#this event gave me inspiration after quite a while of being unmotivated

[writingonesdreams]

Hero/Villain 5th Magic AU

An AU scenario for 5th Magic inspired by ask an ask from @this-is-where-i-write-stuff. Thank you so much!

In a world where heroes are a profession to fight against villains, you can only use your supernatural abilities for one of those - either you are protecting the society, risking your life every day with your powers or you are the villain. There is no in between. Any other use of powers is strictly prohibited and automatically makes you a criminal.

Kyler’s family was killed by villains and he was kidnapped to be trained for their purposes. He was rescued by heroes later, but he has never quite forgotten it was the circumstances of heroes vs villains that caused his situation in the first place. He was so well trained in his powers at that point that not becoming hero to put them to use would be a waste for him too, so he joined.

At hero school he was a very cold, quiete and arrogant student, the traumatic effects of his kidnapping making him bitter and reserved. He only started to open up after he met his two best friends- the idealistic Acacia and the laid-back Wes. They were the only ones comparable in talent and potential to him, got his respect and the trio became absolutely inseparable. Wes comes from a wealthy family with a long tradition of heroes, his talent expected, so he doesn’t make such a fuss about the work but he cares about helping people, while Acacia is the only hero in her family, mainly here to explore all the amazing ways she can use her powers for the world. Kyler becomes smitten by these ideals and more willing to be a hero. All in all it has a very good influence on his mental health.

Years later all three are successful heroes in their first year after graduation, in internships in famous agencies and on the way to make one of their own together. That’s when Wes comes across a case, when the villians are people forced into criminal lives out of necessity, for being orphans that only know how to make money by making a show with their powers used illegally. Wes tries to stand up against their arrest, but the siblings are separated with the younger sister going to a a brutal reformatory school and the older agreeing to join a famous villian group to save her someday.

Horrified by these events and of how strictly is power use controlled by a few prominent hero agencies at the top to not let the influence and bussiness of superheroes be threatened. If people were allowed and taught to use their powers, the existence of heroes could become unnecessary and they would use their dominant hierarchical standing in the society.

Wes feels horrible about this and decides to quit being a hero and become a villain to build a world where heroes and villains don’t exist. For this he however needs to ruin the reputation of heroes completely, for which he needs support from other villains.

Kyler and Acacia try to follow Wes and reason with him, find out what happened. Wes doesn’t want to endanger them though and so doesn’t want to involve them. Kyler basically hunts him down and they have a colossal fight in which Wes reluctantly explains what he is doing.

Kyler understands Wes’s reasons, even agrees with them, but he can’t abandon and fight against all the schools and children raised as heroes - he can’t make himself pursue such extreme measures. Kyler and Acacia are both broken by these events. Though Kyler remains a hero, he becomes apathetic about his job, feeling guilty for understanding Wes. Acacia can’t make herself fight villains anymore out of fear of encountering Wes, whom she doesn’t understand anymore and it eats her up internally. Adding to that, both have trouble dealing and become estranged, drifting away from their friendship. Wes was always the middle between Kyler’s cold blunt expressions and Acacia’s naive enthusiasm, and without him they feel lost and don’t know how to treat each other.

Acacia became a lawyer fighting for hero rights, abandoning active service and Kyler’s brilliance is wasted on his unmotivated attitude fighting small fry villains.

They meet years later as guest instructors in a hero school, invited by their old class teacher who is hoping to get them involved with each other again and help them heal.

They don’t talk at first at all, until Acacia challenges Kyler to an all students vs him fight where he can’t use his powers - which is finally a bit of challenge for him, though still way too easy. So she wants to fight him head on but he refuses, turning  to leave.

“The hero world disappointed you so now you make depressing examples to the younger generation?” She is trying to reach him, to pierce that indifferent blanket. “You gave up.”

That gets him to turn around and accept the challenge after all. While they exchange blows, Kyler growls:

“It’s you who gave up. You left, stopped going on missions.”

“I never stopped fighting! I never stopped doing all I can despite the things I can’t do anymore.” Like bearing fighting Wes liking a villain.

His eyes flash with anger and something intense. It piereces the fog in his eyes, first time since Wes left. She can see it, relief and joy overhelming her, despite the furious scowl on his face. He takes their fight seriously now, and is impressed she can kept her good form despite not doing missions.

She got through to him. She got him to get angry, to let the emotions resurface again. The unspoken ice breaks between them and they start talking and engaging again. Kyler  becomes more open and present since then, training the students individually and treating Acacia more warmly, standing closer, calling her by her old nickname. Things start looking up.

Acacia even gets pursaded by Kyler to come on a assistant mission with the older students. Meeting Wes for the first time in a villian fight during a school excursion brings on a completly new challenges though.  Acacia panicks, kneels down and can’t move during the whole attack while Kyler confronts Wes directly. While Wes might be playing a ruthless parade in front of the villain group he is leading, he would never let Kye and Cia get hurt by them, so he fights Kyler himself and beats him up pretty brutally, when he insists on following them. He then whispers to him that Acacia needs him and shouldn’t take risks like that, before retreating. Once Wes is gone, Acacia can put up a shield that allows Kyler to use his full powers without worrying of injuring the others. He goes to Acacia after, embracing her.

Then this conversations happens:

„I’m sorry. I knew how much you hurt, but I was too caught up in my own feelings. Even though I understand the most,“ he says as he squezes her. „If only it would have been me. He would have known what to do. He could have comforted you the way I can’t.“

„You moron,“ she say through tears streaming down face, getting caught on his cloak „I should be apologising to you. I broke down in the middle of the fight. Very un-hero like.“

„You don’t want to fight him.“

„You don’t want to fight him either. Why should I have the luxury?“

„Yeah, well because I said so. I will take care of him.“

„To take care of me.“

„That’s what he wants too.“

Kyler would finally explain to her then why Wes left and they would decide to come up with a way to change the hero world through legal non-violent means to assist Wes from the inside.

The End

#writeblr #amwriting #writeblr community #violetvineyard #5th magic au #wip: 5th magic #hero au #hero villain au #wip au #au list #ask #this was so much fun XD #I couldn't stop myself #I have been thinking of this scenario #But never knew what to do with it or how it would end #and here it just came alltogether

[peace-coast-island]

Diary of a Junebug

Nothing like a minty gyroid hunt to put you in the mood for baking

We’ve really been on a roll these past few days! It’s a good sign when the camp is bustling with activity and creativity’s running high. Hunting gyroids, crafting furniture, baking up a storm - all in a good day’s hard work.

Before I get into that, I just want to say that Daisy Jane has accepted my offer to move into the cabin. Being out here in the camp has lifted her spirits so high that her head’s up in the clouds, right where she belongs. Since coming out here, Daisy Jane has filled two sketchbooks, designed four sticker sheets, made a bunch of flower hair accessories, and is now designing gyroid themed furniture with Reese and Cyrus. It’s so great seeing her creative spark return after that terrible art block she’d been experiencing since leaving Rosevine.

In other news, Emmaline and Minnie have stopped by at the camp. Now with a date set in stone (a winter wonderland theme), wedding planning is in full swing. Also joining us is Steven from Eats & Treats (it feels so great saying that!), who’s gonna be catering for the wedding. 

I mean I shouldn’t be surprised at this point but I never imagined that Emmaline and Minnie have crossed paths with Steven at some point. In a way, Emmaline and Steven are quite similar in personality - sunny disposition, easily excitable, empathetic, musically inclined, resilient, sassy, dramatic - I can go on and on. They’ve also been through a lot too, more than they like to let on. 

Both also went out on the road to find themselves after spending most of their formative years helping other people. They’re more than willing to sit down with you to talk about your problems, but ask about theirs and suddenly their schedule’s booked. After spending some much needed time out in the world and confronting their issues, they’re at that point where they finally feel like they found their place. For Emmaline, it’s traveling the universe alongside Minnie and for Steven, it’s pursuing the culinary arts.

Maybe that’s why Steven and I clicked instantly when we first met. It’s because he reminds me so much of Emmaline. Having them both in the same room instantly brightens up everything. Like, how can you not be lifted up by two literal cinnamon rolls of sunshine in your presence? 

If I can sum up Emmaline and Steven in a quote, it’d be “Nothing says resilience more than getting back up and choosing to be kind, even after spending a lifetime trying to understand why the universe often chooses to be unforgiving.”

The theme for this gyroid event is a minty cafe/kitchen set. Reese already had the basic designs for the furniture, but it was lacking something that she and Cyrus couldn’t put their finger on. It’s one of those things where you make something that doesn’t sit quite right so you spend a long time trying to fix it, only to end up dissatisfied with the final results every time. Reese was about to throw in the towel and leave the designs as is until Daisy Jane came along. So for the past few days, Reese, Cyrus, and Daisy Jane were hard at work revising the blueprints so they’d be ready for the event.

Despite cutting it super close - 12 hours before the big day - it was definitely worth it! For someone who never designed furniture before, Daisy Jane did a fantastic job! Sometimes all you need is an outsider’s perspective to give you that spark of inspiration you’re missing. I think the minty gyroid cafe furniture might be one of my favorite collections!

Given how Daisy Jane’s creative output has been bursting with a spark of inspiration I’ve never seen before, I’m sure this marks the start of something greater for her! There’s nothing more satisfying than reigniting something that you were once passionate about after a long spell of being unmotivated and uninspired.

Speaking of inspiration, Steven’s been hard at work in the kitchen. Being responsible for making the wedding cake is a daunting task, but knowing Steven, he’ll be able to pull it off. Also Emmaline and Minnie are easily impressed so whatever he comes up with, they’ll love it.

Steven’s been having a blast working at Eats & Treats, where he does unusual cake recipe videos, but he’s reaching the point where he needs to develop a better work-life balance, especially now that he’s starting to move into doing the longer and more in depth cooking videos Eats & Treats is known for. As expected, he’s excited and intimidated - two emotions that often go hand in hand with each other and can either be a blessing or a curse.

Planning a wedding can be stressful. Emmaline knows that firsthand as she put together Soph and Elle’s wedding in a couple days. That’s why Soph insisted on returning the favor and planning Emmaline and Minnie’s wedding when that day comes. So with Soph and Elle handling stuff like the venue, making reservations, and other details that may be overlooked when planning a big event, Minnie and Emmaline are in good hands.

In the meantime, Emmaline and Minnie are enjoying their time out on the road. Although they’ve seen so much of the world, there’s still a lot they have yet to explore. Hearing stories about their adventures, watching them reenact their most epic moments - I never realized how much I missed their contagious enthusiasm. 

I’m in no way exaggerating when I say that Emmaline is starry-eyed because she literally has stars in her eyes when she’s excited and it’s beautiful.

Before going off on our gyroid adventure, Minnie gave a bunch of us haircuts. That’s her thing lately, giving people a new ‘do to spruce things up. My grown out bangs have been a bit out of control so I’m thankful for Minnie stepping in and working her magic. Minnie has always cut and styled her own hair - a talent that I’m low-key jealous of - and she’s one of those people who can pull off any style. Having pretty much tried every single style one can think of, Minnie’s pretty much a pro.

Speaking of hair, Emmaline has fallen into the bangs dilemma, something I’m too far familiar with. After getting herself a nice fringe last year she’s been going though the stages of dealing with the hassle of having bangs. First you enjoy them and trim them regularly, then get tired of trimming them so you let them grow out, only to have them get in the way all the time, then you get annoyed and impatient so you pull out the scissors. Then the cycle repeats over and over again. 

Tired of having her view obscured by hair, Emmaline chopped her bangs, giving them a feathery, jagged look that actually doesn’t look too bad. In fact, I think it suits her better than the blunt bangs look, especially since she has wavy hair that curls up at the ends. She found her handiwork a bit too short for her liking but I think it looks good. 

After our impromptu salon morning, it’s time to head out on a gyroid adventure! Steven, Emmaline, and Minnie make a pretty great team. Emmaline lays low, plucking gyroids from the ground like how one forages in the forest. Minnie hangs high, climbing trees and swinging branches - sometimes getting lucky and pulling down a bag of bells as well. Steven’s the middle ground, even with a quick glance, he can scope out the site and find gyroids in places others tend to miss.

There’s only so many hours in the day so we spaced out our gyroid outings with baking sessions in between. Since some of the recipes we made need prep time, it works out perfectly!

I never really noticed until now, but Minnie always stands on Emmaline’s left. There’s actually a reason for that - it’s because Emmaline can’t see too well on that side. If you look closely, her left eye’s actually a dark muddy green, not golden brown like her right. Her iris also looks kinda like it’s cracked in half, which was probably what happened when she got hurt. If her powers hadn’t intervened, that eye would’ve been gone. 

For the most part, Emmaline’s vision is fine. The main thing is that her visual field on her left is reduced and her depth perception is slightly off so she wears glasses to help make things like driving and reading easier. Minnie helped her a lot during her recovery process, acting as Emmaline’s guide by helping her adjust and get around. Because of that, Minnie stands to Emmaline’s left by default and their hands automatically reach towards each other. It’s one of those super sweet and subtle things that shows their love.

While baking up a storm in our lovely outdoor kitchen, we also crafted furniture. In a couple days we’ll be surrounded by minty kitchenware so that’s something to look forward to. I can’t wait to see the whole setup once everything’s built!

The first thing we baked were biscuits since it was close to lunchtime. Lately I’ve been into making buttermilk biscuits, having made my first attempt a couple weeks ago. While they tasted good, my first batch lacked flaky layers, which was my bad because I overworked the dough. Subsequent attempts after that turned out so much better now that I know to undermix the dough and finish combining everything while rolling it out. Also, baking biscuits on a cast iron pan is a total game changer, especially if you like a crisp edge.

