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idreamtofmanderleyagain · 4 years ago

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Hot takes about Severus Snape are a wierdly decent glimpse into how a person with progressive values analyses things. Literally every time someone talks about Snape, it’s like this tiny window into how one-dimentionally people actually think.

Recently saw a twitter post that was a fantastic example. Here’s how it goes (paraphrasing):

Person A:“Snape is POC and Queer coded, that’s why you guy’s hate him uwu lol.”

Person B: “Actually I hate him because he was mean and abusive to children under his care uwu but go off I guess lol”

Both of these takes are designed to be dramatic and/or reactionary. They each use partial truths to paint very broad strokes. These are get-em-in-one-hit quips. This is virtue signalling, if you’ll excuse that loaded phrase. Nobody had a substantial conversation, but now everyone who sees their statement knows the high ground they took.

At least a hundred other people chimed in to add their own little quippy hot takes into play, none of which add anything significant, but clearly made everyone feel very highly of themselves.

So many layers of nuance and complex analysis is completely lost in this kind of discussion. On tumblr, you get more of this kind of bullshit, but you don’t have a word count limit, so you guys just spew endless mountains of weak overblown evidence backing up your bullshit arguments, none of which was really about engaging in a real conversation anyway.

Here’s the thing about Snape.

He is a childhood domestic abuse victim. His abuser is a muggle.

He becomes a student at a magical school that takes him away from his abuser and immediately instills in him the idea that being a part of this magical world is a badge of self-worth, empowerment, and provides safety and security - provided that he keeps in line.

There is a war is being waged in that world over his right to exist (he is a half blood).

He is a marginalized person within the context of the narrative, forced to constantly be in the same living space as the children of his own oppressors who are being groomed and recruited into a hate group militia (the pureblood slytherins). They are in turn trying to do the same to him.

He is marginalized person bullied by children who are also part of his oppressor group, but who have “more liberal” leanings and aren’t direct about why he’s being targeted (the mauraders are all purebloods, Sirius, who was the worst offender, was raised in a bigoted household, the same one that produced Bellatrix.).

He had a crush on a girl who is a muggleborn, and therefore she is considered even lesser than him and carries a stigma to those who associate with her. That girl was his only real friend. In his entire life.

For both Snape and Lily, allying themselves to a pureblood clique within their own houses would be a great way of shielding themselves from a measure of the bigotry they were probably facing. There would have been obvious pressure from those cliques to disconnect with one and other.

Every other person who associates with Snape in his adulthood carries some sort of sociopolitical or workplace (or hate cult) baggage with their association. Some of them will physically harm and/or kill him if he steps out of line. He hasn’t at any point had the right environment to heal and adjust from these childhood experiences. Even his relationship with Dumbledore is charged with constant baggage, including the purebloods who almost killed him during their bullying getting a slap on the wrist, the werewolf that almost killed him as a child being placed in an authority position over new children, etc. Dumbledore is canonically manipulative no matter his good qualities, and he has literally been manipulating Snape for years in order to cultivate a necessary asset in the war.

He is a person who is not in the stable mental state necessary to be teaching children, whom has been forced to teach children. While also playing the role of double agent against the hate group militia, the one that will literally torture you for mistakes or backtalk or just for fun. The one that will torture and kill him if he makes one wrong move.

Is the math clicking yet? From all of this, it’s not difficult to see how everything shitty about Snape was cultivated for him by his environment. Snape was not given great options. Snape made amazingly awful choices, and also some amazingly difficult, courageous ones. Snape was ultimately a human who had an extremely bad life, in which his options were incredibly grim and limited.

In fact, pretty much every point people make about how shitty Snape is as a person makes 100% logical sense as something that would emerge from how he was treated. Some if it he’s kind of right about, some of it is the inevitable reality of suffering, and some of it is part of the cycle of abuse and harm.

Even Snape’s emotional obsession with Lily makes logical sense when you have the perspective that he literally has no substantial positive experiences with other human beings that we know of, and he has an extreme, soul destroying guilt complex over her death. Calling him an Incel mysoginist nice guy projects a real-world political ideology and behavior that does not really apply to the context of what happened to him and her.

Even Snape’s specific little acts of cruelty to certain students is a reflection of his own life experiences. He identifies with Neville; more specifically, he identifies his own percieved emotional weaknesses in his childhood in Neville. There’s a very sad reason there why he feels the urge to be so harsh.

Snape very clearly hates himself, in a world where everyone else hates him, too. Imagine that, for a second. Imagine total internal and external hatred, an yearning for just a little bit of true connection. For years. Imagine then also trying to save that world, even if it’s motivated by guilt. Even if nobody ever knows you did it and you expect to die a miserable death alone.

There are more elements here to consider, including the way Rowling described his looks (there may be something in there re: ugliness and swarthy stereotyping). These are just the things that stand out the most prominently to me.

J.K. Rowling is clearly also not reliable as an imparter of moral or sociopolitical philosophies. I don’t feel that her grasp of minority experiences is a solid one, considering how she picks and chooses who is acceptable and who is a threat.

All of that said, this is a logically consistent character arc. Within the context of his narrative, Snape is a marginalized person with severe PTSD and emotional instability issues who has absolutely no room available to him for self-improvement or healing, and never really has. And yes, he’s also mean, and caustic, and verbally abusive to the students. He’s also a completey miserable, lonely person.

There are elements in his character arc that mirror real world experiences quite well. If nothing else, Rowling is enough of an emotional adult to recognise these kinds of things and portray something that feels authentic.

In my opinion, it’s not appropriate to whittle all this down by comparing him directly to the real world experiences of marginalized groups - at least if you are not a part of the group you are comparing him to. There have been many individuals who have compared his arc to their own personal experiences of marginalization, and that is valid. But generally speaking, comparing a white straight dude to people who are not that can often be pretty offensive. This is not a valuable way to discuss either subject.

Also, I believe that while it’s perfectly okay to not like Snape as a character, many of the people who act like Person B are carrying Harry’s childhood POV about Snape in their hearts well into their own adulthood. And if nothing else, Rowling was attempting to say something here about how our perspectives (should) grow and change as we emotionally mature. She doesn’t have to be a good person herself to have expressed something true about the world in this instance, and since this story is a part of our popular culture, people have a right to feel whatever way they do about this story and it’s characters.

The complexity of this particular snapshot of fictionalized marginalization, and what it reveals about the human experience, cannot be reduced down to “he’s an abuser so he’s not worth anyone’s time/you are bad for liking him.”

And to be honest, I think that it reveals a lot about many of us in progressive spaces, particularly those of us who less marginalized but very loud about our values, that we refuse to engage with these complexities in leu of totally condemning him. Particularly because a lot of the elements I listed above are indeed reflected in real world examples of people who have experienced marginalization and thus had to deal with the resulting emotional damage, an mental illness, and behavior troubles, and bad decisions. Our inability to address the full scope of this may be a good reflection of how we are handling the complexity of real world examples.

