#the description of Nathan's experience could and would still be rather accurate

[coldercreation]

PSA: 

If you have related to how I have described Nathan’s struggles with his mental health and some experiences with life; emotional, physical and social etc (ignore the story/his fam background for this; I mean if you have been able to relate to his feelings/anxiety/negative physical sensations etc.)

Might be worth it to get your blood checked. 

Especially B12, Vitamin D, Iron levels and Ferritin (ferritin should be 100+).

Building on top of the character, character background, and my research into trauma / mental health etc, I have always used a lot of my personal experience when describing emotions, feelings, and how mental health issues can feel like or present. It’s my attempt to make the writing feel realistic, had I experienced the things in the story or not. Aka even if the story was high fantasy and thus not realistic, I’d source my own feelings to make it ‘real’.

So. Regardless of what's causing it in the story: If you have ever related to how Nathan FEELS or describes his experience with the world and his brain… (Anxiety, depression, chronic fatigue, feeling like an outsider/in a fishbowl, easily overwhelmed or over tired; social withdrawal, social anxiety, heart palpitations, chest pains, breathlessness, dissociation, irritability, issues with cognitive function; memory, overthinking, insomnia, brain fog, panic attacks, slow recovery from physical activity, etc etc et fucking c) 

Turns out bish has been chronically deficient of many things for a very long time due to stomach issues that stopped nutrients from absorbing. Antidepressants have never successfully worked for me, and it’s now looking like that’s because my mental health stuff could've largely been a physical symptom, instead of just purely mental health?? 

I have been on a pile of supplements for a bit now and uhh… It’s like night and day? Even with the other health stuff I've been getting treated for, it's been... So much better?? Like. Life changing amount of difference?? And I’m only just starting out fixing these deficiencies, which could take a long time. But...

Holy shit, “Better” might actually be a real thing after all?? There was a reason I've been so "stuck"???

Kind of mad… And sad. Because if this is true and I keep feeling like I have been recently, it means I’ve lost a lot of time to this. I try to focus on how good I’ve been feeling though, and stay curious for this journey of what literally feels like a second chance at life.

Just… Wanted to post this in case it could help someone else. This is a highly personal experience, mental health issues absolutely exist on their own too and there's possibly often overlap as well. But stuff like this can make existing mental health conditions worse too, so either way it’s worth checking. 

Yeah. So.

Happy new year?

From someone who might be pulling a whole Phoenix moment???? xx

#Apologies for the silence here #Been going through a lot if you can imagine lol #I have a bunch of asks and messages to catch up to #I'm so sorry for taking forever #It might take me a bit longer still but I promise I'll get back on here at some point hopefully soon #Your messages mean so much to me<3 #Take care everyone <3 #Also #the description of Nathan's experience could and would still be rather accurate #even if you don't have these physical health issues!! #Depression and anxiety etc from a deficiency is still depression and anxiety #+ when I write Nathan I have a set of mental health “maps” or “guides” for his character (like C-PTSD and CEN and OCD) #Yes I use my own feelings and experiences to describe his anxiety etc #But his character is built around specific mental health markers / trauma research / symptoms etc (like C-PTSD and CEN and OCD) #So I'm pretty sure Nathan's POV would still look very similar based on just that research and ignoring the stuff in this post #Hope this all makes sense :'o

[thelifeofascholar-blog1]

In which the Scholar Is Upside Down

(Artwork: Chromatic Arrangement no. 4, or A Mind’s Inversion. Acrylic on canvas. © The Scholar, Feb 2017)

Each of us in the highest echelons of intellectual society has suffered, I am certain, the dejection of growing weary with one’s favored opera or videotaped dressage performance. For the lower primates with whom I am ashamed to share a species, adequate diversion may consist of no more than tossing about the stuffed hide of a flayed pig, or worse, paying others to do so. I, on the other hand, cannot abide by such mindless and wanton savagery. As long as modern society continues to be ruled by clods, I will have no power to put an end to the idiocy, the aberrancy, the lunacy of “sports,” but I am neither bound to partake. Nevertheless, in my most lackadaisical moments I have caught myself pining for a lower intelligence quotient, a lesser lot in life, so that I might too live in ignorant bliss among animal hides and astronomical turf.