Okay, so making dough isn’t too bad. I actually found working with biscuit dough to be tolerable. Cutting frozen butter into the dry ingredients however is a lot of work. But even that isn’t too bad if you cut the butter into cubes ahead of time so it’s more manageable to work with. It takes a bit of muscle but the effort is definitely worth it!

Later in the day, once we acquired more minty gyroid kitchen items, we made a bunch of other baked good. First were minty chocolate chip brownies, which was based off a recipe Steven did for Eats & Treats except it’s in brownie form, requires less prep time, and does not involve spicy peppers or vacation juice. 

Then we made lemon bars with a recipe that Minnie spent the last few months perfecting after trying them for the first time at a little cafe and it instantly became one of hers and Emmaline’s favorite desserts. If the ones at that cafe were anything like this batch we made, then no wonder Minnie wanted to recreate them!

Up next we made chocolate matcha butter mochi cake, something that Steven and Megan came up with on the spot. Everything we did was purely experimental, but somehow (probably because we have a pro baker with us) it came out pretty good. Aside from needing a few minor tweaks here and there to balance the flavors better, Operation: Improv a Cake was actually successful!

Other baked goods that were made include Daisy Jane’s dainty shortbread tea cookies. It’s been forever since me, Emmaline, and Minnie had one of Daisy Jane’s treats and all at once we were hit with nostalgia. I was kinda bummed that I missed out on her making the cookies but it was nice being surprised by them after a busy outing!

While there are days when the camp is busy baking sweet treats, I think this is the first time the kitchen’s been occupied all day with different campers coming in and out. Two days in and it’s still as busy as ever. Cyrus did a really great job with the oven considering how much we’ve been using it in a short period of time. I’d hate to think what would happen if we got a cheap oven. Good thing that’s not an issue here.

Speaking of problems though, I think maybe we all went a bit too overboard on the baking. After all, one can only survive on baked goods for so long before wondering why you feel groggy and sluggish, then realizing that it’s been a while since you last ate something plant related. 

Looks like we’re gonna be putting together snack boxes, so over baking isn’t entirely a bad thing - especially when you’ve got a bunch of friends (and their friends) to share your treats with!

#animal crossing #animal crossing pocket camp #Diary of a Junebug #headcanon ramble

[voicesfromthelight]

My Dance Guru Pays Me A  Visit from Spirit

In connection with my post on astral party-crashers, I recently gave an example or two of how Spirit can use social media to let us know they are with us, or convey messages through synchronicity. Last night, I was blessed with a very special instance of this, and would like to share it with you to show how portentous these little nudges from Spirit can be, if we keep our feelers out and our eyes open.

To fully convey the emotional impact of this experience, I will need to frame this story with a little bit about my background.

For many years of my early life, starting around the age of five, I developed an inexplicably intense fascination with Indian and Hindu culture. This was accompanied by a feeling of longing so deep, I felt like I belonged there, and had been born in the wrong place - as if I had been there in a past life, and was still somewhat stuck in that previous identity.

One of the outlets I eventually found for this longing was through studying the classical Indian dance form, Bharata Natyam, starting at the age of eight. I was lucky enough to be instructed by a woman named Indrani Rahman - whom I knew simply as Indrani. The reverence I felt for Indrani cannot be overstated. She was my guru. Her mother, known as Ragini Devi, American by birth, had been one of the pioneers of classical Indian dance in the West, and had also helped to revive the art form in India itself during her lifetime. Years later, I was to learn that Indrani, in addition to being a highly respected dancer, had also been crowned Miss India in 1952, but my childhood self could hardly have been more in awe of her had she been the actual Hindu goddess whose name she bore.

The way in which I parted ways with Indrani left a profound mark on me. Throughout the year that I studied with her, in between dancing, Indrani would hint at the cultural stringencies inherent in the teacher-disciple relationship in classical Indian traditions. The comment that always stayed with me was this: “You know, Emily, in India, if you insult your guru, and they throw you out, you can come back crawling on your hands and knees, and they won’t have you back.” Little did I know what it foreshadowed.

After a year of studying with her in New York City, my mother and I were about to move to Finland. I had one last lesson left. Bharata Natyam is a dance form that incorporates pantomime into its storytelling, and I was in the process of learning a dance about a woman who asks a parrot to deliver a love letter to Kartikeya, son of Shiva and Parvati. At the end of the second-to-last lesson I was to have, my mother, Indrani, and I were on our way out of the dance studio we had been working in, in an elevator. I was anxious to learn the end of the dance we had been working on before leaving, and expressed to my mother how urgently I wanted to learn it. My mother responded something to the effect of “Don’t be too impatient,” and I, with my child’s impetuousness, retorted with something silly along the lines of “Why are you always criticizing me?!”. My mother and I laughed it off. Indrani said nothing.

The next evening, the phone rang. My mother was in the other room, and I picked it up. It was Indrani. In a calm, deliberate tone, she expressed to me how horrified she had been with how disrespectfully I had spoken to my mother the previous night, and unceremoniously announced that she was canceling the last lesson. I was blindsided, and utterly mortified. On my subsequent trips back to the US, Indrani refused to teach me, referring me, through my parents, to a younger teacher (whom I would also come to adore.) We didn’t speak again for almost ten years, and I would break down sobbing every time the subject came up, for years to come. We never spoke of her rejection of me. It was one of the most painful experiences of my childhood. 

The sting eventually dulled, and I drifted away from the world of classical Indian art, but never completely forgot my experiences with Indrani. In all the years I spent moving back and forth between Finland and the U.S, I never lost my first set of ankle bells, which she had brought me from a trip to India during the year I had studied with her. They remained with me, a relic of what felt like a past life in an almost literal sense.

Indrani passed away in 1999.

Dance remained an important part of my life, albeit one that felt like a passionate but unrequited love. I continued studying Bharata Natyam for a total of six years, but when my new teacher, Arundhati, moved back to India, I never found anyone to replace her. I loved ballet, but didn’t have the build of a ballet dancer. I fell into an obsession with Argentine tango at 16, and danced it on and off in an amateur capacity for decades, but always felt a bit like an outsider. I always had my finger in many different kinds of artistic pies, and eventually, it was music and film-making that won out as my main forms of professional, artistic expression.

That is, until last spring.

Last April, I took up Argentine tango again in a serious way, dancing for hours on end, nearly daily, within a matter of weeks of returning to it. Around this time, my usual work in the film industry had become somewhat harder to find than before, and my spirit guides went so far as to straight up ask me if I was sure I was in the right career. Wouldn’t a musical setting be better for me? Working through an emotional healing process after losing a fiancé, I found myself unmotivated to do much else than dance tango and give psychic readings. Things started getting tight, financially, and I eventually asked to be sent a new spirit guide to help me find the right job. The guide presented itself the next day, and my spiritual team informed me that they were cooking up something good.

In July, after a year-long wait, I had a chance to get a reading from one of the best psychic mediums I have ever had the pleasure of working with, Medium Fleur, from Los Angeles. As she looked into my energy field, she expressed concern about my finances, but said that she saw me being offered a job, working in an office environment, part-time, receiving a salary from a corporation, through people who had known me for a while. Having been a freelancer all my life, this seemed like a huge departure from anything I had done before. However, knowing the accuracy of her second sight, I trusted her.

Around mid-September, the following popped up in a channeling session with my spirit guides: “Your professional life is predicted to grow very busy. Everyone will benefit better from your work when you have the energy to give back to the things you love. Don’t grow poor! Desire a job. Give a grand reception in which you teach messages of inspiration to your community." A couple of weeks later, a new friend of mine from the tango community - a professional ballroom dancer and Argentine tango champion - asked me to event-manage a pair of big fundraising galas he was putting together for his non-profit organization, which teaches ballroom dancing to underserved school children around the country. Applying my film-producing skills to the events, I managed to pull off the feat with a week to spare, and the evening was deemed a great success. Seeing the children perform at the galas, and the respect with which they treated each other, inspired by the dance, I was moved to tears of happiness.

A couple of days after the galas, I was rummaging through a bag of items my father had passed on to me during a move to his new apartment. There, I found a small bronze statue I hadn’t looked at for years: A figure of Shiva Nataraja - the Hindu god, Shiva, in his creative form, as Lord of The Dance. We had acquired this statue around the time I had been studying with Indrani, and the very first dance I had learned with her had been “Natanam Adinar” - a dance that brought the image engraved in that statue to life. As much as my spiritual proclivities had changed since that time in my childhood, placing the statue of Shiva Nataraja, Lord of The Dance, near a window, next to my houseplants, felt reassuring, like a small piece of my soul had been reclaimed.

Yesterday, the organization for which I had event-managed the fundraising galas officially hired me on an on-going, part-time basis, to work for them in an administrative capacity. I was thrilled to be offered a job working with friends to further a mission that brought healing to so many young people through the joy of dance. I was also thrilled that both Fleur’s and my guides’ predictions were coming true.

My new boss and I celebrated by dancing a few tangos at an event put on by another friend. I arrived home late at night, tired but content. As I was walking up the stairs to my apartment, my phone suddenly flashed. I looked down, and saw that it was exactly 1:11AM.  I’ve found myself intuitively checking the time at repetitive “angel number” times quite a bit, of late, but this particular one felt more significant than usual. I sent a mental “Hello and thank you!” to my guides.

My feet ached badly from dancing, and I decided I needed to put on a pair of silicone toe-spreaders for the night. I had lost them a week earlier, and had to push myself to muster up the energy to look for them.

Rummaging through a desk drawer in my tiny work room, my eyes were suddenly drawn to something familiar. A lone ankle bell. My gift from Indrani. I had never really noticed it there before, but I felt a strange emotional pull to it. In that moment, I had a fleeting thought: “It still hurts a little bit to think about Indrani, but see, she loved me enough to give me those ankle bells, when I was just a little girl, as a symbol of passing on her tradition, and her dance, to me. Their significance is profound.” I closed the drawer.

A few minutes later, having mercifully located my toe-spreaders on  a night-stand, I climbed into bed, and out of habit, checked Facebook one last time.

And all at once, there it was: Indrani’s beautiful face, smiling at me.

About 40 minutes earlier, Indrani’s son, Ram, whom I have never met in my life, and am not linked up with on social media, had posted a photo of his mother as a young woman, clothed in a white sari, standing next to the illustrious sitar player, Ravi Shankar.  For reasons that were not readily apparent, he had tagged Arundhati, my other teacher, in the photo, which was why I could see it.

I truly feel that Indrani was looking down on me at that moment, letting me know that for all the pain I associated with our parting, she was proud of me for contributing to the world through dance in a positive way. I wouldn’t be surprised if she had lent my guides a hand in putting me on my current path! I also feel that in the afterlife, perhaps in her life review, she may have realized how deep an effect the harshness of her disposition had had on me, and this was her way of showing up for me one more time, as my dance guru again, in a kind of reconciliation. I feel an immense sense of healing from this moment.

Have your departed loved ones ever shown up for you at important moments, communicating through synchronicities? How did it happen? How did you feel? Let me know!

#visitations #spirit communication #spirit guides #guru #bharata natyam #discipleship #spirit #synchrodogs #psychic #mediumship #psychic medium #healing #reconciliation #trauma #past lives #reincarnation

[murfeelee]

CC Creators Questions

I saw this on my dash and got so excited -- a questionnaire for CC makers! :D

1. What was the hardest project you’ve worked on so far?

Y’all have no bloody clue how many unfinished projects I have given up on, and how much time I spend/waste on CC I never even finish. I often have no idea what I’m doing, and once I reach a certain point where the effing thing just won’t come out right, and I don’t know who to ask for help, or I do and never get a response, I just lose total willpower to keep going.

2. How long have you been creating cc?

2010-ish -- that’s when I first started uploading to TSR at least, ider. Early on it was just simple wall art (an effton of murals) but I kept reading the tutorials at BPS & MTS & TSR, and once I figured that out I started trying out rather craptastic conversions that are still up for DL, if y’all wanna point and laugh at me. :P Effing sad. Some of it turned out pretty okay though, IMO.

3. What’s your most favorite thing you’ve created?

At TSR my favorite CC uploads are the Clutter Bug and LOTR Scribe sets.

The admins gave me such a hard time when I first submitted this, and I had to throw out like half of the objects included in the set, cuz of the effing UV Maps and blah blah. But the rest of it came out cool.

I am constantly using those objects in my lots. Constantly. The LOTR period was also the very first time I learned about making Alpha Channels on .dds textures -- that opened up so many possibilities! Single objects I’m also really proud of over there are the Ivy/Flower Column, and the Vintage Art Collage, which I also use a lot.

At Tumblr this is a lot harder for me to decide on, since after I came here I could do and make so much more than what was allowed at TSR. I think I had the best time converting from The Witcher 3. I effing love that game. But I also think just the process was the easiest for me, cuz I’ve been doing this crap for a while now and finally knew wtf I was doing -- except the CAS stuff. O_O LAAAAAWD! I gave up on that junk quick fast and in a hurry -- NOPE! Not today, Satan! But yeah, I really like some of the stuff I did from that game, like the Peacocks (duh) and everything I shared for my Lupo Bianco gameplay.