Real people are not perfect angels in their victimhood. They are just humans who are victims, and we all have the capacity to be cruel and abusive in a world where we have been given cruelty and abuse. This is just a part of existing. If you cannot sympathise with that, or at least grasp it and aknowledge it and respect the people who are emotionally drawn to a character who refects that, then you may be telling on yourself to be honest.

To be honest, this is especially true if you hate Snape but just really, really love the Mauraduers. You have a right to those feelings, but if you are moralizing this and judging others for liking Snape, you’ve confessed to something about how you’ve mentally constructed your personal values in a way I don’t think you’ve fully grasped yet.

I have a hard time imagining a mindset where a story like Snape’s does not move one to empathy and vicarious grief, if I’m honest. I feel like some people really just cannot be bothered to imagine themselves in other people’s shoes, feeling what they feel and living like they live. I struggle to trust the social politics of people who show these kinds of colors, tbh.

But maybe that’s just me.

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linkspooky · 5 years ago

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Mahito and Todo

Gionshōja no kane no koe, Shogyōmujō no hibiki ari. Sarasōju no hana no iro, Jōshahissui no kotowari wo arawasu. Ogoreru mono mo hisashikarazu, tada haru no yo no yume no gotoshi. Takeki mono mo tsui ni wa horobin(u), hitoeni kaze no mae no chiri ni onaji.

The sound of the Gion Shōja bells echoes the impermanence of all things; the color of the sāla flowers reveals the truth that the prosperous must decline. The proud do not endure, they are like a dream on a spring night; the mighty fall at last, they are as dust before the wind.

Todo is quoting the Tale of the Heike, one of the most famous stories in japanese literature. The central theme of the story is the Buddhist law of impermanence, specifically in the form of the fleeting nature of fortune. It’s remarking on the transitory nature of life. In other words, nothing is permanent.

However, Todo only quotes the first part of the text. However, we are the exception! Is something Todo added. Not only is he altering a classical text which has implications of arrogance in a cultural context, Todo is also turning the quote around entirely to say that even if everything in the world is fading, his friendship with Yuji will never fade.

All of this to say, that Todo and Mahito’s philosophies towards life are complete opposites. Mahito represents the inevitability of decay, which is why his touch destroys whereas Todo insists he is stronger than that decay, then that inevitability, and arrogant enough to fight against it. More on their character foiling under the cut.

1. Life Circles

The 4-character expression (yojijukugo) "the prosperous must decline" (盛者必衰, jōshahissui) is a phrase from the Humane King Sutra, in full "The prosperous inevitably decline, the full inevitably empty" (盛者必衰、実者必虚, jōsha hissui, jissha hikkyo).

Mahito as a character is someone very observant of natural law, and the nature of the world around him. His closest friends are all literally made to be embodiments of nature as cursed spirits.

The budhist law of impernanence is another natural law, remarking that with time everything fades. Eventually everything in this world will die. LIfe is fleeting, etc. etc. Mahito as a character has a special understanding of both the composition of the soul and the body. He can see through it in a way that others can’t.

However, his ability to see the soul causes him to dismiss it as nothing special. It is just another part of life. Mahito as a character observes and compeltely obeys both natural law and his nature. He is a curse. He’s there to curse people. He does that to his fullest ability. To Mahito life circles around. It cycles. Everything living must inevitably die, and because of that there’s really no point in attaching meaning to something imperanent.

Mahito just sees it as something that goes in circles. He doesn’t see the soul as anything special. Humans and curses both have souls, so they’re completely equal in his eyes. Human awareness, reason, logic, emotions, values, connections, doesn’t add anything to it, because Mahito can’t see them therefore it’s all made up. Mahito’s argument towards life then becomes very nihilistic.

Everything is the same in his eyes. Mahito can twist a human form to a fat, bulbous monster, but he still sees it as a human because there’s a human soul dwelling inside of it. Mahito rejects the idea that any of these things, human reason, human emotions, give any sort of value to life.

Mahito is inherently nihilistic, at least in the sense of moral nihilism. There is no meaning to life, therefore it gives me liscense to do whatever I want. He doesn’t have any respect for life in the slightest. Everything is fleeted to Mahito, so he’s completely without respect, and without sentiment, because to Mahito there is no point in getting invested in something that is inevitably going to die anyway.

Mahito is the embodiment of the fear of other human beings. Therefore it only makes sense, that he denies connection. Humans have no connection to one another, and no conenction to the world around them, they’re just there. It’s inherently nihilistic statement, because he’s arguing basically there’s no meaning to existence.

Jogo even calls Mahito the embodiment of death because he reflects that idea so well, that everything dies. Even Mahito’s own curse ability is the embodiment of his inability to connect, if he reaches out and touches someone he only harms them with just a single touch of his hand. Hands are pretty basic symbols of human connections.

However, even though Mahito’s nihilistic he’s not indifferent. He outright hates, and torments other humans. He encourages Junpei to hate life, exactly like he does.

2. We Exist

If Mahito is a character that hates life, antagonizes life, then Todo is the complete opposite of that. Todo is someone who represents love and connection. Hence why even down to his curse energy takes the form of little hearts.

Every detail we know about Aoi, centers around this idea of love, and particularly this love of life. The hearts are a repeating motif with him, they even appear on his volume cover. We know he has a crush on an idol named Takada.

The first question he always asks people when he meets them is what kind of girl do they like, (but even if it’s a guy who is only into other guys he finds that answer acceptable as well).

He dismisses Megumi from the moment he meets him, but immediately falls head over heels for Yuji. However, look at the difference between Yuji and Megumi. Megumi is someone who feigns indifference, and pretends not to be invested in the life around him. He’s always repressing his emotions and pretending he’s not interested. Yuji on the other hand, loves life, loves other people, and will react to save people’s lives without even thinking. Megumi is principled, but Yuji is unprincipled and acts on a simple love for the people around him, so therefore it makes sense why he’s more Todo’s type.

The only other person Todo seems to respect on the level of Yuji is Okkotsu Yuta, who also said this. Whose cursed technique was converting the girl he loved into a cursed spirit to remain with him after her death.

If Mahito’s character is built around the hatred humans have for each other, Todo is built around love. Even if it’s kind of in a weird way sometimes. He asks people what kind of girls they love. He respects people who are open about what they love. This isn’t even the first time that Love and curses have been connected thematically to each other in the series.

Love and curses are presented as a complementary pair. That is rather than being binary opposites ,like life and death, fire and whater, they’re like yin and yang. Two ideas that seem like opposites but go together. Love can be like a curse. You can curse someone you love. Etc. etc.

Love and hate, is much like love and cursing, seem like they’re opposite ideas. They’re traditionally held to be opposites. Mahito even comments on this. There’s Junpei who is apathetic. Mahito says the true opposite of love is hate, and saying apathy is the opposite is just japanese wordplay. He then encourages Junpei to hate people, to curse them. Mahito is a cursed spirit, hating people, cursing people is in his nature.

