dedication: Without getting into too much personal details, I wanted to dedicate this post to anyone who heart is in immense pain over a lost of a love one (whether direct relative or not) I believe with such conviction that God has a reason for every season & the pain you feel now. Albeit temporary but this season will shape you in ways you’ll soon discover.

On a personal note, hi my dear love of my life, I’m sorry for the lost you’ve had to experience. I know that my words alone cannot do much but I want you to know that what happened is no ones fault & that she is a better place. I’ll continue to hold your heart & hand - walk alongside you till you heal & find peace. Love you more than you know.

This might be a long read for some so do grab yourself a warm cup of tea, coffee or beverage of choice & enjoy [Reading Time: 5-10 minutes]

You don’t have to be linguist to know the core topic of this post would fall under the 1st definition & NOT the 2nd. Nothing complicated about the emotion of ‘Grief’ - ‘Intense sorrow’ which in most cases is due to a lost of beautiful soul.

It’s worth keeping in mind that everyone grieves differently. Just like how all personalities are different with no two the same - this treatment is similar for Grief. Some people will wear their emotions on their sleeve and others will experience their grief more internally, and some may not even cry (believe it out not). We should try & not judge how a person experiences their Grief, as each person will experience it differently.

1. Denial & Isolation

The first stage to learning about the terminal illness, loss, or death of a cherished loved one is to deny the reality of the situation.

“This isn’t happening, this can’t be happening,” people often think.

It is a normal reaction to rationalize overwhelming emotions. It is a defense mechanism that buffers the immediate shock of the loss. We block out the words and hide from the facts. This is a temporary response that carries us through the first wave of pain.

2. Anger

As the masking effects of denial and isolation begin to wear, reality and its pain re-emerge. We are not ready. The intense emotion is deflected from our vulnerable core, redirected and expressed instead as anger. The anger may be aimed at inanimate objects, complete strangers, friends or family. Anger may be directed at our dying or deceased loved one. Rationally, we know the person is not to be blamed. Emotionally, however, we may resent the person for causing us pain or for leaving us. We feel guilty for being angry, and this makes us more angry.

3. Bargaining

The normal reaction to feelings of helplessness and vulnerability is often a need to regain control–

If only we had sought medical attention sooner…

If only we got a second opinion from another doctor…

If only we had tried to be a better person toward them…

Secretly, we may make a deal with God or our higher power in an attempt to postpone the inevitable. This is a weaker line of defense to protect us from the painful reality.

4. Depression

Two types of depression are associated with mourning.

The first one is a reaction to practical implications relating to the loss. Sadness and regret predominate this type of depression. We worry about the costs and burial. We worry that, in our grief, we have spent less time with others that depend on us. This phase may be eased by simple clarification and reassurance. We may need a bit of helpful cooperation and a few kind words.

The second type of depression is more subtle and, in a sense, perhaps more private. It is our quiet preparation to separate and to bid our loved one farewell. Sometimes all we really need is a hug.

5. Acceptance

Reaching this stage of mourning is a gift not afforded to everyone. Death may be sudden and unexpected or we may never see beyond our anger or denial. It is not necessarily a mark of bravery to resist the inevitable and to deny ourselves the opportunity to make our peace. This phase is marked by withdrawal and calm. This is not a period of happiness and must be distinguished from depression.

Loved ones that are terminally ill or aging appear to go through a final period of withdrawal. This is by no means a suggestion that they are aware of their own impending death or such, only that physical decline may be sufficient to produce a similar response. Their behavior implies that it is natural to reach a stage at which social interaction is limited. The dignity and grace shown by our dying loved ones may well be their last gift to us.

Source: https://psychcentral.com/lib/the-5-stages-of-loss-and-grief/

At the end of the day, how you deal with Grief is a personal journey & should not be influenced by this post nor anyone else who imposes their views on you. However in knowing that there is no fix template to dealing with Grief, many a times we can get stuck in feel lost for a long time - weeks, months or even years.

Take these as thoughts you can ponder on as you re-navigate you way back to the starting point which seems to have be blurred.

*Worth noting that these are ways that I have help me in my time of losing a love one as well - as such is personal & individual not the law*

1. Release

“Those who know your name trust in you, for you, LORD, have never forsaken those who seek you.” - Psalm 9:10 (NIV)

When I think of 'Release’, I mediate on the idea that I have someone or something to upload my emotions to. Something to almost fully take away what was once burdening ones heart & to ease that burden. I see it in 2 phases when it comes to ‘Release’: (1) Choice - to make the deliberate choice to no longer bear the weight of the load on your own & to surrender it to a higher authority or power (2) Letting go - to organically let your heart rest & the burden eases.

A few tangible activities that can help one achieve ‘Release’:

i. Meditation Whether it be a early morning walk or quiet time in the morning, making time to be still & to regulate the voices clouding ones heart & mind proves to be highly beneficial in the process of Grief. Making that physical choice to do so will make all the difference.

ii. Counselling Most people see this in a form of a person, i.e. medical counselling, how I see it is in engaging the the thing that you resist doing in terms of expressing your emotions. This will look different for many people - for me, it looks like sharing a thing or two more about how I’m feeling to the people around me who love me or even taking time to pray & seek god. Figure out what you resist in terms of expressing your emotions & work on small steps in doing it.

iii. Sleep This is probably more so relevant for those of you who on a normal day already struggle with sleep (i.e. partial insomnia or medical insomnia). In your time of Grief, you will see this to be a painful & almost burdensome activity especially when all your emotions seem to cloud any form of physical rest. I personally find that a quick purchase of a form of aromatherapy (i.e. room spray, essential oils, aroma diffuser) is a good place to start to unwind. Taking practical steps to get you or your family members to bed is important - is reduces tension & allows you to get back to your normal routine quickly.