As it happens, I can claim no such illiteracy. Oft I while away the hours in my scholarly pursuits; just two weeks ago I was ensconced in a gripping history of puffed gelatin in western confectionary tradition. Regrettably, I permitted the temptation of the reading to get the better of me, and the resulting binge nearly spoiled my enjoyment of marshmallows forever (I have since confirmed that my revulsion at them has passed). I suppose at least some of you readers have had similar experiences, as the hunt for knowledge can be a dangerous one. It can likewise, though, be a dull one, subtle of reward and slow of progress. Even the sharpest mind (that is to say, mine) must abide by the adage coined by that dubious dilettante Benjamin Franklin regarding work and play.

All too often, however, my attempts at play become ordeals of more stress and exertion than my work, as I shall hereafter lay out. The life of an intellectual like myself is generally a tireless one, so I cannot simply vegetate in front of a television screen, or finger paint, or dig holes, or whatever it is that the non-gifted do to pass the time. No, if I am to seek out fun, it must be a grander undertaking, a diversion excursion. Upon seeing the aftermath of my marshmallow ordeal, my manservant, Chip, recommended that I seek out another such excursion that he might have ample space to clean up the mess. I upbraided him for his insolence in suggesting that he might know better than I what the situation warranted, but I did coincidentally decide to take a day off.

It was high time that I took a break from the labors of learning, especially since several months ago my wayward sister Doris and her dullard of a husband John, or Josh, or Jean, or whatever his name is, moved to Southern California (or SoCalifornia, as the locals seem to call it), wherein I myself have resided since I noted my own incompatibility with snow-ridden climes some years past. I had no desire to see Doris, nor her mate, but I was overdue for a day of quality time with their eight-year-old son Nathaniel, whom they continue to call Nathan like the ignoramuses they are, and whom I have considered my ward since it became clear to me that Doris and Joe would raise him as a moron without my intervention.

I telephoned Doris. Her dry, familiar response belied the burning envy she feels for my high culture: “Hello?”

I cut through her defense and delivered my point outright. “Doris, I request—nay, I demand—a day of guardianship with little Nathaniel.”

Obviously fearful of my potential to supplant her and James as Nathaniel’s primary role model, as though I hadn’t obviously done so already, Doris was hesitant. Nevertheless, I appealed to her sense and to her busy schedule, and with some negotiation of my fee to half that of her regular babysitter, she agreed.

Doris’s only condition was that I avoid a debacle like my previous outing with Nathaniel. I won’t go into all of the unfortunate details, but suffice it to say that I am no longer welcome at Disneyland. That pretender in the Mickey Mouse costume should have known better than to claim that Tom Sawyer would have his own island, let alone that the hackish and offensive works of Mark Twain have any place in children’s entertainment! But I digress. I promised my sister that I would not cause any scenes with costumed idiots and began planning my day of appropriate recreation.

Though I was legally barred from paying another visit to Disneyland and glad of the riddance, I knew that I needed to choose an activity of sufficient excitement to keep little Nathaniel occupied. I wish I could say that he could take the same interest as I in the classic art of the oratorio, but I must administer milk before symbolic meat (I am particularly proud of this wholly original metaphor; it came to me one day as I mused on the peculiarities of mammalian reproduction and I regret that I am not more frequently credited in its not infrequent usage). The milk, in this case, had to be a themed park, as they are known, for I recalled Nathaniel’s immense dejection at our ejection from the Disney premises before he had a chance to ride any of the various roller coasters, and I wished to make reparations.

I settled on the nearest possible park that could fulfill the role, for long drives with Chip at the wheel cause my neck to become insufferably tense. We met with Doris and Jim, picked up my ward with no more conversation than what was necessary, and were on our way. Chip attempted to engage little Nathaniel with corrupting talk of super-powered heroes and other juvenile rubbish, but I quickly and heartily put an end to that, sternly encouraging my manservant to keep his attention on the road and away from my impressionable charge.