Junpei even said, the hatred that the bullies constantly lobbed against him, the fact that his mother was killed, it all felt like he was being cursed by everyone around him. Cursing people, hating people, are presented as the same thing to Mahito.

Mahito’s philosophy is basically that there’s no particular meaning to existence, therefore it’s okay to hate life.

Both Mahito and Todo have a special insight to how cursed energy flows around him. Todo as weird as he is, seems like the wisest of all the students especially in regards to curse energy.

Todo has a similiar perspective of the world as Todo. He too says that life, that cursed energy flows through the world. However, rather than using that argument for nihilism, he uses it for existentialism. Mahito says we don’t exist that there’s nothing special for existence. Todo says we do exist. Therefore it’s okay to love life.

While Mahito encourages Junpei to hate and spite others, Todo does the opposite of that, telling Todo to repress his hatred for now, because he has to think of the feelings and well being of the people he loves and is trying to protect first.

Todo is someone who fights against the natural order of things, for the sake of the love he feels for other people. He even literally fights Hanami, who is an embodiment of nature.

Hanami, the practice of watching the blooming sakura flowers is also a symbol of transience. Todo fights against this transience, and declares himself the exception. Mahito is natural order, Todo opposes natural order. Therefore in both love and hate, and also in philosophy they are complete opposites. Todo fights for what he loves, and Mahito fights for the sake of hating others.

Even in thie cursed techniques they are opposites. They both use their hands. However, Boogie Woogie is a cursed technique ideally suited for cooperation. When he claps his hands together he switches places with anything. Todo is like, the one sorcerer in the series whose cursed technique is far better for team fights than it is solo fights.

Mahito calls for them to curse each other.

Todo, blows a little kiss when he’s fighting against Mahito, another symbol of love.

(Mahito’s Let’s curse each other, is also a callback to Geto’s let’s curse each other. Geto is someone who after all, hates humans as well, at least the ones who aren’t jujutsu sorcerers).

When Mahito shows Yuji he is all alone by killing two of his allies Nobara and Nanami (Nobara is fine though), Todo shows Yuji that they are still all together because he is carrying the feelings of his allies with him. Something Mahito would insist means nothing. Something Todo says means everything.

Lastly, when Mahito moves to finish off Todo he’s distracted for a moment by Todo’s little locket. The symbol of his love for both Yuji and Takada.

Which buys Todo enough time to clap Mahito’s hand and used his cursed technique even after one of his own hands is completely blown off. Hands are the symbol of connection, Todo connects to others and Mahito doesn’t.

What’s ultimately ironic is the memories Todo has are completely fake. They are made up. Just like Mahito says, there is no meaning to life, any kind of meaning we try to make is just made up. However, even though Todo’s friendship with Yuji is completely imaginary, he obviously values it. His fake friendship with Yuji trumps Mahito who really only values his own individuality, and only thinks about himself.

Mahito says I am the only thing that’s real, therefore it’s only natural I only care about myself.

Todo says, my friendship is Yuji is real, and our feelings will far outlast both of us.

#todo aoi #aoi todo #mahito #yuji itadori #itadori yuji #jujutsu kaisen meta #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen theory #jjk meta #cursed spirit #cursed technique

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whumpbby · 4 years ago

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I finished typing and now I feel I have to preface it with a: this is all a monologue about Jedi and Force and Lucas’ inability to show the good story he wants to tell - just a warning. This is in no way meant to contradict the other post with that quote floating around or argue against it - just my own rambling coming to a conclusion I keep struggling with when it comes to SW universe and the ways it makes no sense to me and how I feel deep in my bones that Lucas is a crap storyteller.

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I don’t know why, but for all the interesting concepts Lucas talks about, Anakin’s fall never sat well with me. In time I came to the conclusion I would respond better if the Jedi culture surrounding it wasn’t so contradictory to itself.

And if he wasn’t so heavily leaning on the concept of the ‘pure love’ that is unconditional and undemanding and ‘unselfish’. Tldr: that love does not exist outside of poetry and romance dramas and imagination. Like every other emotion humans feel, love is conditional.

Take the first trilogy - I got that. The Jedi were largely missing and there was not much lore-wise, but the vibe it gave was measured and peaceful and mindful, and all the things that stood against the Empire - that represented the Dark Side in a very concise way. It wasn’t too nuanced, so we could buy it in this very simple ‘princes kidnapped b ya dragon�� story. This is as good as Lucas gets.

But then the prequels happened and Jedi became this weird, extremely specific, but conflicting idea. They are not supposed to take sides in politics - except when they do. They are not supposed to kill - except when they do, with freaking relish. They are not supposed to love or hate or allow emotions dictate their ways - oh, except when they do. And they can have sex - just not sex with someone they want to settle down with (oh boy, is that a signifier of a story written by a guy or what?). All seems to be ‘except when they do, as long as it can be adequately justified to make them look good’.

And I do have an issue with the idea of ‘Anakin was too old to join, he was already attached to his mother’ which is, when you think about it, is insane. Learning to control your emotions and letting go of your wants, Buddhist way, fine.

Aiming to train children to not be attached to their parents? What? How young a child has to be for that attachment forms? How is a meditation and repeating mantras going to help a 5-year old who is missing their mom at the temple? How do you even expect to train a child out of missing their mom??? How is it NOT better to get an older child that can reason above the instinctual and hardwired need for their mother?

But let’s say Anakin’s attachment to his mother was ‘selfish’ from the beginning - but, that’s the thing, was it? Was it really? They were slaves and she was his only family, okay, obviously that made his attachment stronger and more layered than, say, a normal middle-class Coruscanti kid who could love their mom without constant fear that any day they can be separated forever by someone who didn’t give a shit. In that sense, yes, Anakin was desperately attached to his mom and afraid of loosing her - there was fear in him. Right, I’m there with you, Yoda.

But the movies show us that the way Jedi seem to approach these hard subjects is by not approaching them at all - oh, well, we can’t take him in. He had a difficult childhood and there are issues attached, get him out of here.

In a galaxy full of races and issues and the Force being tied to any and all creatures in any and all circumstances - this was the hard line Jedi were drawing. In essence, either only accepting kids young enough to not remember their parents (and I see absolutely no issues whatsoever that could happen here, nope) or with childhoods perfect enough not to have any issues whatsoever. Anyone else? Adults that discovered Force when they were older? Kids like Anakin with hard childhoods? Creatures that were either culturally or chemically wired differently enough that the tight reins Jedi held over their emotions weren’t possible for them? Nope. Go away. You are a bad person in the making.

If you spend a moment contemplating, you will realise this is such a white privileged guy way to think about it. And if you stick your head into the microwave for a couple seconds, you can almost understand how Lucas thought this is something profound and mystical.

No that I think about it... I always thought Sith were freaking clowns - their philosophy makes no sense, their ‘rule of two’ is hilarious, everything about them is just so badly designed and thought out, and who would ever decide to join of that creepy cult of their own volition? It made no sense!