2. Talk ‘aka’ Communication

A brief mention of talking to love ones was discussed above but still I believe that this requires a category of its own especially so when internalizing pain - which ultimately is the biggest ‘Resistance Factor’ when moving thru the stages of Grief. Whether it be talking to a person, object, spirit or even engaging in any form of communication (i.e. online, offline, written, spoken, heard) it is important to remember that communication is key.

Some activities to consider:

i. Blogpost / Letter Writing / Instagram Post / Journalling Just as I’m typing through this entry, it brings back memories of the passing of my grandfather when I was 19. My heart still aches but I look back at the time that has passed & have seen how far I have come since then. I find that writing gives one a 360 degree vantage point of things. The ability to look to the past, present & future just by penning down your thoughts. It also helps to be able to ‘Release’ pent up emotions & leave it on ‘paper’.

ii. Painting / Drawing My twin sister brought meditative art to my attention when she curated ‘My Heart on Me’ - an avenue for anyone to be empowered through life. Through art, we will begin to unpack your experiences, thoughts, fears, hopes and dreams to be revealed more in yourself. Believing and knowing that the ups and downs of life, and for explanations beyond our comprehension, has made you you- perfect and wonderful. For more click here - https://www.facebook.com/myheartonme/

iii. Community Groups / Spiritual Huddles This is one that most Christians would be familiar with in terms of Life Groups, Cell Groups, Bible Study Groups, etc. However is not exclusive to the religion - church groups may appear to be exclusive in nature however do not be mislead many Christian groups are the direct opposite - constantly with their arms open to journey will anyone who may need it. Should spiritual groups not be your cup of team - Many secular organizations have community group that allow for public participation as well,

3. Prayer

Prayer in my journey of Grief has been the MOST pinnacle factor that enabled me to embark on my personal journey of healing. For some background, I’ve lived my life since birth as a 2nd generation Methodist christian which basically means that I was born into the faith with no prior knowledge of ‘Why’ which therefore just meant that I was a Methodist christian. As you’d expect, growing up with the faith was filled with countless ‘highs’ & ‘lows’. It was only when I was baptized at the age of 19 (2012) - after the death of my grand father (2011) which was when I woke up to how blessed my life had been & how much I had relied on my faith without even truly knowing how much Grace & Mercy has been bestowed on me. You see the death of my grandfather came alongside a series of events - I did up a fundraiser - Project Overturned Closet for cancer patients in 2012 which opened my eye to much which in turn healed my broken heart. I truly believe that all that stemmed from that singular ‘come hell or high water’ prayer that I said when my life seemed to be in a pit of endless despair. Personally, I cannot deny that tipping point in my life that broke the shackle of Grief & allowed me to heal.

4. Preserve Good Memories Only

This possibly might be one of the first few actions engaged in by many when Grieving - looking at old photos, videos, social media post when ‘they’ were once living. I find that this luxury is highly correlated to the relationship one has with the passed on individual. Estranged relationships or traumatic events can sometimes hinder one from seeing the Good in these memories. Albeit easier said than done, it helps to come to a stage when one is able to look back on memories that were once beautiful rather than painful, memories that were once victorious rather than defeated, memories of blessing rather than regrets. Some thoughts (of the deceased) kick start the process - ‘Remember only focus on the Good’:

i. What was the most accomplishing moment in his/her life? ii. Recall the a fond memory you shared with him/her? iii. What are the positive character traits of him/her? Iv: What are some of memories of him/her that you’ll treasure forever?

5. Say ‘No’ to Negativity

This point may almost seem silly to some people - ‘if I could so ‘No’ to negative thoughts, wouldn’t I have done it already? - Well my point of view comes from a more deliberate & physical method of saying ‘No’ to Negative Company & Comments that might surround you in this time of Grief. Ever had someone have tendencies to blame everything & everyone around them without vetting through their thoughts or actions? Ever had bad company ask you to engage in mindless, thoughtless or even illegal activities just to forget? Ever been peer pressured to ‘fuck it’ & not bother about your loves ones in Grief? Ever had someone around you make an insensitive remark & not feel apologetic about it? Those are a few scenarios of Negativity manifesting into life that proves to be more detrimental than it may appear to be. In moments like these, I believe that ‘Guarding ones Heart’ has never been made more important. It does not make you a bad person by saying ‘No’ or even being adamant about saying ‘No’ to these moments of Negativity. You are allowed to Grief & should be able to Grief in your own time; anyone who says otherwise is foolish & deluded.

Some way to say ‘No’ to Negativity:

i. I think that’s enough. What’s done it done, please don’t make the situation any worst than it should be. ii. I don’t think attending that party will help me with my pain. I won’t be going. iii. My family needs me now. I think I’ll be staying by them. iv. That not a nice thing you just said. Do hope that you’ll be respectful about what has happened.

And with that I’ve come to the end of the post. I just want to say that this read is in no way a blogpost telling you what you should do or must do. Like I’ve mentioned it’s just a way of locating the starting point when you seem at a lost & are unsure of how to move on in your process of Grief.

I hope that this has helped at least 1 person out there going through a difficult time in their life. Just remember that there is always someone who loves you & is waiting for you with open arms to heal your pain.

Well Yeap! That’s all from me! Let me know what you think!

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OR EVEN IF YOU NEED A LISTENING EAR TO UNLOAD YOUR PROBLEMS. DO DROP ME A COMMENT. YOU’RE NEVER ALONE!

Roman 12:2 Do not conform to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind. Then you will be able to test and approve what God’s will is–his good, pleasing and perfect will.

Remember beauty is about being comfortable in your own skin. No one has the power to make you feel less than you really are.

#grief and loss #grief #death #rip #losing a loved one #losing a friend #losing a parent #losing a grandparent #losing family

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