4. What’s your most hated thing you’ve created?

Things I hate don’t get uploaded. XD Y’all think I complain about the crap I DO upload -- that’s cuz I’m being honest when I tell y’all that my work has flaws that I don’t know how to fix, or don’t have the energy to work on anymore. Practically all of my CAS CC is a raggedy amateur mess. I hold on to a lot of crap that I just can’t upload in good consciousness, cuz I know how I react when I install others’ CC and I’m using it thinking wtf, did they upload the wrong file by accident? :P

5. What inspires you to create?

When I first started, it was cuz it was still early in TS3, and the game was still pretty empty, and I didn’t have any of the EPs/SPs/Store CC yet, so I was desperate for content. Then once I started converting, and realized that I could extract stuff from other games myself, I immediately knew that I wanted to recreate my favorite games in TS3. I’m inspired by the fandoms I’m part of, and  my style of simming mostly revolves around me trying to create my own extended version of other games and shows I like.

6. What gets you unmotivated to do anything or to delete your project?

Failure. When things start going wrong, I quickly get frustrated and lose patience. I post WIPs sometimes that I don’t even end up revisiting. I just can’t fix the crap, so I rapidly lose the energy or desire or interest in the entire project. I often blame it on laziness, when really I just give up.  :\

7. What’s one thing you wish you knew how to do/do better?

I generally just stick to what I know and am comfortable with, which is why y’all don’t see me making build mode stuff, or much functional buy mode cc, or mods/scripts, or creating skintones or poses, or any of the cool stuff I’d love to make but just can’t figure out for the life of me. U_U

8. How long does it usually take you to make something?

Depends on the project, and my motivation to see it to the end. Some stuff will sit on the back-burner for literal years before I finally go back to it. I’ll tell myself I’ll work on it later. Lies, mostly. ^_^

9. Is there a certain schedule you stick to when publishing?

Unless there’s a certain holiday/event going on, where the CC needs to be finished now! now! now! (Halloween & Lunar New Year are my busiest times), I just do what I want. I get so distracted, and often I’m working on a zillion things at once. Sometimes I’m running on pure adrenaline and not sleeping, to make sure I finish the CC on time. I feel bad if I miss something going on that I could’ve participated in, but most times I just tell y’all the CC’s still in beta, and it’ll be ready when it’s ready. :P

10. Your favorite programs to work with?

Crazy as it sounds, Milkshape. :P I effing hate Blender. I don’t understand it -- there are too many buttons and controls and everything’s just a confusing mess. 3DS Max is easier for me! O_O I legit can’t even figure out the frikkin view/camera in Blender! And you constantly have to switch between modes, and everything’s buried under all those effing THINGS on the sides, and I can’t stand it. >_<

11. Who do you look up to (creator wise)?

For CC in general, I worship Sandy/AroundTheSims; always have. Everything they make is just so clean and professional and works splendidly in game. Jelly.

12. How many projects do you have at the moment?

An ungodly number, half of which will no doubt be abandoned before y’all even get the chance to hear about them. :P

13. Screenshot your wips folder (if you have one)

Cute of you to assume I have just one WIPs folder, in one fixed location. XD

That’s what my backup’s thematic specific folder looks like, but that’s not where I keep any of my other game conversions WIPs -- those are all over the place. I’ve had to restart several projects after my external harddrive broke, and now especially I’m keeping everything in different locations and on different drives.

14. Do you plan on creating for a long time or is there a certain period you know you’ll stop?

Dunno if I’ll ever stop, but I know I’m slowing down; I have been for a while now. I’m tired. I hate making CC. It’s stressful, exhausting, time-consuming, and no dang fun, especially when crap is going oh so wrong and you have to keep quitting the game, doing crap over, loading the game, seeing if it’s fixed, and trying not to cry when it’s not. I do this crap out of desperation, when there’s something in particular that I want that I can't find a good substitute for in the game or community at large. So as long as I’m still simming, I know I’m gonna keep being forced by necessity to make crap. But I doubt I’ll ever go back to the workhorse nonsense I was up to in like 2015/6 or whenever my “heyday” was, when I was still experimenting like mad and learning everything.

15. What helps you keep focus during your creating process?

I play a lot of music, that fits the theme of the CC I'm working on, or is lifting my spirits at the time. I can’t work in silence. IDKY, it just makes me bored and tired.

I tag all y’all who ever made anything for us poor unfortunate souls!

#simblr #questionnaire #murf is a derp #sims 3 cc

[ayearofpike]

Remember Me 2: The Return

Pocket Books, 1994 210 pages, 16 chapters + epilogue ISBN 0-671-87265-6 LOC: unknown (catalog down as I wrote this) OCLC: 30986560 Released September 1, 1994 (per B&N)

Shari Cooper, having passed into the light after her untimely death, is learning to be one with the universe and accept it with love and grace. It makes her a perfect candidate to return to the realm of the living — only she’s not going to have such an easy, pampered life. Rather, she’ll have to take on the life and struggles of a downtrodden minority who has given up, and work to improve the lot of everyone in her circle.

So here’s the one that Pike said he should have refused, that the publisher talked him into a sequel but in retrospect it damaged the story. But ... I don’t hate it? I know, that last entry was super vitriolic and angry about sequels and Pike’s slide into essentially irrelevance. Still, I was surprised that this book is not totally horrible — save one major racial problem that we’ll get to.

One thing that definitely annoys me about this book: the new die-cut covers. When I picked this one up at the store, I thought it was the awesomest thing: extra-spooky typeface that shows the art THROUGH it rather than just a generic script along the margins? But then I got the next one and stuck it on the bookshelf by this one, and the back cover caught the fingers of the E and PFFFTT. It took them a couple years to catch on and just print it, which, while a kludge, is preferable to the six or however many torn ones I have.

But narrative-construction-wise (as opposed to physical-construction-wise) the book actually holds up. Pike alternates between the first-person consciousness of Shari and the third-person observation of Jean Rodrigues, a poor and unmotivated but hot Latina living in the projects in Los Angeles. It’s not really a spoiler to say that Shari ends up taking over Jean’s body, and the realization marks a nice in-time shift in descriptive perspective as she suddenly understands that “she” is “I.”

So how the hell am I going to summarize this, considering the construction and flipping between astral plane and physical realm is what makes this book work? I guess you’re just going to have to trust me, and read it if you want. I’m going to punch through the world beyond the light first and then come back to Jean, even though it’s her who opens the novel.

We know Shari’s dead, and we know she planned to go into the light at the close of events of the last novel. Our first encounter with her here has her talking with a more-enlightened being, who acts as a teacher and a guide to help Shari understand that the love she gave and the services she rendered are the more important elements of her life, beyond the expensive house and the indulgent parents and the fucking Ferrari. As she starts to get it, he suggests that she should become a Wanderer — a soul that takes over a living body rather than being reborn from the beginning and works to make things better. She’s interested, but she also wants to talk to Peter before she goes back.

Yeah, remember Peter? Well, I never said his name in the first summary —  the spirit guide who loved her in life. He was able to get through too. He overcame his fear that he wasn’t good enough, and now he’s on the eternal plane with Shari. They construct the prom that they never went to, but just before they can get it on in the hotel room afterwards Peter lets his body get ripped open by the alien xenomorph that he decides to turn into as a joke. I have to admit it’s funny, but it highlights what Peter might still be afraid of: love, intimacy, getting too close, not being good enough still. So instead of boning, they explore the stars, and there’s some metaphysical shit about a black hole and how everything is interconnected that makes Shari realize she’s ready to be alive again and start making a difference.

Of course Peter wants to go too, but the fact that he killed himself is going to be an obstacle. These fears that he can’t quite release, and the circumstances of his death, mean that he’ll be resurrected into a body that is less than whole. Peter’s willing to take the hit, and the teacher accepts because he senses Peter’s love is pure. Also, the teacher lets them know that they’ll need some kind of a shock to the system in order to remember what they know about the cosmos, but even if they don’t they’ll still know they have some kind of higher purpose.

So now I’ve gotta jump all the way back to the beginning and talk about Jean. We get more male-gazey description of this hot brown mamacita, but I wasn’t quite as grossed out this time because her looks are the only thing Jean likes about herself. She’s down on her prospects, down on school, down on her family and what her life might turn into — because she’s pregnant with her boyfriend’s kid at 18. And tonight is his birthday party, and she’s going to tell him.

The birthday boy is Lenny Mandez, a gang dropout who finished high school at 20 and is trying to get clean but still has too many connections. He lives in a ramshackle house on a hill surrounded by oil wells, dirty but good enough to get wasted at. And I don’t really like the fact that the first time we have a whole cast of Latinxs they’re gang-bangers and dopeheads and dropouts — but the picture is real. I had plenty of friends and coworkers as a young food service employee in the Southwest who felt like this was their ceiling, this was all they could get, this was all they should aspire to. Which is part of why this story starts to piss me off later, but we’ll get to that.

So Jean tells Lenny about the baby, he’s less than thrilled, but then there’s a meeting. Kind of parallel to what happened in the first book, only with fewer people. It seems that a friend just got gunned down in a drive-by, and his girl wants revenge. She and Lenny are planning everything out, Jean’s best friend (who is a lesbian but again, don’t be squicked out, kids in 1994, because she totally doesn’t hit on Jean or anything!) doesn’t want to get involved, and Jean really doesn’t want them to pursue this. Why do they drive themselves down, Jean asks? Why can’t they aspire to anything better? Nobody’s hearing it, so she goes out on the balcony (because, sure, there’s a balcony in a two-bedroom house in the projects) to pray for help and understanding.

And the thing collapses out from under her.

She wakes up in the hospital three days later, with a concussion and several broken bones. Her mom is there and just breaks down out of happiness, because there was no sign that she would ever wake up until just a little bit before she did. She had a miscarriage too, which ... is sort of glossed over and forgotten quickly. But Lenny was on the balcony too, and he broke his back, severed the spinal cord and will probably never walk again, and now he just wants to die.

See, maybe I gave away too much too soon by breaking the story down the way I did.

But anyway, Jean suddenly feels less selfish and more giving, and she wants to help. She starts volunteering in the hospital as soon as she’s well enough, and has crazy ideas for stories about aliens and monsters and things. (Because evidently the best way to give your family and community a leg up is to become a horror and sci-fi writer. Getting less and less sly as we go along, Pike.) One of her patients (who is dying of leukemia, because everything old is new again) actually inspires her first short story, a tale of a successful writer whose muse wants in on the action and starts blackmailing her, which includes this frustrating little nugget.

But Jean isn’t satisfied just being her new self. Something is drawing her away from the hood and out to the rich developments. She takes a bus to Huntington Beach and walks with no goal in mind until she finds a bloodstain on the concrete by a condo. The property manager assumes she’s a friend of the poor girl who fell to her death the previous year and helps her find the family house, which of course she goes straight to and finds Shari’s brother moving out. She gets him to let her help in exchange for a ride home, and after reading the short story at the grave of her patient she feels compelled to go see him right away.

He lets her in and they immediately start talking about the dead sister. They’re both unnerved, but they keep going because something compels them. In fact, the brother reveals that he has a file on his computer that he’s never shared with anyone — a story written while he was sleepwalking that tells about his sister’s death and the events around it. Jean starts reading it, but she doesn’t have to finish because of course she wrote it. She is Shari. Shari is her. Shari has taken over Jean’s body in light of her prayer for help.

And this right here is where I get pissed. Like, Pike has constructed the realistically untenable situation of undereducated Latinxs in America. He’s written it with ... well, if not tenderness and understanding, then at least care and consideration. And he’s got a protagonist who wants to help her family and her community rise up and get out of the problematic cycle. BUT THEN. As soon as Jean Rodrigues realizes she’s Shari Cooper, the whole fuckin’ community goes out the window and Shari takes over and wants to try to reconstruct her old life. I mean, yeah, she gives some lip service to where she came from, but right away she’s like, yeah, let’s see my birth mom, let’s get my old best friend in here, let’s find the detective who cracked the case. 

More than that: we’re getting a white savior story. Yes, this was many years before we understood the problems endemic to this trope, but still, that’s what it is. It requires the soul of a white girl going into the body of a Latina for her to want to start improving herself and her situation. It didn’t bother me then, because hey actual brown people in YA lit, take what I can get. But now? It bugs the fuckin’ shit out of me.

But Shari/Jean does actually still care about Lenny. Knowing she’s Shari, she’s surprised by the depth of feeling she has for him. (I mean, we’re not, because I gave away the reveal already.) What’s more, she still wants him to live a meaningful life beyond vengeance. Word is he’s gotten out of the hospital and out of rehab, and is mobile in a wheelchair, and is tracking down a gun. Shari/Jean knows what that means, and she goes to collect him and get him out of the projects to meet her new/old brother. 

Lenny is surprisingly amenable to going with her — but only because it’s Jean that he’s going after the whole time, and now he’ll have ample opportunity to kill her away from where people know her and will suspect. See, he knows that he used protection every time they had sex, so he knows he can’t be the father of the (now-non) baby, and so she must have cheated on him. In fact, he figured it was his best friend, based on their prior relationship, and so he got the dude into the rival turf so that he’d be a target. And now he’s going to end Jean, who doesn’t love him and never did, and save a bullet for himself.

Lenny doesn’t see the parallels to the end of Peter’s life, because he never reads. (He says so himself.) But Shari/Jean does. She does her best to try to talk him out of his actions, but still ends up hanging from another goddamn balcony as he shoots at her fingers. It’s only as she’s slipping away, millimeters from death, that Peter wakes up and realizes who he is.

It’s too late to grab her hand, and Shari/Jean falls. Lucky for her, there’s a pool under this balcony, and she lands in the deep end. (Her best friend makes a joke out of it, actually, which did get a chuckle from me.) And then, just as everybody knows who they are and where they’re from and what they’re supposed to do: we get another goddamn “to be continued.”