But, as an answer to the egalitarian and contradictory ways of the Jedi - Sith make all the sense to exist. And let’s forget about the Light and Dark (that I don’t believe exist above the ways of personal emotional expression that in time trains the Force around a person in certain ways - like a person can train their brain in and out of anxiety ofr example), but focusing strictly on philosophy - yeah, being a Sith makes sense when any other way is barred form someone by no fault of their own. And barred with an excuse they are a bad seed anyway.

“You fear/hate/desire hence you can’t access the Force with us” = “Well fuck you, then, I will access the Force in my own way, using these exact emotions!”

Like, Sith are clowns, but Jedi suck in their own very special way and their fall was just waiting to happen.

I get a strange feeling that Lucas created Jedi as a class of a warrior monk in DnD and then scrambled to create their enemies out of the simplest contradictions. Light-dark. Love-Hate. Peace-Fear. Etc. But because Jedi were so simple - once they started to gain popularity and he had to expand their lore and layer on the philosophy, he hit a wall. Or rather, the bottom of the kiddy pool. Because a ‘warrior monk’ is not an a ‘good’ class, but he wanted them to be mostly warriors, but also a force of good in the galaxy, because Star Wars is the same simple story repeated again and again with a new set of characters (regardless of how much fake politics is thrown in to obscure that fact) so this whole universe is basically built on giving Jedi reasons to fight and kill, and adequately justifying them. And then the Dark Side had to catch up by being more ridiculously evil at every turn - accidentally unmasking the way Jedi philosophy falls apart under closer scrutiny.

So like, to make a full circle, the one thing the prequels did well was to show Anakin’s fall (and I am not gonna argue, it was effective and he is a villain of this story) but they also presented - I think against the creator’s intention - why it was pretty much inevitable. Not because Palpatine was there to whisper poison, or because Force itself strived for ‘balance’ (even though the latter is a hilarious idea I love to contemplate) - but because Jedi, as presented in the movies-media around them, as a philosophy and way of life is inherently contradictory and unsustainable from the point of being a, well, a breathing, thinking being. The ‘selfish love’ argument would work so much better if it wasn’t presented with an example of a kid who was born a slave and the people who saw it as a strike against his character, and did very little to address the specific issues that could arise from that before it was too late.

Would it fucking kill them to let go of their strict training routine and ensure that his specific emotional needs were met? That Shimi was, I don’t know, NOT A SLAVE. They seem to interfere into politics just fine when need arises - but not when it’s a sandy planet in the ass-end of the universe no one cares about. Then no, we can’t liberate one slave. That would be acting in self-interest - not in the interest of not allowing one of the strongest members of out order to fall into the ruin we have forseen form the beginning.

It would work better is if Anakin’s ‘selfishness’ was presented as his inability to let Padme leave him for someone else/just leave him - not to be unwilling to let her die.

Think about it for a moment - he wasn’t presented with the idea of Padme leaving him. With the idea of his mother not loving him anymore. He was firmly and, form his point of view, believably, presented with the idea of both of them DYING. Which actually happened to his mom, solidifying the fear in his mind.

Yes, he was not meant to go on a rampage and kill the ones who killed Shimi - but wasn’t he? The Jedi are not against killing. Only killing in self-interest I guess - when self-interest is not one’s life and their political affiliation or their ‘job’ at hand, that is. Revenge is a no-no, but a military retaliation is a yes-go. Can’t kill anyone who wronged me - but I can kill those who wronged a person who gives me orders. How does that work within a Jedi doctrine?

How, in good conscience, can you present this scenario, George, and then try to spin it into this big philosophical bullcrap about unselfish love???? Jedi murdered people over political squabbles - but I guess that’s okay because they weren’t invested??? And that’s better?!?!? George! What the fuck! You are such a bloke my head hurts!

In case of Anakin, Jedi were essentially Elsa’s parents. I pretty much despise Elsa and the film she crawled out of, and I personally don’t like Anakin as a character either, so this is not stanning in any way, but their issues scream ‘I was raised by well-meaning idiots’ and shows the level of botched storytelling I just can’t reconcile.

Which, you know what?

Luke, who spent years studying Jedi ways and taking them into himself?

I can believe than this Luke would try to kill his nephew at the barest whiff of the Dark Premonition instead of helping him manage his motions in a somewhat healthy way - that seems to be exactly what a real Jedi would do, after all.

#star wars #rant?#thoughts?#rambling #jedi suck blue balls #and so do sith #sw #lucas should never write on anything that isn't a post-it note

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mbti-notes · 5 years ago

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Hello! I'm an ISTJ and I'm married to an INFP. I was wondering how can I help my INFP be more motivated & disciplined without hurting or criticizing her? The reason for my needs is that to be able to depend on her in regards to the responsibilities assigned to her. After all, marriage is a relationship of shared responsibilities. Also what are the different ways I can hold her accountable for her actions?

Marriage is indeed a relationship of shared responsibilities, and each person must do their part to keep the relationship healthy and thriving. When one person isn’t doing their fair share, the relationship becomes unhealthy, due to becoming more and more one-sided, which breeds resentment and anger. The key is to address problems at the start, before they escalate into resentment.

Before you label something as a “problem”, you should step back and reflect on whether it is your problem, her problem, or “our” problem. For example: If you’re trying to mold her into you because you think that there’s something wrong with her for not being like you, then it’s YOUR problem, and your inability to love her as is will push her away due to your disrespect of her individuality. If you’re concerned about this problem because SHE sees it as a problem in herself that needs remedying, then it’s HER problem, and you may offer help if she requests it (but you can’t help someone who doesn’t want help). If her lack of motivation and discipline causes the relationship to become too unequal or unfair, where you are unduly burdened by constantly having to pick up the slack for her, then it’s OUR problem to be worked out together. Be clear about the true nature of the problem.

You didn’t provide much detail, so, being ISTJ, I’m going to assume that you’re talking mostly about practical everyday problems. Practical problems need practical solutions. It is typical of dominant Fi to infuse everything with feelings and emotions. The way that INFPs take things very personally is a hurdle to dealing with relationship problems purely as practical matters. However, ISTJs are also prone to complicating relationship problems when they become impatient, resentful, or judgmental. They start accusing or blaming, feeding the tendency of INFPs to take things too personally, and this creates a power struggle in the relationship, as you both descend into arguing about who is “right” and who is “wrong” and who needs to pay, etc. There is no cooperation at that point.

One common mistake that ISTJs make is that they try to avoid or skirt conflict, for fear of things getting out of control, which only allows problems to fester. Relationships don’t easily abide by rules and regulations, because human beings are complicated. Difficult conversations are understandably intimidating and disorienting, as emotions can shift on a dime. But there is no avoiding conflict in any intimate relationship. Two people, with different ways of perceiving and evaluating situations, with different beliefs and values and experiences, etc, are inevitably going to run into disagreements. If you are able to accept this fact, then you will be more prepared to confront conflict and deal with it maturely.