Our destination was Six Flags, a decidedly odd name for a park in which flags are not only not celebrated, but scarcely even seen. This was my first disappointment upon my arrival, for I have been dying to visit a flag museum to improve my geographical expertise. I reminded myself that this was Nathaniel’s day, and that I had to lay aside my disappointments at the lack of educational amenities in the park and take my fun vicariously through my ward. Chip, on the other hand, I forbade from entering the park. He attempted to abandon us in an offer to return to my abode and do housework, but I informed him that he was to await us in parking until such time as we chose to leave.

The park appeared to be the work of a madman. I feared perhaps the seventh seal was opened at Six Flags, given the positively Lovecraftian dismissal of Euclidean geometry in both ride architecture and sidewalk layout. I reminded myself that such was the nature of amusing parks and recalled a similar devilishness on that ill-fated Disney expedition. Nathaniel had spoken but little during the drive, transfixed as he was by my admittedly ostentatious descriptions of the histories of various road signs we passed along the way, but now his eyes lit up in view of the high-flying prospects before him. When I saw the gleam in his eyes, I steeled myself against the madness within the park and entered.

Roller coasters have never held any particular appeal to me; the thought of tempting the capricious Isaac Newton has never struck me as intelligent or appropriate, and the thought of sharing seats with the mindless masses with which the park teemed was all the more unnerving. Indeed, to undergo such intense centrifugal and centripetal forces must have some scrambling effect on the brain, judging from the atrocities of fashion I saw around the park. Far too many of the misguided attendees thought themselves superheroes and wore the capes to prove their mania.

I reasoned to myself that my mind, being much sounder than most, could handle the coasters and maintain its sanity if it must. Nevertheless, arriving as we did at the first coaster of the day (one recommended as appropriate for Nathaniel’s age by a slack-jawed knuckle-wiper in a polo emblazoned with the park name), I surveyed the ride and felt a good deal of trepidation. It was far from the tallest coaster, and it lacked the inversions and loops I had seen elsewhere in the park, but as the line of coupled cars roared past us at our vantage point along the walkway, the fantastic velocity made my head spin.

I turned to Nathaniel to confirm that he would rather board this ride and not the bumping cars next door (barbaric as it was, the latter ride was firmly and slowly confined to the ground), but he was dead set. I attempted to extol the virtues of a relaxing merry go ‘round, but to no avail. We stood in line, and I was forced to accept the impending destruction of your humble expositor.

But—oh my—words have never failed me as they do in describing the experience of being rolled and coasted. It was unbelievable. The sensation of soaring, of tumbling, of freewheeling through the sky, that indescribable feeling is the stuff of song, had I but time to write the lyrics. As young Nathaniel and I disembarked I could scarcely see straight, but I grasped the coaster operator by the shoulders and demanded, “Direct me to the grandest ride in the park!”

She shook herself free of me and I apologized for my sudden psychosis (I suppose my earlier guess regarding the effect of rolling/coasting on the brain was accurate, but this brand of madness was one I desired). “You must get that frequently,” I told her.

As has occurred so often in my past experience in interacting with service workers, the employee was in no perceptual position to appreciate the marvelous service she offered, and simply sneered at me as she pointed me to the towering assortment of painted steel that stood nearest the park entrance.

“On the double, Nathaniel!” I cried, and took off at the greatest clip that my legs, rubberized by the coaster ride, could still handle.

“I don’t think your kid’ll be tall enough to ride!” the attendant called after me.

I stopped. Faced with a decision that I had not thought possible just minutes prior, I felt myself in a symbolic standstill to rival my physical standing in the middle of the walkway. As coteries of reprobates, riff-raff unworthy of the divine experience of flight that the park proffered, pushed past me this way and that, I cursed my charge’s diminutive frame. It was clear that I had but one option.