I really don’t like ongoing sagas. Not sure what it is, but I have increasingly lost patience with them as I get older. (I think this is part of why I had such an angry reaction to The Last Vampire.) So the idea that I have to wait for another book to get the rest of the story bugs me, even though a) I have it on the shelf and don’t technically have to wait and b) this resurrection story hangs together OK. As I recall, the “white savior” and “forgetting where you come from” elements are even worse in the third book — as in, I’ll stop calling her Jean or even Shari/Jean, because she’s just Shari. Still, this one wasn’t as painful as I expected it to be, especially reading it for the first time in, I don’t know, 20 years after so many Pike Facebook posts regretting it.

[jordan202]

The Journey - Part Twenty-Two

Thank you @jia911!

Previous chapters are HERE. 

Timeline for Part 22:

Owen and Amelia deal with the fallout of their respective patients’ surgeries. And after a long time of absence, Owen finally comes back to Seattle following the events of episode 11x22 and what immediately happens after that. 

The Journey – Part Twenty-Two

“Are you sure you don’t want to take a break? I can take turns with you so you can actually sleep.”

Owen was startled by the familiar voice of April Kepner and opened his eyes with surprise, blinking repeatedly before coming back to his senses  completely.

“I am fine.” He lied, unwilling to admit how exhausted he was. “Go get some rest, Kepner, we have a lot going on tomorrow.”

April stared at her friend with disbelief and disapproval stamped on her face. It had been nearly thirty-six hours since a group of rebels had opened fire against their camp. Everyone was scared and drained. By being a medical support team, they weren’t usual targets for terrorists or even smaller groups rebelling against the government in the countries they had visited. And to most people, including April, that had been an entirely new and frightening situation.

One person in special had lived the most terrifying moment of his life. Private Danny Hill was now in recovery, but April could remember with details the excruciating six hours of surgery when she’d stood with Owen in a makeshift medical tent, working on the boy’s abdomen while hearing gunshots and grenade noises outside. They’d needed all the focus and skill to salvage the patient’s liver. During the entire time, she had only kept her serenity and ability to work because of her mission leader.

Even when the noises had become dangerously close, Owen hadn’t flinched. His courage inspired April. She knew that if it weren’t for her friend, the medical staff wouldn’t be able to perform and Private Hill probably might not even be alive.

For the followings hours, the kid had pulled through an unstable and difficult recovery while the rest of the team assessed the damages following the unexpected attack. A lot of their supplies had been either destroyed or sacked. A homemade bomb had completely devastated one of their ward tents, hurting one patient that was admitted at the time and now also demanded more medical attention. Their stock of food had also been severely lowered, and on top of that, their satellites and phones were also compromised, making it difficult for them to stay in touch with the command base to which the team reported.

Their return home was scheduled for a few days after New Year’s Eve, but April supposed they would anticipate it, considering the current situation of their facilities and the morale of the group. Everyone looked sad and deeply affected by the events.

Everyone but Owen.

April hadn’t failed to notice that while her colleagues seemed scared, afraid or simply unmotivated, their leader had been nothing but supportive to the whole team so far. He hadn’t left Danny’s bedside for one minute, afraid the kid might oscillate in his unstable condition. But April knew that in order to take care of everyone else, Owen first had to make sure he was fine.

“I can stay with him, Owen.” She insisted. “You haven’t slept in two nights, it’ll do you no good to stay in that chair when you could easily go to bed and let me take over.”

“It’s fine.” He stubbornly replied, smiling at her in an attempt to pretend he was okay but the dark circles around his eyes said otherwise.

“Is it just me, or did you actually become attached to this kid?” April teased, knowing she was being sincere. But she expected Owen to deny it, and that’s exactly what she hoped to use to convince him. “You haven’t been able to leave his side.” April explained after noticing the look of confusion on Owen’s face. “That’s the only possible explanation for you not wanting to leave.”

“Of course I am not attached.” Owen repeated the word with rejection, obviously trying to sound like he didn’t care about the kid in a special way.

“Hill is annoying, I know.” April looked at the boy’s pale face on the bed and smiled with care and affection, being assaulted by nostalgia. “He won’t ever shut up and his ability to make jokes and be happy, even at six in the morning can be infuriating.” She added, making Owen laugh. Those facts were no secret among the team. “But I have never seen a group of grown men cry this hard when I had to tell the soldiers that he got shot.” April said with consternation. “And ever since we got here, there wasn’t a day when Hill failed to remind everyone how much he wants to be like you.”

Owen furrowed his brow, looking up to his friend with a questioning look on his face. April immediately picked up on the unasked question and explained.

“You are his hero, Owen.” She smiled with affection, praying for the boy to recover fully as soon as possible. “You are the example he has. And now that you’ve saved his life, I believe he is going to put you in an even higher pedestal.”

Owen felt his heart constricting, and his shyness at April’s declaration became clear on his face.

“He probably saved mine too.” The trauma surgeon admitted with a sheepish tone. And when he noticed that this time it was April who had doubts, he explained, “I mean, I have no idea what could have happened, but he spotted the rebel group coming from behind my back and warned me. That’s what made me jump.” Owen recalled the moments. It felt like a lifetime ago but it hadn’t even been two days yet. “If he hadn’t, God only knows how I could have been shot on the back of my head... I probably owe my life to him.”

April seemed to be emotional for a while, absorbing the information. When Owen was sure she was going to say something meaningful, his friend commented:

“Just… For God’s sake, don’t tell him that? He is going to be even more annoying if he hears it.”

When their eyes met, both surgeons cracked up laughing, finding a much needed outlet for a long journey of exhaustion, both physically and mentally.

Months later, after the boy had already made his recovery, the US Army would honor Private Daniel Robert Hill when they awarded him with a Silver Star Medal for his act of heroism by putting his own life at risk to warn his team of an upcoming enemy attack.

And years later, Owen would also honor Hill by naming his third and fourth son after the brave young man who’d saved his life that Christmas day.

.

Amelia was going through some patient files, trying to fix the mess she had just made by placing some documents completely out of order. Just that morning, her resident had once again pushed the neurosurgeon’s buttons by implying Amelia should seek professional help for dealing with grief. Even though she had cut back on the dark humor jokes, Amelia would still spend most of her time at the hospital, now more than ever.

Stephanie Edwards had expressed her concern and that had led to a not so friendly argument between the two of them, which had culminated with the resident proposing that maybe she should spend a few weeks in another rotation to explore all her options. Amelia had promptly agreed, relieved to see her go, but she’d done it out of stubbornness and blind pride in the heat of the moment, because one of the few things that still gave her joy was teaching. Especially an eager and talented student like Stephanie.

But not even that could ruin Amelia’s mood that week. For the first time in a long time, she had received good news and while sorting through numbered pages that were out of order, the neurosurgeon still kept her optimism as she focused on the task.

About ten days before, Jamie Donovan had crashed on her operation table and for excruciating two hours, Amelia seriously questioned if the little girl would make it. Not for one second did she give up on the patient. The surgery had been long, meticulous and extremely unsettling but ultimately Amelia had been able to evacuate the clot in time for Jamie’s symptoms to be reversible.

The little girl had faced tough days of recovery in the PICU, with extensive intravenous therapy and constant monitoring. About a week later, right around New Year’s eve, she had been discharged to a ward room, being almost fully recovered with no neurological deficits, which was quite impressive considering the events she’d gone through. Amelia supposed that the only reason why Jamie hadn’t developed complications was because the diagnosis had been made quickly and accurately. If they had waited another hour or maybe even less, the outcome would most likely have been completely different.

Then, two days into the New Year UNOS had called and delivered the best news Amelia and Jamie’s family could hope for. A pair of lungs was available in Portland and the designated recipient was in no condition to receive them. Since they had just found out at the moment of surgery, the organ had to remain there and they transported the patient instead.

Amelia had barely had any time to say goodbye to Jamie when the helicopter came to take her. That evening, the neurosurgeon’s spirits were as anxious as they could be. But then hours later Jamie’s mom had called to notify everything had gone well. Amelia knew the little girl still had a long road of recovery ahead, but everything was on the right track. The actual possibility of Jamie making it and being discharged from the hospital gave her such immense joy that Amelia felt like nothing could ruin her mood that day.

But then, the neurosurgeon’s distracted mood was interrupted by a familiar face who looked so weary that Amelia immediately felt concerned.

“Mrs. Hunt?” The neurosurgeon studied the elderly woman coming in her direction with a heavy frown on her face, noticing how hesitating she looked. From what the neurosurgeon could gather, Evelyn was all alone, which definitely couldn't be a good sign. Instantly, Amelia had a bad feeling about that visit. “Are you okay?”

“Hi, Dr. Shepherd.” Evelyn replied a bit sheepishly, but sounded firm and determined. “Please call me Evelyn.”

Amelia quickly glanced sideways, checking around them to see if anything unusual was happening. After realizing how intimidated and unsure Evelyn Hunt looked, the neurosurgeon gently guided her to a more private corner.

“What brings you here?” Amelia asked with concern, wondering what was the cause for that visit to the hospital in the middle of the day. Evelyn seemed fine, at least physically. Last time Amelia had seen her, Owen’s mother had suffered a domestic accident and had to undergo extensive surgery. “Did you have a fall or…?”

“This visit is not about me.” Evelyn interrupted Amelia, her voice sounding atypically broken as she looked the younger woman deeply in the eyes. “I came because of Owen.”

“Owen?” Amelia replied, feeling her stomach churning. Evelyn looked pale and distressed, like she hadn’t slept well in days. And the neurosurgeon was sure that could only mean bad news.

“I was wondering if… If by any chance he has made contact with you in the last few days?” Evelyn inquired hesitantly, going straight to the point. After seeing the look of confusion on Amelia’s face at the question, she clarified. “I’ve asked Jackson too, I just…” Evelyn stopped, noticing how everything she was saying wasn’t making any sense to Amelia. “I am sorry.” She shook her head in denial. “It was stupid of me to come here, I was just so desperate that I didn't think this through.”

“Evelyn,” Amelia interrupted her rambling. “What are you talking about? What about Jackson? I… I am not sure I…”

“Jackson Avery and I have been exchanging messages ever since my son and his wife left with the Army.” Evelyn explained, seeing how the neurosurgeon was following up. “It’s not always that the two of them can contact home, so whenever one of them does, we tell each other. But ever since Christmas Eve, both Jackson and I haven’t been able to reach neither Owen, nor April.” She added with sorrow and concern.

Amelia felt her stomach churning in protest and tried her best not to freak out completely.

Her head was spinning with the obvious possibility, but Amelia tried her hardest not to consider it. The thought alone of Owen being injured or worse made her want to drop to her knees.

“Have you tried contacting the Army?” She aimlessly asked the first thing that came to mind, feeling desperation start to consume her. During all those months, Amelia hadn’t heard directly from Owen but she did hear people at the hospital commenting and so far, she knew he was okay. Lately, she hadn't seen much of Jackson at the hospital but Amelia had been too busy to consider what his relative absence could mean. “I am sure they would have information on…”

“I did.” Evelyn interrupted her again. Owen’s mom had served and she knew how those things worked. Her son and his friend were completely out of reach and no one had any satisfactory explanation to give. All they would tell her was that his team had lost contact and they were working on tracing their location. “Jackson mentioned that on Christmas he was just talking to April on the phone when…” Evelyn’s voice faltered.

The neurosurgeon immediately picked up on the hint that the news to follow weren’t good. Feeling like she was once again entering a nightmare, Amelia swallowed hard, unsure she was ready to hear the rest of that sentence.

“From what Jackson could gather, their camp was being attacked. He heard gunshots. And the last thing he saw was Owen asking April for help with a patient.” Evelyn finalized, tearing up. “And I have tried everything within my power to find out what happened to my son…” The older woman couldn’t hold her emotions any longer, discreetly shedding tears while speaking with a broken voice. “I contacted old friends, I sent out emails, I event went to the Army office in person. But no one has any information to give and Jackson hasn’t had any success either… Not even with his family’s influence. I feel like I have tried everything I possibly can, but I still don't know what's happened to him… So I remembered you and I thought, maybe Owen called you during this period?” She raised her eyes expectantly. Evelyn Hunt had once supposed her son and the beautiful neurosurgeon standing in front of her were somehow emotionally involved. She hadn’t wanted to pry so back then she hadn't asked, but right now, hearing about Owen was more important than respecting people’s privacies.

“He hasn't, I am sorry.” Amelia tried to console the elderly lady. She bit her bottom lip to hold her own emotions as she tried her best to come up with nice words to comfort Evelyn, but at that moment, Amelia couldn’t formulate a two-word sentence. Her mouth was dry and her pulse was racing. The slightest notion that Owen could have been shot and killed in an Army camp made her want to scream in terror. This was beyond any nightmare she could have possibly imagined. “Owen hasn't spoken to me ever since before he left.” Amelia admitted with a somber voice, feeling her throat constricting with a familiar sense of terror. She could feel her palms getting sweaty by the minute. Amelia had never felt like that before, but she supposed that was probably what a panic attack felt like.

“I am so sorry to disturb you at your work…” Evelyn said with sincerity, looking the younger woman in the eyes, far too caught up with her own sorrow to notice the terror on Amelia’s face. “I didn’t mean to frighten you, I just… I just couldn’t sit home and do nothing anymore… It’s been over a week. And I need to know if my son is okay.”

Evelyn Hunt had already lost a child to war. She wouldn’t be able to cope if she lost another one.