Conflict resolution happens through intelligent communication: 1) Each person must be aware of their own emotional needs and take responsibility for them. 2) Each person must be able to communicate their needs clearly and make reasonable requests to get them fulfilled. 3) Each person must remember that a request is not a demand, which means being open to discussing various ways of getting needs met (i.e. don’t treat each other like servants).

Once you have made a request, you talk about how to fulfill it, together. You come up with an agreement that the both of you are able to accept. You come up with consequences for breaking the agreement that the both of you are able to live with. In many cases, you may not get exactly what you requested, but, if the person loves you, you will achieve a satisfactory compromise, together. Please see the article on Communicating Through Conflict for more detail.

Resolving disagreements maturely isn’t possible if you fear confrontation and conflict too much to communicate openly and honestly. If you can’t communicate with your spouse about what matters - the person who is supposedly closest to you - then what kind of marriage is it? You can’t control other people’s feelings, but you can control how you respond to their feelings. Things might get heated and that’s fine. There is no way to speak such that you never offend anyone. But you will boost your chances of success if you always speak with the intention to maintain mutual trust, respect, and love. You both have the responsibility to keep conflict from descending into hurtful behavior. Avoid being defensive and shutting each other out. Avoid judgmental character attacks that do irrevocable harm. Always keep your attention laser focused on the problem at hand so that you don’t get distracted by pettiness. When disputes become overly complicated, seek out an objective third party expert to mediate.

Some couples fight to the point of divorce, while other couples fight and come out stronger every time - the practice of kind communication is what makes the difference.

#istj #istj relationships #infp #infp relationships #communication #relationships #conflict resolution #ask

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sepublic · 5 years ago

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Honest question, in your mind who would be the most surprised at Lilith doing the brave and right thing? The audience, Luz, Eda or Lilith herself? Personally I'm leaning towards 1 or 4 myself, albeit with a very very obvious "Of course I could do that" façade with 4.

To start, it’s neither the audience nor Luz. I say this, because neither the audience nor Luz had to personally live through the decades, first-hand, of Lilith not doing the right thing… Of Lilith being too afraid and deluded to do that, while Eda just waited and watched, in real, personal time, how her sister continued to support the Emperor’s Coven. From the perspective of the audience and Luz, we were more told/shown Lilith’s shortcomings across decades, within the span of a single season- Or, a few weeks, from Luz’s perspective! That’s the maximum amount of time she could’ve known about Lilith’s flaws… And she only had a day to live with the revelation of Lilith’s betrayal, before Lilith herself changed for the better! Luz doesn’t know Lilith’s flaws as intimately as, say, Eda- Because she hasn’t been nearly as acquainted with her, for a much shorter period of time. She didn’t have decades to stew over Lilith’s mistakes and view them as an ever-lasting fixture of life.

The ratio of Luz/the audience’s time with Lilith’s flaws, VS our time with her positive traits, is far less skewed than it is for the Clawthorne sisters. Not to mention, from a Doylist perspective the audience KNOWS Lilith will keep doing the right thing, because why have her change for the better only to suddenly go back on that? It’d just be bad writing… But of course Luz and the others don’t consider this, because from their perspective their lives aren’t a narrative written by people intending to tell a coherent story, and thus what happens in the future isn’t bound by such writing conventions. This all leaves Lilith and Eda, over who would be most surprised at Lilith doing the right thing, and honestly?

I think Lilith would be more surprised at doing good, because Eda at least expected and had her hopes up that Lilith would do the right thing- Hence why she’s so much more hurt and disappointed when she doesn’t. Lilith never thought of herself as being strong enough to go forth and do what needed to be done, whereas Eda always had that hope in her heart, and didn’t just dismiss Lilith as a lost cause, fully indoctrinated into the Emperor’s Coven. There’s that implicit expectation that Lilith will do the right thing- Especially since Eda doesn’t expect to be immediately arrested when the two meet during Covention. She KNOWS Lilith is better than that.

It’s Eda who confidently insists that Lilith is still her sister during Sense and Insensitivty, while Lilith expects Eda to leave her to die- Lilith expects Eda to give up on her, and while this can be indicative of her own perspective on Eda… It’s also likely reflective of how Lilith views herself, no doubt. Eda IS someone who believes in the power of people to choose and decide who they are, and make things better for themselves through revolution and instigating change… While Lilith, for decades, subscribed to stagnant ideas of order and authority as head of the Emperor’s Coven.

And, as I said earlier- Eda has only recently lived with the knowledge of Lilith cursing her, but that only lasted for a day before Lilith went and did the right thing. That single-day period of Lilith’s betrayal will inevitably be dwarved by the days and even weeks Eda will spend with a reformed Lilith, who is now actually atoning for her actions. Whilst Lilith had to personally live with this agonizing truth for decades… So her own flaws and mistakes would be a lot more imprinted into her mind, she’d have experied firsthand how hard it was for Lilith to change for the better, for a much longer time and with more sins to have known about.

At least, that’s how I see it… But there IS grounds for Eda being more surprised, if only because Lilith can be pretty delusional. Until she recognizes just how corrupt the coven system actually is, she’d probably only see her inability to come forth about cursing Eda, and sharing the curse, as her primary sins… Otherwise, Lilith is totally oblivious to how supporting the Emperor’s Coven was alsoher not doing the right thing. So there’s way less guilt over THAT, if any, VS Eda who actually knows that the Coven System is wrong and is thus actually disappointed when Lilith upholds it- Whilst to Lilith, upholding the Coven System IS the right thing to do!

To her, it was Eda who was also acting in the wrong for being a criminal, and while obviously Lilith’s attitudes and views are inevitably going to change… I can see there being room for Lilith not fully accepting the coven system’s flaws yet, and thus still operating under the belief that she WAS being a righteous person otherwise, cursing Eda aside. But once Lilith realizes the flaws of the Coven System and how badly she messed up in supporting it, THEN I can see her totally being the most surprised at her ability to do good- Especially since it’s rather difficult for Lilith to even tell what’s right or wrong. Aside from not wanting to lose her glory as head of the Emperor’s Coven, and fearing Belos’ wrath… Lilith was likely operating under the assumption that the Emperor’s Coven was noble, hence why she also planned to return to it after helping Luz free Eda.

No doubt, she saw Belos’ handling of Eda as a one-off mistake, uncharacteristic of an ordinarily noble order. It was not her own choice, but Belos’ rejection, that forced Lilith to leave the Emperor’s Coven, so she may not have fully recognized the entire extent of its corruption and how it spreads well beyond its treatment of Eda. This of course, means that while Lilith was haunted by her cursing of Eda, she at least told herself that she was helping make up for it not only by trying to cure Eda’s curse in her own way, but also by being a positive role for the rest of society as a member of the Emperor’s Coven.