I surveyed the crowd for a suitable temporary caretaker of my ward. My eyes lit first upon a sorry-looking entertainer in a rumpled grey bunny outfit, but recalling my promise to Doris about my interactions with costumed beings, I knew I could have no guarantee that the dismal rabbit would act in a civilized way upon encountering my superior mind. There was, though, a tree casting ample shade near the end of the line to the ride. I knew I couldn’t leave Nathaniel there alone without material to amuse or enlighten him, but luckily, I had come prepared for such a contingency (though I had expected it to arise due to my weariness rather than my burning need to ride this greatest of all coasters).

Nathaniel fancies himself a swashbuckler, as I have gathered from his childish obsession with children’s tales of adventure. I determined he would do well to explore Pericles, Prince of Tyre; while among the least of the Bard’s creations in my estimation, it is nevertheless a great deal better than the tales of Bat Men and Wondrous Women that my ward was wont to peruse. I extracted my pocket Shakespeare reader, complete with my own set of annotations, and handed it to him. Explaining to the lad that I could not leave this great vista unexplored, and promising him I would be no more than five minutes (the wait time in the previous queue), I left him to his edification without further delay.

Imagine my surprise when five minutes, ten minutes, thirty minutes, an hour went by as I waited. Each moment my will nearly faltered; before long I had to stop looking back at Nathaniel, for the mournful gaze with which he watched me would soon have broken my resolve. But no! Be it an hour wait or three, I had to board that roller coaster. Morale was as tense as I have ever seen in that line. I snapped at more than one inconsiderate bystander who brushed against me as we waited.

Once near the end of the wait, I did glance again in Nathaniel’s direction, only to see him being accosted by another costumed ne’er-do-well, this one himself dressed as a Bat Man. The only thing that kept me from bursting forth from that line in explosive fury to punish the rogue was the understanding that within minutes I would be boarding. I had arrived at a point beyond which only heaven could lie.

After one hour, thirty-eight minutes, and twelve seconds, by my guess, I stood at the front of the line. Various posted signs of warning regarding the intensity of the ride met me along the wait, but I had dismissed them, sure as I was of my desire to touch the sky once again. Unlike the bench-and-crossbar restraints of the prior coaster, this ride feature a full-body rigid harness of reinforced padding. Perhaps this latter detail might have given me pause were I not so drunk on ecstatic motion, but I threw myself into the harness without a thought, my legs dangling below me in the air. My heart pounded in my chest; my breathing grew shallow and agitated; my vision blurred. The anticipation nearly rendered me unconscious before the ride even began.

Soon enough, though, we began our climb, an agonizingly slow one, to the top of the first hill of the coaster. I felt the exhilaration of Edmund Hillary and Neil Armstrong all in one as the summit approached. I suddenly realized with alarm that this was at least four times as high as the last coaster had risen. I feared the oxygen at that altitude was, perhaps, diminished. My grip tightened as I questioned my prior exuberance when, in an instant, the drop happened.

Dear readers, I know not to whom I must compare myself: the tragic Icarus, who in his pride flew too close to the sun and fell to his demise, or the wicked Lucifer, who was cast down from heaven to reside ever after in hell. At the moment of the descent, I made no such self-comparison. I simply screamed. I called out with all my might to the coaster operator, “THERE’S BEEN A TERRIBLE MISTAKE!” and “STOP THIS DEATH TRAP AT ONCE!” My pleading screams fell on the deaf ears of dunderheads. I should have known better than to entrust my life to the degenerates operating that great machine of destruction.

I have no clear recollection past that first drop until the end of the ride. Whether I passed out from terror or repressed the trauma, I cannot say. I can only say that I had more than a few choice words for the ride attendants. I fluttered my feet and railed into them from my harness from the moment our car arrived until they freed me from that nightmarish imprisonment. I informed them that their wanton toying with the lives of men and women would not stand, that I would be taking swift legal action against them. As my legs swung back and forth, the only physical expression of my anger that the restraints permitted, I landed an unintentional, though well-deserved, blow into the ribs of the attendant freeing me.