“You’re not disturbing me.” In an impulse, Amelia reached out and grabbed the woman’s hand, gently squeezing it. Unconsciously, she hoped that that handhold could transmit all the support the words were failing to communicate at that moment. “Please, will you…?”

Amelia’s voice failed as she processed the devastating information.

“Of course.” Evelyn understood the question without Amelia needing to ask it. “I will let you know as soon as I hear anything.”

As the older lady turned around and left, Amelia felt the weight of her body suddenly becoming too heavy for her knees to support it. That just couldn’t be true. The possibility Evelyn’s words had implied made the neurosurgeon sick to her stomach.

Everything around Amelia was spinning and she held on to the counter not to fall. She just couldn’t be there anymore. She needed to get away. Feeling dizzy all of a sudden, Amelia gathered the rest of the files she had been sorting in a messy pile and dropped them inside the first drawer she found, noticing how shaky her usually steady hands were. A nauseating feeling was building up in her stomach and her head was throbbing so violently that she had no idea how she managed to drive home that night.

Up until now, Amelia had somehow found a way to get herself together and pull through the horrible events that had followed ever since the end of her relationship with Owen. Her brother had died and her sister in law’s had disappeared with the kids, condemning Amelia to dark days of worry and agony.

She had been in a bad enough shape already but on top of all of that, Owen had left for an Army tour and his absence had left a void in Amelia’s heart that she hadn’t been able to fill with anything. Not work, not teaching. Nothing.

Derek had been in an accident and his life had tragically ended. She’d attended his funeral and had gotten some sort of closure, at least. Her niece and nephew were far too young to have any saying on where they were taken. And Amelia knew they were with their mother, so at least the two kids were being looked after.

But Owen had gone to a war zone and put his life at risk. He had left and Amelia had stayed behind, trying to pick up her pieces all by herself. She knew she hadn't exactly been easy to him, that she had spitefully told Owen that there was nothing for her in Seattle and that most likely had accounted to his decision to re enlist. But now she could feel the bitter taste of the words in her mouth because what if she never saw him again?

What if she never had the chance to tell Owen the truth? To say to him how she truly felt, how he had been the only thing in her life that had kept her going after her brother had passed away… how her love for him overwhelmed and scared her, because it was the only positive and genuine feeling Amelia could find in her heart amongst so much anger and disappointment and cruelty in the world...

She didn't want to lose Owen.

And Amelia wouldn't be able to cope if she’d already lost him.

The neurosurgeon now supposed that, unconsciously, the only thing that had kept her sane in the past months was the expectation of Owen coming home one day soon. Amelia had clung to it with desperation. She avoided thinking about it, but deep down, she couldn't consider another possibility.

If only she could see him with her own eyes and be sure he was alive and well… That would be enough to make her at least get some sleep at night. Even if he never spoke to her again, Amelia needed to know he was okay.

The house was dark and empty as the neurosurgeon expected it to be. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d come back home and actually spent more than a couple of hours there. The used mugs on the sink were a proof that someone still lived there, but Amelia just couldn’t stand the sight of it all.

The toys scattered in the living room were a heartbreaking memory of the happy moments she’d spent sitting on that playing mat with Zola and Bailey. Her brother’s favorite overcoat was still hanging on the foyer by the door. And the photographs of a once happy family framed on the living room were a cruel reminder that no happiness lasted too long. At least not in Amelia’s life.

And on top of that, through the window across the large yard, an empty large trailer remained locked and untouched, much like Amelia’s emotions inside her heart until that day.

Quickly sweeping those thoughts from her mind, the neurosurgeon made her way upstairs, feeling the physical exhaustion and emotional drainage consuming her. Amelia would give nearly anything to have a drink right now. She had to resort to her last ounce of self-control not to assault the liquor cabinet downstairs and get numbed to endure the pain she had been put through.

And then, as she walked into the second floor bedroom, her eyes immediately spotted a familiar painting hanging on the wall.

“You can’t have romance without a stomping cow playing the piano in front of a farm field.”

Owen’s voice once filled with so much warmth and affection had teased her right before he’d playfully stolen a kiss from her lips. Amelia could still vividly remember the scene as she played it in her head.

Owen had gotten that that painting for her in their first official date. He had actually made a bid on it at an auction because Amelia had made jokes about the questionable piece of art and he’d found her honesty refreshingly amusing. When she’d brought it home, Amelia had been filled with expectations and hope for what their growing relationship could potentially turn out to be.

The tasteless, framed canvas had been the first gift Owen had ever given her and Amelia had cherished it longingly, unable to take it off the wall even after they had already broken things off. Even though the image on it was horrible, the object held an immeasurable sentimental value to her.

But now Owen had gone off to war and probably got himself killed. And Amelia couldn’t handle it. She just couldn't accept it, or even understand.

Why had he left? Why had stolen her heart like that and gone away, making Amelia unable to move on with her life, making her unable to sleep at night, to eat, to breathe until she got the smallest piece of information notifying her of his status?

His crystal blue eyes haunted her mind and Amelia sat on the tip of the bed, tearing up with pain and confusion. But her emotional outburst quickly evolved to anger as the neurosurgeon felt her heart racing and her breathing getting heavier.

How was that fair to her?! Why did Owen have to be so stubborn, so unbreakable? She was insanely mad at him for actually going to a war zone, for risking his life to save other people, for leaving her behind without even bothering to say goodbye… and for disappearing without giving Amelia the chance to tell him how much she loved him.

“Damn you!” She yelled irrationally, projecting on the painting her anger with him as she threw the object. across the bedroom in an impulsive fit of maddening rage.

The fragile frame and display glass broke into a hundred pieces as it hit a wall, causing a deafening noise to wake Amelia from her uncontrolled behavior. The shattered glass on the floor made her heart break all over again and Amelia was defeated by her own emotions.

The tears started to fall so heavily and fast that once they did, Amelia lost control completely and couldn’t hold it back anymore. In seconds, she was already sobbing as she crouched down near the destroyed painting, regretting her impulsivity. The object was now completely ruined. It was a piece of Owen she would never get to have back, like so many others she had lost when she pushed him away. And Amelia felt guilt start to consume her, adding to her anxiety and distress.

Unable to keep looking at what represent very well the status of her life at that moment, Amelia left the scattered pieces behind and turned on the hot shower, in one last attempt to calm her head. She sobbed and cried throughout the entire time she spent under the warm water, clenching her fists and hitting the cold tiles on the wall with anger and frustration at the way everything seemed to crumble whenever she tried to pick herself up and live a normal life.

Then, nearly half an hour later, after all the tears had subsided, Amelia was strangely empty and more vulnerable than she had ever felt. Her eyes were swollen, her throat was constricted and the burden on her chest didn’t feel any lighter. But strangely, it was like after letting out her emotions, even if in secret, she had regained at least some control back.

The neurosurgeon finished drying her hair and walked over to the wardrobe, pulling the first pair of clean underwear she found. Amelia was just about to search for a comfortable set of pajamas when her eyes found a grey sweatshirt, so large that it obviously didn’t originally belong to her.

Pulling Owen’s old army training uniform from the hanger, Amelia put it on, despite it being way too large for her size. She pulled up the zipper, feeling the soothing touch of the soft fabric on her skin. But what comforted her the most was the way Owen’s scent still lingered on the piece of clothing, making Amelia feel that, no matter where in the world he was right now, her thoughts and her heart were with him entirely.

.

Little did Amelia know that, at that exact time, Owen was on a flight to Seattle. His team had finally been able to wrap up the mission and resume contact with the army base they reported to. The majority of people had gone home right after New Year’s eve, but Owen and April had stayed behind, making sure Danny Hill was in fit conditions to endure such a hard and extenuating transport.

When the kid was finally able to be evacuated, a medical team had taken him to Landstuhl Hospital in Germany, giving Owen and April no option but to return home.

And Owen longed for it more than anything.

The promise he’d made Danny was still very much alive in his mind and Owen counted the minutes to get to Seattle. He knew he probably should have called his mother and notified her of his upcoming arrival, but since they were only a few of hours from home, Owen planned to surprise her.

It was late morning when their flight finally landed at the airport. He and April split a cab and once Owen realized she was going straight to the hospital to surprise Jackson, he didn’t hesitate to accompany her. He had no idea if he would find Amelia there, but just the thought of maybe seeing her filled his heart with enough joy to endure the traffic at that hour.

.

Amelia dragged her feet through the hospital corridors, feeling like she had been taken down in a physical fight. Her head was throbbing from the amount of tears she had shed the night before. And Amelia still couldn’t get rid of that faltering sensation that everything around her was slowing crumbling, drowning her further in a whirlwind she wasn’t sure how to escape from anymore.

All she really wanted to become invisible, to get through that day and maybe make something meaningful out of it. But just as Amelia was walking through the corridor checking a patient’s labs in his chart, she was gently interrupted by Richard Webber.

“Oh, Amelia, hey,” the senior chief of surgery greeted her with goodheartedly. “Got time for a cup of coffee?”

The last thing on Amelia’s mind was socializing, so she settled for a forced smile as the words coming out of her mouth sounded fake even on her ears.

“Sorry, busy day.”

“Yeah.” Richard agreed. By the sound of his words, Amelia could tell he was still hovering somewhere behind her. Much to her dismay, she was sure the conversation wouldn’t there. And just like she had foreseen it, he added. “Haven’t seen you at a meeting in a while. A long while” Richard reinforced.

Amelia didn’t want to drag the subject any further but she was didn’t have the proper state of mind to discuss that.

“Like I said, really busy…”

“Edwards mentioned something about you…”

The notion that her resident had gone behind her back to speak about her made Amelia lose what little patience she had left.

“Really?” She asked irritably while turning around, in an obvious defensive posture. “What else is Edwards saying?”

Amelia noticed as Richard gently scoffed, as if trying not to make a big deal of the situation.

“I’m not accusing you.” He clarified. “I’m checking in. You know, I get to check in.” The man said, hoping she would agree. After all, they shared an important part of their lives and had repeatedly given each other support in times of need. “That’s the kind of friends we are.”

“I do not have time for coffee! I do not have time for meetings. I don’t…!” Amelia snapped, growing more resentful by the minute. All the emotions that had overloaded her just the night before came back will force and the neurosurgeon couldn’t contain the words as they seemed to automatically leave her mouth. “My job is not make you feel better about me,” She unfairly accused Richard. “My job is to make my patients get better.” Amelia stated, thinking about Jamie and the way she had been lucky enough to save her. If Amelia hadn’t acted in the exact moment she had, Jamie might not have survived. “Do you know what can happen in the hour or two I would be wasting with you?” The neurosurgeon heatedly fired, already bordering irrationality. “An hour or two matters! They matter to me! They should matter to you. They matter to my patients.” She added with certainty, grateful that she had been spending this much time at the hospital.

Richard noticed how distressed and close to losing control the young neurosurgeon was and in that moment he was sure of he’d already anticipated. Amelia wasn’t doing fine at all. During the past months, he had been tolerating her coping mechanisms because even though he knew they weren’t the most appropriate responses, at least Amelia seemed balanced.

But in the past couple of weeks, she had been acting more unusually than ever and Richard really feared that she might relapse. As she blurted out her thoughts, Amelia’s gaze met Richard’s and she tried to make sense of what was happening, but couldn’t. Everywhere she looked, there was too much loss. Uncontrollably, Amelia’s thoughts shifted to her brother and how she hadn’t even gotten to see him before he was let go.

“If I leave and my patient dies, it’s not me who will suffer, it’s his mother, his sisters, his friends, his wife, and they will hate me…” She added cruelly, rethinking the entire situation Derek had gone through and how little details she had of the whole thing. Amelia hadn’t been included in any part of the decision making and even though she tried to ignore it, the memory stung painfully. “With everything inside them, they will hate me and you and everyone here because they won’t understand why he is gone, why people always leave...” Amelia started to lose the battle to her own emotions, not noticing how personal she was getting. Her voice broke and in her child-like tone, it was obvious her words were filled with hurt and heartbreak. Owen’s face came to mind and she had to pull a herculean effort not to break down. At that moment, her outburst had already attracted attention from a lot of the hospital staff, but the neurosurgeon remained blissfully oblivious to that. “Why everyone you give a crap about walks away or is ripped from your world without warning, without reason, in convenience stores and plane crashes and podunk hospitals with podunk doctors who don’t do what they are supposed to do which is save people!” Amelia raised her voice, thinking about all the loved ones she’d already lost, including her father, Mark, Derek, her child… She desperately didn’t want to add more names to that list and the notion alone that Owen might just join them made her sick to her stomach.

Right after her outburst, she paused to catch her breath, noticing in Richard’s lack of reaction that something was wrong.

Amelia was prepared to fight. There was so much rage brewing inside of her that nothing would please her more than engaging in a verbal battle, be it whomever was available. But judging by the expression on Richard’s face, it became clear that instead of getting angry at her, he felt sorry.

And that was more than Amelia could bear.

Suddenly, she became very aware of people whispering about her in the hallways and a fit of embarrassment and regret formed in her chest. She was just turning her head to step away from the scene when unexpectedly, her eyes caught sight of a tall blonde man dressed in combat clothes who stared back at her with a very familiar pair of amazing blue eyes.

Amelia didn’t believe what she was seeing. Maybe she really was going crazy. It had to be a hallucination.

Owen wasn’t there. He was dead… He was…

But as she looked away and tried her best to focus again, the only thing she could do was to gather her file and sneakily get out of the public place, fearing how unstable her mind was.