Eda’s curse aside, Lilith was clearly a shining example of a witch and a hero/role model, and every other decision in her life was the right choice! Once she recognizes Eda’s OTHER reasons for being upset about Lilith, irrespective of the very-recent revelation of the curse… Hoo boy. Lilith is going to have an existential crisis and rightful doubt over her judgment, now that she realizes that all of her other choices in life were also wrong! Then that leads to what I speculated earlier about the full weight of those decades of indecision crashing down on Lilith, etc., because now it’s hitting Lilith that she’s messed up WAY MORE than she thought she did, and she already thought she messed up big time as-is with the curse!

TL;DR If this is before Lilith realizes how messed-up the Coven System truly is, and how complicit she was in its corruption- It’s Eda who will be more surprised, with Lilith, as you speculated Anon, probably passing it off as what she normally does. But once Lilith realizes why Eda hates the Coven System so much, THEN it will be Lilith who is most surprised at her own good!

#the owl house #owl house #the owl house lilith #lilith clawthorne #the owl house eda #edalyn clawthorne #the owl house luz #luz noceda #speculation #ask #analysis

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smallnico · 5 years ago

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(Since you said you also struggle with it) Do you have any tips regarding not letting your anxiety-induced control issues making you a bad friend? Or being controlling of others?

sure! sorry for the late response btw, i’ve been swamped and haven’t felt really able to compose the long answer a question like this kind of deserves. as with all advice-based asks i receive, mind that i’m not a professional, i only speak from my own experience and from things i’ve learned during counseling sessions for my own mental health. ultimately, depending on how severely the issues you’re talking about affect your wellness and relationships, you should try to find a professional who can learn more about your personal experiences and guide you on a more personal journey of self-reflection and self-improvement. but i can definitely give some general tips, and will do so!

i think, in order to learn how to keep control issues in check, we all need to understand the nature of control.

control is something the universe will never let us have in the abundance we need to feel safe. there are things in our lives we can control in certain situations, like what we have for dinner, or what colour our walls are, but there are situations where these things are out of our control too -- say you’re having dinner at a friend’s and they’re making the dinner, or you live in a rent-controlled apartment with a landlord who likes beige on tan. being able to control something in a messy situation gives us a sense of stability and certainty, because no matter what other unpredictable thing happens, at least we know what colour the walls are. at least we know what we’re having for dinner. it’s an anchor in a panic attack. when we feel like the world we know is crumbling around us, at least we have something to hold on to.

of course, with control issues inevitably comes the question of just how much needs to be under control in order for us to feel safe. severity varies. say someone has ocd, for instance, and absolutely needs to check their purse for their wallet and keys 20 times in order to feel control over whether or not they’ll be locked out of the house. say someone has long-developed abandonment issues and absolutely needs to know where their friends are at all times, so they know those friends are coming back. the hardest thing for anyone with control issues to accept, regardless of their severity, is that we cannot have control all the time. to a certain degree, we can’t always control even our own actions, our emotions, our successes and failures. we may gain control, but we will lose it at some point, and it’s scary when that happens, but it’s not necessarily a bad thing. it’s just a fact of life, and it’s one that every single person in the world has to deal with, regardless of whether they have control issues.

control is safety. control is sitting in a chair. losing control is the chair being yanked out from under you, whether by another person, by an earthquake, or by any means. suddenly we’re falling, we don’t know if it’ll hurt, and we’re just scrambling for anything to get us back in that chair, if it’s even still there, maybe injuring ourselves more in the process. but accepting that the chair, by whatever means, is gone, means we land on the ground. we get our bearings, we examine the ground, we examine our own pain -- are we hurt? is it bad? is it fine? -- we learn about where the chair went, and then, if the ground has stopped shaking, we stand up again and figure out where to go from here. losing control is scary, but letting go of the need for control frees us to adapt to new situations, examine new feelings, learn what’s really causing the problems in our lives. after all, if someone pulls a chair out from underneath us, the chair isn’t the problem, the problem is the person. they could’ve asked permission, but maybe they wanted to see us fall.

to wring this extended metaphor dry, say the person does ask for permission before taking the chair. they need it for something, but we’re using it. it’s comfortable. it’s our only chair. but this person is being considerate towards us, they’re asking us to make a sacrifice. remember, the chair is a feeling of control, of safety. how big of a sacrifice are they asking of us? really, it depends on how badly we need the chair. and when we think of control (this time more broadly, we’ve successfully escaped the metaphor) as something inherently temporary, something we don’t absolutely need to find happiness and safety, it becomes a lot less of an ask when our friends tell us to back off a bit. it also becomes easier to conceive of a world where we don’t need stability to make our own certainty.

and speaking of which, there’s another part of your ask that’s catching me. i don’t know the term of art for it, but when you say “anxiety-induced control issues make you a bad friend”, you’re labelling. the more we call ourselves something, the more we start to identify with it -- the more we insist that a certain bad/flawed action makes us a bad person, the more we identify ourselves as a bad person, and the less agency we assign to that bad/flawed action. if control issues make us bad friends, then being bad friends means we have control issues, etc. etc., and ultimately it becomes harder to separate the bad habits from our self-perception, and those habits then become harder to unlearn because suddenly we’re carving something out of our identity. we won’t be the same person anymore. we don’t know this new person, and the unknown is scary. then, we blame ourselves for our inability to overcome our “””inherent flaws”””, and we’re a bad person, we’re a bad friend, we’re never going to get better, we’re trapped here alone while the world rushes past and forgets us.

i hope i don’t need to tell anyone that that’s a problematic mindset to work oneself into. if i do, it is. and it really may not seem like that slippery of a slope, but once we get used to the holistic paradigm that People Are What They Do, the harder it becomes to forgive and love them in spite of their flaws, and that includes ourselves. making mistakes does not make us mistakes -- it makes us human, and that’s just how it be. not to sound too much like a therapist, because again it isn’t my job and i have no training, but the process of self-reflection and self-improvement becomes a hell of a lot easier when we stop blaming our souls for our behaviour. when we give in to our control issues, we’re acting out of a desperate need to stop feeling afraid, vulnerable. but fear, like all emotions, is temporary. it’s also part of being human. we can’t stop feeling afraid -- and it isn’t our fault that we can’t stop feeling afraid -- but we can, through certain physical and mental actions, be there for ourselves while we wait for the fear to go away on its own. i recommend any material on mindfulness and self-compassion by a woman named Kristen Neff for more on that kind of thing. but i digress.

some more specific situational tips for not lashing out at friends that i’ve personally used in my life:

- accept and then embrace that losing control and lashing out is going to happen every now and again no matter what you do. the pressure to be perfect is so unhelpful in recovery situations that it frequently actively and remorselessly makes those situations worse. again -- making mistakes is okay. you’re still on the right track, and it’s better for the train to arrive slowly after a long and shitty journey than to never arrive at all. - ask your friends to tell you when you’re making them uncomfortable. pick a safeword, something uninflammatory -- mine is “buttercup” -- and the hardest but most necessary part: when your friends use the safeword, don’t punish them for it. it isn’t an attack, they don’t want to hurt you, it’s just your cue to step back and take a nice bath or make a sandwich or wrap yourself in a blanket and practice some deep breathing. trust that the fear will be over soon. - after a lot of practice, you may find yourself recognizing your own behaviour and stepping back automatically. my friends almost never “buttercup” me anymore, because i don’t find myself reaching for control when i’m anxious -- i find myself closing my computer and making some hot chocolate and running a bath. taking a break. exercise works really well here. - this one’s kind of risky because of the self-destructive coping mechanisms a lot of people turn to to solve this problem, so tread carefully and compassionately. if you really need control such that you have to wean yourself off of it, do it like you’re trying to quit smoking. find a nicotine patch -- a smaller thing to control, like cleaning your room, washing a dish by hand, baking a cake, organizing your bookshelves. whatever works for you, just make sure you aren’t hurting yourself. the intention here isn’t to create a new problem for you to solve to distract from the old one, or to test your self-control. it’s specifically to feel a progressively smaller sense of relief to teach yourself just how inconsequential control can be in the grand scheme of things. that it can just be one of many positive feelings. after all, when cleaning your room comes with the benefit of being in a clean room, it’s not all about control, is it? - talk to your friends about the problem. try to ask first if you need to vent -- sometimes people aren’t in a good place to be vented to, and they deserve to be able to say ‘not right now’ without it being a huge deal -- but more importantly than that is that you talk to your friends about control issues when you aren’t actively spiralling. talking about what’s wrong in a considerate, self-compassionate, reflective way is obstructively hard to do when you’re in the middle of it -- at least, until you’ve had practice. don’t be afraid to ask your friends for help practicing self-reflection when your need isn’t urgent and they’re available. - don’t teach yourself to put your head down and deal with a lack of control. if it’s something you hate but put up with, then a lack of control is still, emotionally, a problem that needs solving, only now its presence inspires misery. think of what i said way earlier in this response: we have control way less often than we have it, just naturally. what you do instead of learning to tolerate that, is you learn to appreciate surprises. unpredictability is one of the most fun things about getting to know the world -- you never know what it’s going to do next, which means there’s always something new to explore. by teaching yourself to look for things to love in surprises, mistakes, unforeseen circumstances, not only does it change the world you see into a kinder and more fun place by default, it also provides the contrast you need to recognize when a situation really, actually is that bad, and something needs to be done to fix it. sure a storm knocked the power out and i can’t finish that assignment by the due date, but i know my professor isn’t a total asshole, so i’ll just let them know what’s up and in the meantime, look for ways to pass the time. i don’t know when the power’s going to come back, but now i have lights and heat and a book, so i’m good. the problems i actually have are the food in the freezer and the possibility of flooding. ultimately, we do what we can and accept what we can’t. (plus, it’s a lot easier to find somewhere moderate when you aim high and are okay with not getting there. you’ll probably never go “yay! the inexorable forces of chaos are at it again!”, but you might learn to laugh off missing the bus, which is already pretty great.) - at the very least, appreciate that you’re not responsible for other people’s decisions. ultimately, that’s their call, and accepting their call as their call means you don’t have to feel like their bad decisions are your fault. there are literally no downsides to this. if someone else decides to blame you for their bad decisions, they’re wrong. the only thing you’re responsible for in that situation is how you decide to respond to it. (and again, it’s okay to make the wrong decision. really, it is. all that matters is you be compassionate to yourself, reflect on the damage caused, try to fix what you can, and resolve to learn from the situation.) - look up kristen neff. really, do it. she has a couple of pretty great ted talks on youtube.

i, for one, find comfort in not knowing all the answers. paradoxically, embracing uncertainty and unpredictability makes me feel more secure, because i know that next to nothing is under my control, and if something unpredictable happens, i’m comfortable knowing i wasn’t responsible for it. i can’t know everything, and trying to know everything is a recipe for a panic attack, because it means i’m going out of my way to pile onto the list of things i have to keep track of or else it’s my fault if they go wrong, regardless of if there’s anything i could’ve actually done. i spend so much energy trying to stay in the goddamn chair that i completely lose track of everything in my surroundings that actually matters. grabbing for a sense of control at all costs completely blinds me to real problems and real contentment, which then makes me feel even less in control than before. it’s a no-win situation. better for us to embrace that control really isn’t worth all the fuss and go on with our lives.

i hope this could help, or at least offer some perspective!

#nico's advice column #long post #anon #the askbox

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sadsapphicslut · 4 years ago

Text

chapter one - original story (i havent come up with a title yet lol)

okay so here it is!! if anyone actually reads this i love u :) please leave feedback if u have any!!

TWs:

death, drugs, medication, mental illness, references to sex, swearing, alcohol

wordcount: 8.2k

(also i dont think anyone will but im paranoid of people stealing my writing so obligatory dont copy/post to another site or steal my work in any other ways etc)

There were five of us; 4 boys and me. In hindsight I realize from the outside our group probably seemed a little predatory, but it was never really like that. For the most part they were like brothers to me. Of course, being the only girl in a small and isolated club of mainly older boys, things were bound to happen. We were in high school and it was summer, can you blame me? Regardless, however much I loved them, it was not quite in the way my father always assumed or my mother always warned (during our uncomfortable monthly visitations before I managed to get rid of her for good).

The months everything went down, which I often referred to only as ‘The Worst Summer of My Life’, (quite melodramatically but not without reason) were somehow still full of the best moments of my life. Moments I often find myself wishing I could repeat, as nothing has or will ever come close to the way I felt, sitting amongst my boys day after day, somehow light as the warm July breeze that blew past us. My entire body weightless, as non-existent as the time that passed us by. Despite the depression I’d found myself plunged into during the days after my only brother’s death, I truly believe I will never again be as happy as I was then. Laughter seemed to flow freely from our mouths, smiles plastered onto our faces no matter the circumstances, content to just exist. I don’t think I can ever forget the day it was raining so hard the entire city was flooded, but we walked around uptown well past the point of being absolutely drenched, our clothes dripping so heavily the security guard denied us entry into the public library. Something about that day made me feel so free, like we were invisible. Completely apathetic to the whims of the real world, somehow existing only in our twisted minds and intertwined fantasies.

Maybe if I’d had my head screwed on a little tighter, or if we’d met under different circumstances, it wouldn’t have ended the way it did. I used to go down that line of thought every night before succumbing to a fitful but heavy sleep (under the direct affect of 25mg of Quetiapine, working to counteract my Concerta and Lexapro). Those types of irrational thoughts were ones my therapist deemed as my habit for rumination. In regard to the death of my brother she called it ‘bargaining’, one of the stages of grief. I never liked it when she spoke about those stages as I’ve always felt them to be wrong. Maybe because I never quite moved on to the final one, no matter how many years pass. ‘Acceptance’, coined as the “Re-entrance to reality”. Maybe it’s different since I was never really grounded to reality in the first place. I still wake up some mornings, thinking I’ve heard his voice in the other room, ready to beguile me with tales from his day of retail work. Other times I swear I’ve walked past him on the street. Some people may relate to my experiences, with reasonings of ghosts, angels, apparitions, or insanity, among many other causes for the apparent viewing of a loved one long gone to the other side. I never shared these beliefs, but I am not one to deny. Rather, I always take these instances as an omen. A warning. I have come to this conclusion not without evidence, at least circumstantial, given the many occasions over the years – and especially that summer – where I found my hypothesis to be true. All I can say is that I am glad I’ve never been met with the same chimerical visions of my mother; one can only hope that is because she ended up where she belonged. Maybe I’ll see her there, though I hope at the very least they could keep us in separate rooms of Hell if the situation does arise.