Dare I describe the overreaction of the incapable employees at that moment? The kicked youth curled away in feigned pain, clearly attempting to build some sort of assault case against me. I stood my ground, demanding that they release me and that the youth admit his exaggeration. Though the attendants saw to my first demand quickly enough, my insistence of the truth sadly fell upon ignorant ears. Neither my fellow riders of the death trap nor the kicked urchin’s colleagues would see the obvious truth, no matter the volume with which I declared it: that I was the victim.

The resulting rush to escort me from the park was so thorough that I was forced to request that the strong-arm barbarians barring my reentrance deliver my ward. It was most vexing to see that the very Bat Man whom I had seen interrupting Nathaniel’s Shakespearian studies was charged with reuniting him with me, but I remained mute. I could only tolerate so much disrespect in a two-hour period.

The sadness on the lad’s face upon seeing our ejection was heartbreaking; we clearly shared a deep bond if he could so commiserate with my ignominy in that moment to be brought to tears. The empathy so overwhelmed him that he was unable to address me for the entire ride home, not even to discuss the noble Pericles. Chip, ever true to my orders, had remained in the parking lot awaiting our return, but in his sloppiness had apparently allowed a skunk in at some point during the day, judging by the residual smell of the interior. Nathaniel could not even say goodbye when we dropped him off, such was the power of his emotional connection with my sadness. He kept his eyes trained away from me to avoid aggravating his tears. We truly share a deep connection, my ward and I.

I knew not how to process the events of the day. On the one hand, I had been insulted almost as thoroughly as I ever could be. It was a harm my pride would feel for many days thereafter, and I could not even take the legal action I had promised, what with the perverted testimony that snake of an attendant would deliver against me. On the other hand, I had not lost the desire to soar on the wings of roller coaster eagles. Even that monstrous deathtrap called my name, enticed me, made me salivate in anticipation of the next time, one year hence when my ban from the park would expire, that I could attempt to conquer her contours. I felt for the first time that I knew the plight of the addict. The one thing I knew for sure was that that evening’s bath would require an extra cup of Epsom salt.

#marshmallow #dressage #leisure #theme park #six flags #disneyland #southern california #mark twain #oratorio #lovecraft #rollercoaster #superhero #height limit #Pericles #Shakespeare #batman #edmund hillary #neil armstrong #icarus #lucifer

[alternative-eyes]

https://2.bp.blogspot.com/_PXeDY3KOwgA/TCyzu36kWoI/AAAAAAAAFf4/q72t86iJWWo/s1600/RAAF+Captures+Flying+Saucer+On+Ranch+in+Roswell+Region+(Sml+4)+-+Roswell+Daily+Record+7-8-09.jpg

     Back in 1988, when Don Schmitt and I began our investigation into the Roswell case, there were no documents available, other than newspaper articles and a single report from the FBI. The newspaper reports were less than accurate with misspellings of names, and descriptions of the debris. The FBI document, which was based on an interview with Major Kirton (misspelled as Curtan in the FBI report) suggested that the object found was a weather balloon and a radar reflector. It also mentioned that this analysis was not verified by other sources.