Amelia was deeply embarrassed to have spoken to Richard the way she had. And more than that, she was mortified by the vision she’d just had.

It couldn’t be real, could it? Seeing Owen in flesh and bone had been so overwhelming that Amelia chose not to believe it.

She really was losing it. There was no other explanation. Amelia had lost control and there was only one way she knew for sure she could get it back.

Her heart was failing. She was tired. Consumed by a chronic exhaustion after long months burying every feeling in the book under a pile of anger and work. It consumed a lot of energy to withstand that mechanism on a daily basis and Amelia had just reached her very limit.

She just didn’t know where to find the strength to keep going anymore.

Before Amelia could realize what she was doing, her feet had taken her to the fourth floor lounge where she knew a few anesthesiology residents liked to hang out.

Without ceremony, she approached a short mid twenties boy with a sickening pale skin.

“I need you to score me a bag of O.C.s”

The young man looked at her with renewed interest.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He replied sarcastically, with a corner smile that made Amelia absolutely sure he knew just too well what she meant.

It was to be expected that a guy working under her denied the fact he was in possession of drugs, but Amelia didn’t bother with small talk.

“I am not here to play around, so let’s just get straight to it…” Amelia rolled her eyes with impatience. “What’s your price?”

The guy spent seconds looking at her, as if testing the attending to see how serious she was about it. When he finally seemed convinced, he replied:

“I want in on all your craniotomies for the rest of my neuro rotation.” The resident proposed, clearly aiming high.

Amelia scoffed with despise, lowering her voice.

“You’re insane. I am not letting a burnout like you anywhere near my OR.”

The resident took offense and looked at her in a very suggestive way.

“Looks like you and me are two peas of the same pod, Dr. Shepherd.” He smiled with pretense, looking Amelia from head to toe, clearly dismissing her argument. “So I suggest you take back what you just said.”

Amelia swallowed hard. She didn’t have an answer for that. She was a drug addict and right now, one who really needed to get something. Even if she weren’t going to use it, Amelia just needed the comfort of knowing she had it available in case everything got out of control again.

“You’re not going in my OR.” The neurosurgeon affirmed with authority. “What else do you want for it?” She asked firmly, determined to make the trade.

The sneaky third year resident slid his hands into his shoulder bag and removed a little plastic bag so sneakily that Amelia would totally have missed it in case she wasn’t directly looking.

Feeling overconfident, the young man took one step forward and very suggestively placed the bag in Amelia’s scrub pocket, on purpose taking his time.

“You know, I can think of a couple of ways you can pay me back…” He suggestively looked from her eyes to her lips and then to her breasts.

And Amelia felt nauseated.

Taking one step back with violence, she quickly got rid of his touch and stared at the man with fury in her eyes.

“You touch me again and I will make sure you don’t see the inside of an OR for the rest of your life.” Amelia threatened, grabbing the small bag inside her pocket with force. “I will keep this as an apology for what you did.”

Even though the neurosurgeon had sounded confident, on the inside she was shaking. Nothing could guarantee that young man wouldn’t go around the hospital halls spreading rumors. Her reputation was already rocky and the anesthesiology resident wasn’t exactly known for having a role model behavior.

But after being faced with her rejection, the boy gave her a corner smile, almost as if approvingly.

“Next time you need something from me, you aren’t going to take it.” He assured her. “We will be sharing it.”

The propriety with which he said the words, following by his lascivious stare made Amelia even more nauseated. Before she could realize what she was doing, the neurosurgeon found herself going back home, taking the little white pack safely kept in her pocket.

.

A few hours later, Amelia lost track of how much time she spent pacing back and forth in her brother’s front yard.

For some reason, she just couldn’t seem to enter the house. The tiny bag in her pocket was the key to make all that pain go away and even though Amelia desperately wanted to use it, she knew she shouldn’t.

It was so hard to think about everything that was happening and process it, that Amelia spent her time focusing on emptying her mind, instead. She tried not to think about Owen or her brother or even her young patient who had just received a lung transplant.

But when a deep male voice spoke from behind startling her, Amelia could feel her heart skipping a beat.

“Hey.”

The neurosurgeon turned around in surprise, instantly meeting serene blue eyes that stared at her with longing and something else Amelia couldn’t quite identify. But as Owen came striding in her direction with an expression of hope in his face, Amelia found it hard to remain disconnected.

“It’s good to see you.” He added, unsure of what exactly to say.

“Hey.” Amelia breathed out, turning her back to him in denial as she tried to contain her emotions.

This couldn’t be happening. Owen was there and she was paralyzed. After losing so many people she loved, Amelia had already learned that staying up at night wishing they would come back never made any difference. So she had pretty much given up hope. When Owen was presumed dead, she prepared herself for another round of funerals and heartbreak.

But actually seeing him alive and well was so overwhelming that Amelia was frozen.

Owen noticed the stiffness in her body language and he kept his distance, despite his wish to wrap his arms around her to never again let go. As he’d arrived in the hospital just moments before, he was not sure if he would see her again. But then he’d spotted her name in the OR board and the way his heart swelled simply overtook him. Owen had not been ready for such an intense reaction.

The prospect of actually seeing her again fueled him to take a detour just so he could check up on her. After all that time, how would Amelia be coping? Judging by the little he’d seen earlier that day when she’d ranted at Richard Webber, Amelia wasn’t nearly as okay as Owen wished she was.

He’d taken a couple of hours to go see his mother and found the woman at a mortified state of mind. But after Evelyn was finally convinced her son was in one piece, Owen just had to see the neurosurgeon again.

Preferably, in privacy.

“Feels like I’ve been away forever, but I see nothing’s changed.” He casually commented, hoping to lure her into the conversation. His eyes fell upon the remains of a branch tree upon which he’d hung a sandbag the day Amelia had willingly walked over to his trailer and confessed she wanted his company right after Nicole Herman had finally woken up from her surgery. “Except they chopped down that old tree.”

Amelia turned her eyes in the direction he was pointing, not really following up with the conversations. She was restless and didn’t know yet what was happening. Her mind just couldn’t get in synchrony with her feelings and she was growing agitated and impatient by the minute.

“Yeah,” the neurosurgeon automatically replied, too distracted to have absorbed the content of his words.

Owen noticed how anxious she looked. He waited in the hopes she would express any inclination to talk, or at least show some sort of positive feeling to see him.

Owen had waited for that moment ever since the day he’d left. All he wanted was to go to her and hold her, hoping that Amelia would be as happy to see him as he was to see her. But as she made herself even more distant and kept her silence, the trauma surgeon realized that maybe he had been too hopeful with his wishes.

“Okay, I’ll…” Owen felt his heart shattering. “I’ll see you around.” He added as he walked way, devastated to realize the woman he loved wasn’t the least interested in even asking how he was after he’d spent nearly a year in a war zone.

And just as Owen was taking his fingers to the bridge of his nose, trying to keep his own feelings in check, her words cut the thin air like a blade slicing perfectly healthy skin.

“I have a baggie full of black-market Oxy in my coat pocket and I’m trying to decide whether or not to take it.”

Owen froze in his feet, instantly turning around in alarm. As he did so, Amelia shamelessly flashed him the bag, almost as if daring him to stop her from doing it.

Amelia’s words had left her lips so suddenly and impulsively, that the neurosurgeon didn’t even get to think of why she had decided to share it. For the past nine months, Amelia had been avoiding talking to anyone as much as she could.

And yet now, without asking a single question, Owen had already somehow managed to break her defenses and earn a confession from her.

The realization alarmed Amelia and she went back to her most daring mode, defensively despising everyone and everything around her in order to guard her own feelings.

“I’ve got the Dead-Derek thing completely managed.” She said in order to convince herself too. It was clear in Owen’s eyes that he didn’t believe her, so Amelia went further, testing him to see how far he could take it. “I know people were worried. Since he died, everybody’s been looking at me, waiting for me to fall apart or freak out or just… Boom! Become a mess.” Amelia knew she was scandalizing and kept on acting like that on purpose, just to see if Owen would shrug and realize she was a basket case and unworthy of his time as he walked away or if he would stick around to actually be convinced that she was indeed handling it. “Like some bomb everyone thinks is supposed to go off…” Amelia confessed, thinking about the day of the funeral and how back then everyone had looked at her expecting the youngest Shepherd to make a scene. “My mother was calling three, four times a day. Addison was calling… Everyone.” The neurosurgeon confessed, realizing that ever since her brother had died, this was the first time she actually talked about it with anyone. Her mother and Addison hadn’t been the only ones to try, even Sheldon and Charlotte had been very insistent on it, but Amelia mostly rejected their calls and replied with short messages later stating that she was fine. “It makes sense. It’s natural.” Amelia added with despise, thinking about how she’d gotten close to mourning Owen too and how that had devastated her.

Owen softened his expression, trying to quickly catch up with the unspoken words of what she was saying. It had become clear in a matter of seconds after seeing her that Amelia was anything but fine.

It was obvious in her every word and action that she was clearly in pain and Owen felt a wave of self loathing consuming himself when he thought about just how much Amelia had probably gone through, and most likely alone.

He’d left her thinking that she was surely going to count on her family’s support as she planned to move to New York, but it was obvious none of that had happened. Instead, he’d come home to find her in an erratic state of mind, most likely having gone back to doing drugs again.

Owen’s temple began to throb and he looked at the gorgeous woman standing in front of him, exhaling so much pain in every word that he couldn’t withstand seeing it.

“Every man I’ve ever loved has died, including my baby.” Amelia recalled. First her father, then her son, then her brother… How dumb was she to expect that Owen would somehow escape her toxic curse? And yet, there he was, standing up just a few feet away, deeply looking into her eyes while Amelia finally let her walls down after months of walking around in circles. “Thank you, universe. So I should be, like… Greek tragedy, turned to stone, bat-crap crazy, but I’m good. I got this. I am fine. I’m telling you, I’m amazing. I am saving lives left and right.” Amelia added, not sure if her despise was at the situation or at herself. As she spoke, Owen kept staring at her with loving eyes, almost as if waiting for her rant to finish so he could intervene. The realization made Amelia even more determined to be convincing. “I am putting butts in the seats in that OR gallery. I mean, people are fighting to hear me lecture. I am entertaining! Joke, joke, joke! I’m funny! I’m fun! I’m a party! I’m doing… I’m great!” Her voice faltered as she realized she was failing to convince ever herself. How could Owen just come back from a war zone and look so together while she was one step away from completely falling apart? Beaten up exhaustion, Amelia toned down her voice and took a deep breath before saying, giving up the worked up attitude. “I’m handling the dead-Derek thing really well.”

“Okay.”

Owen kept meticulously studying her expression. He knew she was lying. She did too, he was sure. But Owen also knew that Amelia had probably not expressed her feelings in any way close to now. He had a bad feeling that, for the past nine months, Amelia had carefully kept all that pain stored somewhere deep inside of her, unable to cope with it.

“Except today, I yelled at Richard, who was only trying to invite me for coffee,” He heard her interrupt his thoughts. “And then I went and scored Oxy from this junkie doctor.”

Immediately, Owen’s expression changed from understanding to concerned. The trauma surgeon frowned as he took one step forward, clearly anxious.

“But you haven’t taken any?

“Not yet.” Amelia replied, finally encountering some emotion in him. She noticed how her revelation had alarmed him, and unconsciously tested his limits, acting indifferent and uncaring just to see how far he’d stay to stop her. “But I might.” She raised her eyebrows in clear defiance. “That’s the thing. I really actually might.”

It didn’t take Amelia long to figure out he wasn’t going anywhere. The realization touched her at the same time it brought back all her anger at him for endangering his life when the single thought of losing him had nearly devastated her.

“I have been sober for one thousand three hundred twenty one days, Owen.” Amelia heard her own voice breaking. “I was fine. I was managed. But I might.”

Owen saw the stubbornness in her eyes and had to control an urge not to go to her and put some sense into her head with his touch instead of his words. It’d been too long since the last time he’d been able to hold her. And he wanted that, more than anything.

Amelia was hurting deeply. She had every reason to. And because she probably had never been taught how to cope with pain very well, she was acting out like a child throwing a tantrum, longing for the limits, acceptance and consolation she had never been offered.

“All this stuff you’re managing…” Owen crossed his arms behind his back, using his best authoritative voice. In a matter of seconds, Amelia’s response went from angry and frustrated to retreated and vulnerable. He noticed and softened his voice, trying to give her the understanding she had very likely never received during that time. Perhaps not in her entire life. “You’re not supposed to be managing it.” Owen took one step closer. “You’re supposed to be feeling it. Grief, loss, pain. It is normal.”

“It’s not normal.” Amelia chided, irritated. None of what happened was normal. Losing that many people, seeing so much pain… None of that slightly normal.

“It is.” Owen insisted. In that moment, Amelia turned her back and walked away, refusing to hear what she supposed would come next.

Just like everyone else, Owen would tell her much of a failure she was. That while everyone else just toughened it up, it was Amelia who was the weak one for allowing her feelings to get the best of her.

“It is normal. It is not normal to you because you’ve never done it.”

Amelia stopped walking, surprised by the words coming out of his mouth. She looked up to meet his eyes, confused and intrigued at the same time, but Owen didn’t seem to notice any of that as he insistently stood in her way, forcing her to hear what he had to say.

“Instead of feeling it, feeling the grief and the pain, you’ve shoved it all down and do drugs instead. Instead of moving through the pain, you run from it. You…” He straightforwardly explained. Amelia was grateful in that moment that he didn’t dance around the subject, or talked about it like she was a monster for resorting to drugs in the first place. It was the first time someone talked about her addiction without an ounce of judgment and the realization awed her.

Her vision got blurry when tears started to assault her eyes, but Amelia was still able to notice how affected by his own words Owen also became. It was like he had just had an epiphany.

Too mortified after realizing he had done the same thing he was accusing her of, Owen sat down, feeling the worst he’d felt since he got there.

“Instead of dealing with being hurt and alone and afraid that this horrible, empty feeling is all there is, I run from it.” He courageously admitted, flashing his army cap in surrender. “I run off, and I sign up for another tour of active duty.” Amelia noticed how disturbed he was and in that moment, she felt sorry for him too. It was obvious Owen was hurting just as much and not for the first time, she wondered who was ever there for the man who took care of everybody else with such fiber and courage when he needed a shoulder to cry on.

“We do these things. We run off, and we… And we medicate. We do whatever it takes to cover it up and dull the sensation, but it’s not normal.” Owen exposed the wound, unaware of how much he was getting to Amelia at that moment. His words were describing her reactions exactly, and Amelia had never felt so understood. And by including the simple fact that he wasn’t that much different made Amelia hate herself a little less. Because if Owen, of all people, was capable of failing too, then maybe she wasn’t really that bad as she was made to believe. Amelia had no dimension of just how much she admired him and to see him share the same feelings as he deeply touched her heart. “We’re supposed to feel. We’re supposed to love, and hate, and hurt, and grieve, and break, and be destroyed…” Owen got up, focusing his entire attention on her again, noticing how affected she had become. “And rebuild ourselves to be destroyed again. That is human. That is humanity. That’s… That’s… That’s being alive.” He explained. “That’s the point. That’s the entire point. Don’t… Don’t avoid it. Don’t extinguish it.”

Amelia stood in silence, feeling her heart swelling as tears assaulted her eyes.

During most of her life, she had been censored every time she expressed any emotion that wasn’t convenient to the people around her. Until all those feelings had culminated with a drug addiction as a desperate measure to shove them all down. Amelia had learned the hard way that it didn’t work. So she just coped with things the way people around her usually did.

And now this wonderful man stood in front of her and encouraged Amelia to do what she had desperately wanted to do her entire life, but never could. Until she had grown too afraid of her own reactions to even consider it.

“Derek died.” Amelia admitted with a broken voice, for the first time processing the dimension of those two simple words. Owen knew his eyes were tearing up too when he nodded affirmatively, anticipating what was about to come. Amelia would break down and his heart would be torn in two, but she had to do it, for her own sake. It was long overdue, and she needed that more than he needed not to see her suffer. “He died. I don’t want to feel it. I… I don’t think I can. I don’t think I even want to…” Amelia felt herself losing control and fought the familiar sensation of spiraling down. Immediately, she reached out for her pocket where the bag of oxy had been shoved down. “I can’t. I can’t. I can’t do this.”

“You have to. If you don’t…” Owen tried to reason.

“No, I can’t. Shh! I can’t do this!” She insisted, sniffing soundly.

“You… You have to.” Owen raised his voice to interrupt her. Once he was sure he had all her attention, he added with certainty. “If you don’t, that bag of Oxy is not going to be your last.”

Amelia looked into Owen’s eyes, breathing in and out heavily. She had a decision to make and she knew it.

She could take the easier route and simply go back inside, make all of her problems disappear with that small white bag and simply live to see another day. It wouldn’t hurt, quite the contrary. It would cause a much needed feeling of bliss that she hadn’t felt in a very long time… Probably ever since she had allowed herself to be happy with Owen while worrying about nothing.

Or, she could give up the drugs, keep her sobriety and drown in the worst sensations. Amelia knew it was the only way to make all that pain go away permanently, but she rejected the sorrow with her entire being. She’d already had to process the loss of too many people she loved, so the neurosurgeon knew how cruel and soul shaping the experience could be. She wasn’t ready for it. She didn’t have any reason to choose this option.

And yet, the man she loved stood in front of her offering Amelia a lot more than she probably deserved. And she had to do it. For him, but mostly for her.

Giving the bag of oxy one last look, Amelia stretched out her hand, finally giving it up. And with that gesture, she also made her choice.

The moment Owen’s hand touched hers to collect the bag, Amelia was assaulted by the weight of nine months of unshed tears. A scream of utter pain and sorrow left her lips and she had to support her hands on her knees not to lose her balance.

Owen heard her weeping and took a deep breath to be able to endure it. Seeing Amelia breaking down like that was worse than anything else he’d experienced in the past months.

Also surrendering and accepting the pain, Owen kneeled down beside her, catching her as she fell.

“You’re going to be okay.” He assured her, relieved to finally have her back in his arms. It had been too many agonizing months in which Owen had dreamed of it. Finding Amelia in that condition had certainly not been what he imagined, but he was determined to never let her go again. “You’re going to survive this, okay?” Owen promised, gently caressing her hair, overwhelmed by just how much he missed it. “Everybody does.” Among her cries, Amelia finally wrapped her arms around his neck, giving Owen the confirmation that she too had been waiting for that moment. Now that she was with him, he could finally breathe in peace again. With a smile of joy and relief, Owen finally relaxed, focusing entirely on comforting her. Amelia’s wellbeing was the most important thing at that moment. “It’s perfectly normal. It’s boring, even. It’s so normal.”

Owen closed his eyes and kissed the side of her face, grateful to the universe that he was back home again in time to prevent a disaster, and that she was there, safely kept in his arms. Despite the shape she was in at that moment, the trauma surgeon kept his positivity because from now on, Owen would take care of her. He would make sure she was okay, no matter what.

They lost count of how many minutes Amelia stayed in his embrace, crying her heart out. Slowly, Owen got up with her, but didn’t let her go for one second. Soon enough, Amelia buried her face between his neck and his chest. He could feel her tears wetting his clothes, adding to his own pain. Owen was relieved for her that she was finally letting it all out, but seeing her do it was incredibly devastating for him too.

“You left…” Amelia broken voice interrupted the silence, shattering what little self-respect Owen still had left. “You went away and I thought you’d died out there.”

“Sweetheart, I am so sorry,” Owen tightened his grip around her, cursing the heavens for not having the peace of mind to stay when she probably needed him the most.

“You left and it’s all my fault.” Amelia added with a muffled voice, surprising him. Just as Owen was about to ask what she was talking about, she finally brought her head up, staring at him with those gorgeous silver eyes filled with so much sorrow and regret. “I know I said I…” Her voice broke once again as a single tear rolled down her cheek. “I didn’t mean to…” She pleaded with a trembling lower lip. “I never meant to… Owen,” her voice was nearly a whisper now. “I am sorry…I am so sorry…”

Owen closed his eyes and took a deep breath, or else he’d risk breaking down too. He wrapped his arms around her even tighter, not quite believing what was happening. Amelia was in pain, part of which he’d inflicted not only by leaving but also by adding to her concern and yet now she stood in his arms, asking for his forgiveness for the way she had reacted. And the thing was, Owen couldn’t even blame her.

“You’re going to be okay now.” He assured her, holding her face with one hand while his other arm kept a steady grip around her waist. “There’s nothing to be sorry for… You’re okay now…” Owen repeated, assuring himself just as much as he assured her. His lips brushed on her temple as he felt Amelia melting in his arms again.

They were immersed in a comfortable silence, both dealing with the repercussions of that moment individually.

For months, Amelia hadn’t been able to relax, drowning in work to distract herself from everything that had happened. Her many sleepless nights had only added to her discomfort, causing more anxiety in a pattern that never seemed to break. Just the day before, she thought she lost Owen too, and that had been the final drop to send her in a downward spiral.

But Owen had come back, found her and rescued her in time. Amelia thought back about the many other times when she’d needed him and how he’d never failed to be there.

“Will you…” She hesitated as she looked up to meet his eyes, unwilling to let him go. Amelia looked scared, like she was afraid he would say no to her question. “Will you stay with me tonight?”

Owen felt the soft touch of her hand on his chest as her amazing blue eyes stared at him with so much vulnerability and pain that he knew what he was going to say before he even processed the question. He dug his fingers through her locks of soft brown hair, rejoicing in the familiarity of her scent.

Amelia smelled like home.

“Please, don’t leave me again.”

Her voice was so broken and her expression so desperate that Owen felt one tear rolling down his face too. She thought she had to convince him. Owen leaned over, kissing her forehead for long seconds, trying to assure her that he wasn’t going anywhere.

It was his first night back in the city. He had barely even gone to see his mother yet. His trailer was neglected, being locked for so long and he’d barely had any time to rest, spending nearly a day flying halfway across the world to come back. Everything in his life had been put on hold. His job, his house, his family.

But the only thing that would bring him any peace of mind tonight was being with the one who’d occupied his thoughts every day for the past nine months. And luckily for Owen, she didn’t seem to want to leave his arms any more than he wanted to let her go.

Using his thumb to wipe another stubborn tear from falling on her gorgeous face, Owen tenderly smiled at her, eager to comfort her in any way he could.

“Of course I will stay.”

--

#thejourney #thejourneyfanfiction #omelia #owen hunt #amelia shepherd #greysanatomy #greys anatomy #omeliafanfiction #omeliafics #omeliafanfics #omeliaff #amenff

[antikripkean]

100th Post + Martin Shkreli

For the past week or so, I’ve been away drafting a long, multipart recap of my Tumblr experience. I wanted that to be my hundredth post. I would still like to finish and post that eventually, preferably for Post #101, yet for my hundredth post, I’m doing this.

I’m thankful for Martin Shkreli. I know a lot of people will be upset and/or confused by that statement. If you are one of those people, please hear me out and read the rest of this.

I wasn’t always a Martin Shkreli fan. The first time I saw him was on a news article criticizing him for the Daraprim price hike. I thought he was a greedy jerk and scrolled to the next headlines. And guess what? He didn’t seem worth my time. He didn’t stand out to me that much in the midst of everything else on the internet. There were plenty of other things for me to learn about and form opinions on and many other jerks in the news. I generally try not to feel strongly about topics I don’t know much about, and he didn’t seem significant enough to my life and interests for me to take the time to learn more about him.

Then he continued to show up in the news, one controversy after another. I still wouldn’t look much into his story beyond what the website said; I’d been regularly visiting that website for a while (and still do), and Martin Shkreli still didn’t seem that relevant to me. Despite this, I found it unusual that someone who wasn’t an actor, singer, athlete, or politician was making so many headlines. His smug face became one I’d recognize.

As I’ve said previously, my main reason for not being interested in Martin Shkreli was that I hadn’t connected him to my other interests. One of those interests is writing. I’ve been working on a novel and wanted to get better at writing body language, so I thought that perhaps the best way to learn was by observing people. And not just people in anime, which composed the bulk of what I’d watch, but real, actual people. And the character I was writing was a stuck up jerk, so I wanted to watch some stuck up jerks in real life and study their mannerisms. The first jerk who came to mind was Martin Shkreli.

I went to YouTube and searched his name, and to my astonishment, he was livestreaming. Of course, I had to watch him in action. He had tweeted his phone number demanding the haters call him. It was so surreal; I was amazed that someone would do something like that in real life. I stared at my iPad screen as he talked to all sorts of people, often about Daraprim. So many people asked about Daraprim. As the hours ticked by, he went from mocking people to explaining the reasoning behind the price hike to philosophical conversations about a variety of topics. This was not what I expected; he was a complex person. And thus he became interesting to me.

(And for anyone curious the reason for the price hike, please watch this video. Here’s a quick summary for those of you who won’t or would like to know what to expect: Daraprim is for toxoplasmosis, not for cancer, AIDS, or HIV. He gives it away for free or sells it very cheaply to those who wouldn’t have been able to afford it. The drug is dangerous since it causes bone marrow problems and isn’t always effective, so he wants to create profit to develop a safer, better working medication.)

After that night, I learned that the media could get some things very wrong, and there was a lot more to people than their reputations. I discovered that Martin Shkreli livestreamed almost every day and began to watch him regularly. I’d also read his tweets and check the headlines to see what else he might be up to. To my surprise, I had become a fan. I was even watching the stream when his cat, Trashy, finally started to be affectionate towards him. Yet once I became more busy, I went from checking on him nearly every hour to every day, and the frequency eventually dwindled to every week. When I looked him up in January and learned that his Twitter had been deleted, I muttered to myself that I had left him for just a week only to be met with that.

Months passed, and I became interested in other people, including Martin’s friend, Milo Yiannopoulos. I continued to watch Martin’s livestreams along with all the other new content I had discovered. I joined Tumblr and posted pro-Martin content. And throughout the trial, I’d watch Martin’s livestreams. And then on August 4 came the verdict. I was so worried about what would happen to Martin yet relieved he was innocent on the most serious account, and I was confused why he didn’t seem upset at 5/8. While I had a few people in my life aware and supportive of my interest in Martin, they didn’t share my fascination, and thus I had no one to turn to. So I did something new: I joined the YouTube chat.

I don’t think I’ve mentioned this to anyone on here before, but I feel a deep discomfort with both social media and communicating with others. There are many reasons for this, and it’s something I’m currently overcoming (largely thanks to Milo and the events that follow). I worried that people online would either be a waste of social effort and ignore me once I started feeling connected to them or feel so attached to me that I’d feel guilty for not being able to dedicate enough time to communicating with them. I also had little experience with internet socialization and worried about hackers, doxxing, and stalkers. While I was already on Tumblr, I wasn’t that involved at that point, and the thought of joining a chatroom seemed quite ominous.