By Kevin Randle A Different Perspective 8-11-18

It is unclear in the report if the FBI called the 8th Air Force to find out what was happening or if Kirton had called the FBI to tell them about the recovery. Given the timing of the telex and breaking news, it is more likely that Kirton had called the FBI. That actually isn’t overly important here. I just thought I would mention it as an interesting observation. Neither the newspaper articles nor the FBI telex do anything to help us understand the Roswell case. There is too little information in them for any conclusive analysis. We are left with questions about the identity of the object found and both the telex and the newspapers can be used to support almost any explanation for Roswell. But that isn’t the whole story and here I will probably annoy my pals who accept Roswell as an alien spacecraft crash, and may even offend those who believe the answer can be found somewhere on Earth. Since Don and I began our work, other documents have surfaced and been brought into the discussion. One the first, which was published in its entirety in The MUFON UFO Journal for July 1985, is a top-secret report entitled Air Intelligence Report No. 100-203-79 and dated December 10, 1948. There is another version of it, or rather the same report, but it is dated April 28, 1949. Neither version of this report makes mention of crash recovered debris, and in fact, says that the origin of the objects cannot be determined. The thinking is that the men responsible for the report, who had top security clearances, would have been able to learn about the Roswell crash had it happened. Since they make no reference to it, this is circumstantial evidence that there wasn’t a crash. There was a caveat in that report. The officers involved suggested that there needed to be better communication among the military branches to ensure a free flow of information. There could have been some project or information that would have explained everything about the flying saucers if such a free flow existed. In other words, this doesn’t exclude Roswell. Karl Pflock, among others, found another document that reported on the Scientific Advisory Board Conference held on March 17 – 18, 1948, in the Pentagon. Colonel Howard McCoy was discussing Project Sign, the number of reports they had received, suggesting that there was something important going on. He said, “I can’t tell you how much we would give to have one of those crash in an area so that we could recover whatever they are.” McCoy was the intelligence officer at Wright Field and the Air Materiel Command. He was Nathan Twining’s intelligence officer. If there had been a crash near Roswell, McCoy would have been involved in the study or reverse engineering of anything recovered. In fact, McCoy had been involved in the first of the investigations of unidentified aerial phenomena starting with the Foo Fighters in WW II. He was the guy who knew everything about them and was, you might say, Twining’s “go to guy.” If there had been a crash he would have known about it. There are those who say, me among them, that had Roswell involved the crash of an alien spacecraft, it would have been classified top secret. Given that, McCoy was restricted from mentioning this in a briefing that was only classified as secret and some of the participants in it might not have held the proper security clearances to hear top secrets. But I have always worried about that analysis. While he might not be able to discuss a crash in a conference that was only secret, I wondered why bring it up at all. If none of the participants was thinking in terms of a crash, he had just planted the idea in their minds. True, he had told them that nothing had been recovered and if you know something doesn’t exist, you are not inclined to look for it. Still this was not a good idea. He planted the seed. This wasn’t the only time that McCoy had brought up the possibility of crash debris. In a letter sent up the chain of command, to those who would have held the proper security clearances and who would have had the need to know. He expressed the same thought. Crash recovered debris would go a long way to answering questions about the identity of the flying saucers. McCoy sent that letter to the Chief of Staff on November 3, 1948, discussing flying saucers. This was a recap of what they knew, or thought they knew about the “Flying Objects.” In paragraph 8, McCoy wrote:

The possibility that the reported objects are vehicles from another planet has not been ignored. However, tangible evidence to support conclusions about such a possibility are completely lacking.

This becomes more worrisome. McCoy would have no expectation that this letter would be seen by anyone other than those to which it was addressed and it was going to the top guy in the Air Force. He wouldn’t be telling stories out of school and he wouldn’t dare lie. If there had been a crash, he was writing to those who would know about it; more importantly these were the people who had to know about it. They might not have all the specifics, but they would know that there had been a crash of something that was highly unusual. They would know that the craft had been built somewhere else, meaning not on Earth. McCoy would have no reason to lie to them about a crash because of who he was addressing in the letter. Here's where we stand on this. The documentation that does exist, that came from identified government sources, signed by the men involved who we are able to vet, suggest that they know nothing of crash recovered debris. Being who they were and what their jobs were, they would have known and the discussion would take a different track. For those believing Roswell involved the crash of an alien spacecraft, this has to be worrisome. It is arrayed against testimony that suggests otherwise. The problem is that it is just testimony and over the years much of that testimony has been found to be inaccurate. The longer we investigate the more of these testimonies have fallen by the wayside. There is some compelling testimonial evidence of a crash but there is this documentation that suggests otherwise. While that documentation might not completely close the door, it is certainly narrowing the possibility. As I say, for those of us who do attempt to look at all the evidence, this is quite worrisome.