Another thing was that my primary thoughts about chatrooms stemmed from the anime, Durarara!!. For those of you unfamiliar with it, the show features a mysterious gang known as the Dollars who communicate on a chatroom. The gang started out as an online joke yet ended up being involved with all sorts of conflict, dragging a headless fairy, other gangs, mad scientists, school kids, an assassin, superhumans, internet trolls, and many others into chaotic battles throughout Ikebukuro, a region of Tokyo. The actions of the people on the internet had serious and often dangerous real world consequences. Because of this among other reasons, it took me over a year of watching Martin to join the YouTube chat.

The first time was chaotic. There were so many people saying so many things, and many conversations were going on at once. A lot of people were wishing all sorts of harm on Martin, which he mostly ignored. Yet in the midst of this, a mod noticed my love for anime when I acknowledged a Hetalia reference. It felt great.

I kept coming back, and I came to realize that anti-Martin comments were typically the minority. I’d make a few comments and reply to people here and there, and gradually, I started recognizing people. And they started recognizing me. Even greeting me when I joined the chat. As someone who isn’t very social, it was astonishing that people I had never met would remember me and care enough about me to say hi and ask me how I was doing. We’d have all sorts of conversations from politics to science to medical disorders to anime to food to school, just to name a few. While I had originally watched streams for Martin and had joined the chat to discuss him, this community he created on the internet provided me with social nourishment I really needed. I came to appreciate the other people on the chat as individuals with unique personalities, interests, and lives. I feel as if the people I talked to genuinely cared about me, and I certainly care about them. Martin and the fellow people on the stream gave me a place where I felt welcome.

Joining the chat also lead to me watching Martin more often. Before, I would typically watch him when he was talking to others; now, I began to notice more things about him. While I was aware that he was intelligent, I didn’t know that he spent so much time doing research. He’d often be reading medical journals and examining stocks. And he could type so quickly and was very skilled in Excel. He was also very affectionate towards his cat, Trashy, and would even tilt his camera towards her when she jumped on his lap so we could get a better view. It was also oddly satisfying to watch a millionaire eat Cup Noodles and fried chicken. He would play music for us and gave us an eventual tour of part of his apartment. And he had a Periodic Table shower curtain, making the geeky side of me smile with joy for his love of science.

I also realized that Martin is abnormal in more ways than I realized. Despite being a businessman, he took the time and effort to understand the science behind medicine instead of only concerning himself with profits. And even though he wasn’t a professor, he would spend a lot of time providing us with free tutorials on investing, finance, and chemistry. While he was wealthy, he lived in an apartment and didn’t drive. And as I observed before becoming a fan, he grabbed the nation’s attention without being an athlete, politician, actor, or singer (unless you count him meowing to a Brand New song while cradling a cat and typing away on Excel). He even inspired a musical.

Martin truly cares about helping people and learning; he didn’t have to work so hard to teach us, but he did. And he would strive to provide people with safer, more effective medication even if the general public hated him. He’d make sure people could get their medication after the price hike. I recall him saying on one video that he wouldn’t have done it if even one person would lose access. And he was inspirational to me as well.

Martin showed me that it’s important to keep learning and use my knowledge to help others. I was at a mental state where I felt very unmotivated; I could learn and I could show it, but I felt like I had little purpose. I wanted success yet wondered if it were unattainable and if my efforts would amount to little meaning for those around me. Yet watching Martin reminded me that hard work brings good results, and learning and using knowledge can really help others and touch the lives of so many people. Watching Martin remain motivated despite all the adversity he faced showed me that I should carry on in spite of the struggles I’d face.

I’ve mentioned before how coming to the chat made me feel welcome and accepted. Throughout my life, even though I have friends, I’d feel lonely and detached. I still do from time to time, but joining the chat has reduced this feeling a lot. I haven’t been able to see my real life friends lately, and I have low social motivation; I wanted to make other people happy yet felt little desire to be around people. On the chat, I was able to enjoy all sorts of conversation and get to know so many interesting people. They made me feel appreciated, and I’m glad to have played a role in their lives.

In retrospect, I can say that the chatroom did have some similarities to that of the Dollars. For one thing, it was the internet home of a brilliant dark haired troll who made an impact on society, albeit of a different type. Another thing was how information travelled to so many people, and online behavior and real life eventually intersected in a tragic manner. Yet like the Dollars chatrooms, people of all sorts were brought together. There were chemists and businesspeople, programmers and geneticists, kids in school and people with jobs. There were kind people and smart people. There were trolls and spammers. Regulars and people who would just pop in on occasion. We had amazing mods. And we had our feline friend, Trashy.

Yet most importantly, we had Martin. He brought us all together. Some of us worked for him; others were his friends. Many of us wanted to learn from him. Some just wanted to stare at his face while he played with his hair. Some found his antics entertaining; others liked his nuanced views on society. Some people would come in hating him then realize how wrong people were about him. And a lot of us were like that to some extent. Many of us didn’t start out thinking positively. To all the people making angry and negative comments to my friends and on my posts or anywhere for that manner, we were like you once. We looked at what the media said and believed it. Yet unlike you, we dug deeper. We did our own research, and we learned the truth.

I’ve been getting a lot of replies lately for my other posts, and I’d love to respond eventually. I understand that many of them are insulting to Martin and myself, but I believe all of you deserve the opportunity to learn, and if you criticize Martin, myself, or any of his other supporters, at least do so for the right reasons. It might take a few days before I can get back to some of you since I’m busy finishing my other post and with real life, but I do plan to respond, assuming I haven’t been blocked. I’m willing to have a conversation. If you’ve read this far, thank you.

I miss him. I miss his quick typing and his lessons. I miss when Trashy jumped in his lap and how he’d play with his hair. I miss the chairstreams and the late night philosophical banter which came with them. I miss how the mods cared about our community so much. I miss my notifications popping up saying he’s livestreaming. I miss the kindness we showed each other and the intellectual discussions. And yes, I miss the small talk, too. I miss Martin’s music, Brand New in particular, and the Discord voices in the background. I miss his stretching and his smiles. I miss how we’d wonder why he leaves the chat up when he’s not there. (To let us continue our conversations? Security reasons? Did he just forget to turn off his camera?) I even miss the sycophants and the trolls. I miss the kindness shown to me and being able to be nice to others in return. I miss that Martin would even pay attention to us. Keep coming back and stay long enough, and it was bound to happen.

I’m thankful to Martin, and to the rest of the community he created. I was given inspiration, kindness, and knowledge. Furthermore, Martin helped others as well. He strived to heal and to educate, and he’d entertain us as well. We had a place. We were welcomed.

Stay strong, Martin. Be safe. We love you. ❤️

#100th post #personal #martin shkreli #Pharma Bae #daraprim #Ramblings #essay #rant

[zipgrowth]

One Teacher's Plan to Close Culture Gaps in Schools

For my most of my teaching career, I was the only teacher of color in my building. I once expressed to the principal my hope that she would be considering teachers of color as candidates for an opening in our English department. “They just don’t apply,” she told me resolutely. I didn’t bring it up again.

I had also been closeted for most of my teaching career. While other teachers in the staff room talked about their husbands’ dentist appointments and anniversary plans, I ate my lunches strategically avoiding conversation about my personal life. During my fifth year of teaching, when I fell in love with the woman I am engaged to now, I stopped going to the staff room altogether.

When I left the classroom in 2017 for a job as an events curator for a community arts organization, it was the middle of spring semester during my seventh year as a teacher. I was a Washington State Teacher Leader and I had just become a TED-Ed Innovative Educator, which gave me an opportunity to join a cohort of international educators who were determined to find creative ways to enrich their school communities.

I was sick over the decision to abandon my classes of sixth graders and to walk away from former students who continued to stop by my classroom to tell me about their romances, anxieties and college applications. Of all my identities, teacher had been at the top on the list for so long, and now I was quitting.

Even so, I knew I had to leave. I was burned out after long feeling separated from my administration and colleagues and was craving community. Most importantly, I wanted to be somewhere where I didn’t feel like the only “something” in the room all the time.

Once my family moved to the mainland from Honolulu when I was in third grade, I don’t remember ever having any Asian or biracial teachers through elementary, middle or high school, or even in college or graduate school. Until I went to college, I never had an out gay or lesbian teacher who was open about their partner the way my other teachers shared about their spouses. Moreover, as a K-12 student, I rarely had teachers who seemed to be the kind of adult I wanted to become.

As a middle school humanities teacher, I saw myself in my students and they saw themselves in me, and we talked about it openly. Topics of race, nationality, class, gender and sexual orientation were all folded into my syllabus. When the district’s prescribed curriculum included only novels written by white male authors featuring white male protagonists, I supplemented with short stories, advertising campaigns and podcasts by youth of color, women and LGBTQ folks. We analyzed Beyoncé’s Formation video. We held Socratic seminars rooted in essays by Amy Tan and Daniel José Older. We performed poetry inspired by Saul Williams and Staceyann Chin.

So many of my students—kids of color, white kids, queer kids, straight kids—regularly expressed their excitement and gratitude over the many ways identity influenced our work together. They were eager to explore race and sexual orientation in the context of our safe and thoughtful class community. They had so many questions and stories to share on these topics. In fact, they seemed relieved that someone was finally asking.

Kristin Leong Taking Photographs for ROLL CALL, Image Credit: Kristin Leong

Motivated by experiences from my own classroom, when TED-Ed invited me to design a yearlong innovation project to solve an issue in my school community, I knew exactly what I wanted to do: I wanted to hear from actual students and teachers in our schools experiencing culture gaps and heteronormativity, and I wanted to take their photographs. In addition to sharing their stories of living these culture gaps every day, I wanted people to show their faces to humanize the statistics and remind people that the diversity of our schools is rooted in the unique experiences of real individuals.

And so, for the last two years, I have been photographing students and teachers from around the world and asking them two questions:

What do you have in common with your students/teachers?

Does it matter that students and teachers have things in common?

Portraits from ROLL CALL, Image Credit: Kristin Leong

The project, called ROLL CALL, is focused on humanizing the many gaps that separate students and teachers including race, gender and sexual orientation.

When I launched the project in 2016, I was baffled that the culture gaps in our schools weren’t inspiring protests in the streets. The gaps at this project’s launch are alive and well today: according to the U.S. Department of Education’s most recent survey, about 80 percent of all public school teachers are white. Meanwhile, a majority of public school students are kids of color according to government estimates.

In addition to this race gap, a familiar gender gap also persists in our schools: over 75% of American public school teachers are women, a statistic that doesn’t represent the student population. Statistics on sexual orientation among high school students are hard to come by, reflecting enduring (although waning) societal taboos surrounding queer identification. But a recent survey by the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC) showed that there are likely about 1.3 million high school students who identify as lesbian, gay or bisexual in the United States. Furthermore, several studies suggest that young people are more likely to identify as transgender than previously thought and are rejecting binaries of gender identification. However, LGBTQ teachers still consistently express discomfort and even fear over being publicly outed about their sexual orientation while working as educators.

I narrowed in on a few goals for this project: shrink the culture gaps, shine a light on the need to increase the number of teachers of color and male teachers in our schools and transform classrooms into inclusive—not just tolerant—spaces for LGBTQ students and teachers. This was an ambitious vision to be sure, but one I was desperate to believe in.

Even though I no longer have my own classroom, I bring ROLL CALL workshops into schools regularly. I still find that teachers are just as frustrated and challenged by the culture gaps in our schools as our students are. I’ve seen the same sense of relief fall over both students and teachers when they are finally invited to tell their stories, just as I’ve seen empathy fill classrooms full of both teachers and students after learning the stories of their peers.

Over the past two years, I have been deeply moved so many times by the stories that students and teachers have trusted ROLL CALL to share. However, there is one story that stands out, because it made ROLL CALL into what it is today. The transformative story is that of Washington State’s Regional Teacher of the Year Lynne Olmos, who was the first person featured in the project.

Like most teachers, Lynne is white, female and heterosexual. Many of Lynne’s students don’t share her race, gender or sexual orientation. However, in response to ROLL CALL’s first question: What do you have in common with your students?, Lynne shared:

“When I was the age that my students are now, I experienced abuse, neglect a broken family and extreme poverty. This helps me understand their motivations and behaviors.

Additionally, for a time as an adult, I was a homeless, unemployed, single parent on financial assistance. Generational poverty is something my students and I have in common.

My path to becoming an academic was unusual and later in life. I know what it is like to be an unmotivated student without future plan. I know that it is never too late to change your path.”

Lynne’s story not only reminded me of the extraordinary ways teachers bring love into their work, but it also showed me that ROLL CALL’s original mission was wrong.

I set out to fix a flawed system—to bridge cultural divides and urge our schools to be more welcoming for LGBTQ teachers and students. However, by focusing on this end goal, I was losing sight of the incredible work our students and teachers are doing to connect within our current system, despite its flaws. Now, thanks to Lynne and the hundreds of teachers and students who have shared their stories through the project, its mission has evolved into what it is today: not just to humanize data, but also to celebrate the profound connections happening in our schools despite these divides.

I look forward to the day when our population of teachers more closely reflects the identities of our students, but what I hope stays with people from the project is its undeniable evidence that our schools are filled with teachers and students determined to find empathy where it seems like it isn’t possible.

So if you’re looking for a way to connect across divides in your school community, you might consider starting your journey by asking the students and teachers in your life ROLL CALL’s two questions. You might be surprised where the answers take you.

One Teacher's Plan to Close Culture Gaps in Schools published first on https://medium.com/@GetNewDLBusiness