Continue Reading ► See Also: An Extraterrestrial Flying Disk Crashed Near Roswell in 1947: Not a UFO -PT2- Geologist Discusses Suspected Roswell UFO Crash Site Findings | VIDEO Roswell Ramey Memo and 'Victims of the Wreck'

REPORT YOUR UFO EXPERIENCE

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The Decline of Roswell http://www.theufochronicles.com/2018/08/the-decline-of-roswell.html

#August 15 #2018 at 05:57PM

[coldercreation]

I know many people have said this before but the way Nathan was characterized is so realistically good. I relate a lot to what Nathan goes through and honestly wish he was real so him and I can be friends. Thank you for writing CYE and the whole series in general. With the way you write Nathan, if you don't mind me asking, what is the reference you used for him because he was the first person that was accurate!

Aaa, thank you so much<3 I'm so glad you have found CYE and the series and Nathan relatable, it means a lot to me and makes me really happy!

I'm not sure what you mean by reference, but if you mean the mental health aspects I used to build his character, I do have some specific research points that could be helpful. I also just recently posted about my personal vitamin deficiencies that most definitely have affected the way I describe feelings in my writing. As in, no matter what the characters' circumstances are or what's happening to them in the story, I will use my personal experience with anxiety, depression, "how life feels" to describe their anxiety, depression, "how their life feels". So, like I said in that post; ignoring what is causing Nathan's anxiety etc. in the story, if you relate to how he FEELS and how I have described those feelings... feeling(?), I'd recommend checking your vitamins lol.

I wrote in the tags of that post: "The description of Nathan's experience could and would still be rather accurate, even if you don't have these physical health issues! Depression and anxiety etc from a deficiency is still depression and anxiety. + When I write Nathan I have a set of mental health “maps” or “guides” for his character (like C-PTSD and CEN and OCD). Yes I use my own feelings and experiences to describe his anxiety etc, but his character is built around these specific mental health markers / trauma research / symptoms etc (like C-PTSD and CEN and OCD). So I'm pretty sure Nathan's POV would still look very similar based on just that research and ignoring the stuff about deficiencies."

I mentioned some of those mental health/trauma/character marker 'reference' points for Nathan in those tags. I've done a lot of reading into these topics and refer to them time to time whenever I get more into a Nathan's POV chapter where these things get more relevant. There's a bunch of old posts about my research on this blog too if you scroll down... forever hahah! (Go to the Archive and scroll all the way down to November 2019, that way you should be able to skim over most of the text posts that have some of my research. There's more hidden behind a few of the photo posts so you'll have to scroll through a bit more if you want to find everything😅)

I haven't really identified or "diagnosed" Nathan with anything specific, as that didn't really feel necessary nor even right to me. I looked into what his type of childhood experiences etc. could lead up to in adulthood and how they could possibly present themselves, and started building his story around that, trying to 'match' the psychology with his experiences. Sometimes I've also flipped the script the other way; After learning about a 'symptom' described in the research, I've introduced it for Nathan's character, and after that also included the circumstances that would've/could've led to him exhibiting that symptom. Often I also just wing it lmao; my writing is not medical information even though I do try to research a lot. It's all fiction, but with a psychology / self-help like twist? Or something.

Here's some of the research points for Nathan's character building:

C-PTSD = Complex Post Traumatic Stress Disorder

Emotional Flashbacks

CEN = Childhood Emotional Neglect | This was a big character source!

OCD = Obsessive Compulsive Disorder | Nathan has some tendencies

4Fs – Fight, Flight, Freeze, and Fawn Trauma/Stress responses | Nathan's character is built around the Freeze type (in his childhood situation, the other Fs weren't really an option for him; couldn't fight back, couldn't leave, couldn't change the situation by behaving 'well')

General Anxiety

Social Anxiety

(Self) Isolation | I also read about Hikikomori, and later about the effects of the pandemic Lockdowns and how those have been affecting us.

Chronic Shame

Mother Wound

etc.

Hope that's helpful if this was what you meant! Thank you again, I'm so glad you've liked my writing xx

#Thank you for letting me nerd out :) #Sorry if this wasn't what you meant lmao! #But yous got a nerdout regarless heheh! #Feeling emo bc it's been awhile since I've looked all the way back to 2019 on this blog #and seen all that old moodboard stuff #oaaaa #(Nathan's still A careful 'n slow to warm up child -but he'd definitely want to be friends with you too<3)