From what I know of the others now, which is admittedly not much – majorly due to my own neglect, as opposed to theirs – they share the same prescription for rose-coloured glasses as I. We always were too engrossed with our own romanticization of nostalgia and sentiment that it clouded our view. I often think this was one of the reasons we seemed to fit so well together. Not quite like puzzle pieces, too self-absorbed to hold a candle to that analogy, more like complimentary colours. I wish it could’ve stayed the way it was. We did try, and I never found myself able to fully disentangle myself from James, nor he could to I, but for most of us we could recognize an ending when one arises. I used to find myself using the word tragedy a lot while reminiscing, but I no longer think that word is appropriate. Fate is a more fitting term in my opinion, regardless of if one believes in it or not. “(A)n inevitable and often adverse outcome, condition, or end,” as reported by Merriam Webster. I don’t think there’s a word in the entire English language more accurate in describing how everything ended up; and if there is, I am yet to find it.

Chapter One

A Dead Brother

I have tried to erase the day my brother died from my memory so many times I lost count decades ago. I still find the image seeping into my unconsciousness quite dreadfully on the nights I neglect to take my pills and catch myself waking up with a steady flow of tears that dampen my pillow along with the drool that always seems to pour from my sleeping mouth. The dread that pools in my stomach sometimes being heavy enough for me to lose my lunch. I frequently wonder how people managed to reassure me that it wasn’t my fault; the most painful lie I’ve ever been told and one that seemed to stream from people’s mouths as easily as the mini sandwiches laid in the living room of my brother’s wake were stuffed in. The worst part about being told it wasn’t my fault was how obviously one could tell they didn’t believe what they were saying either. His death was my fault; a fact so uncontestable I wanted to kill myself every time I was reminded of it.

My therapist often tried to remind me that even if his death was “partially” (she always used the word partially, refusing to acknowledge the truth that his death was entirely my fault) my fault, there was nothing I could’ve done to prevent it. This was another lie I despised being told. There were a million ways I could have prevented his death or saved his life and yet, here we are, with him dead and me wishing everyday that I won’t wake up tomorrow. “Begonia,” she’d tell me – she was the only person who called me by my full name, I usually went by Nia, but a nickname felt too personal and I didn’t like her very much – “You mustn’t keep torturing yourself with these scenarios. He’s dead, and there is nothing you can do to change that. I am starting to wonder if you are going to let yourself move on. This isn’t healthy.” That was a line she liked to use a lot, “this isn’t healthy”. As if anything I do is.

Barb, my therapist that is, liked to go over the details of my brother’s death a lot. She often called it a ‘trigger’, which is why she always seemed to want me to talk about it. “Trauma is a horrible thing, Begonia, and you must learn to move past it, process it. I can see you still haven’t managed to do that on your own, and that’s what I’m here for, to help you move on.” Barb was big on the idea of “moving past trauma” and “learning to cope”, she often sounded like a broken record of a motivational speech. I found myself comparing her to school guidance councillors without realizing it, they were about equally as helpful (read: not helpful) in my opinion.

Sometimes I blame my inability to forget and “move past” my brother’s death on the way Barb constantly brought it up and made me go through it. I never quite understood how that part of my therapy was supposed to help me. I asked her once, what good was it doing rehashing the worst day of my life?

“Well, Begonia,” I hated the way she said my name, always so condescending and sour, like even the idea of me questioning her in any way was as impolite as shitting on her desk.

“You have to understand that I only want to help you. You seem to be unable to process your traumas on your own, which is why we need to go through these things. As you are aware, this PTSD,” she always left strange pauses after each letter, her slow tone grinding on my ears, “you have acquired has left you unable to function normally in daily life. I want you to get to a place where you can have a normal life (Ha!) and cope without these meetings. It’s what your brother would’ve wanted.” Barb liked to tell me what my brother would have wanted at least once every session. Putting aside the fact she knew next to nothing about him aside from the intimate details on how he died, I always thought it was an inappropriate thing to say as a psychologist specializing in grief counselling. It never particularly bothered me, I was reasonable enough to realize she was just trying to comfort me, but I never liked the phrase. “What your brother would’ve wanted.” What he would’ve wanted was to not die but we’re past that, aren’t we Barb, as you so often enjoyed telling me.

I have always been quite averse to my diagnoses, ADHD at 14, Persistent Depressive Disorder at 15, PTSD at 16, issues with alcohol and drugs that landed me in rehab more than once. I’ve been on a concoction of different medications since I was 13, even before I was diagnosed with anything officially. Sertraline, Lexapro, Prozac, Ritalin, Concerta, Adderall, Quetiapine, Ambien, Zopiclone, a healthy mix of off brand and branded medications. Sleeping pills, antidepressants, stimulants. I can’t remember a time before monthly trips to the drug store and side effect surveys that I’m not sure if I ever told the truth on. It’s a wonder that people didn’t see a slew of addiction issues coming from a mile away.

I think I’ve always had the most contention with my PTSD diagnosis though, I hate it because I know it’s undeniably true. I wish it wasn’t because maybe that’d mean my brother was still alive, but he isn’t. And I’m left traumatized and bereaved. Sometimes it feels like it hurt me more than it ever did my mother or father. Maybe it did. I should feel selfish for saying that, but I can’t, because they didn’t have to look at him while the life left his body, praying to God for the ability to turn back time. See the moment his eyes glazed over, knowing I’d never get to hear his obnoxious laugh, or make fun of his dumb face ever again.

❈

“Ray, hey listen I need you to come pick me up.”

It was a cool evening in May, the end of spring brought with it the promise of summer and the air had the familiar aroma of daffodils and petrichor. I had decided to go to a party with my friend Faun, my dad having been out at his girlfriend’s place for the weekend and me having nothing better to do. I wasn’t one for partying, but I did like to get high, so I usually just hung around with the rest of the potheads and pill junkies until someone dragged me home or I fell asleep. That night Don, a friend of a friend of a friend, had brought coke and E and we were all determined to get as fucked up as possible. Faun only ended up doing one line before running into a bedroom with some guy whose name started with an M – was it Martin or Marvin? Maybe it was Mickey – and left me sitting on the couch beside a girl who was about 1 more shot of vodka away from passing out.

I had fully intended on doing some coke, but the E seemed to be hitting harder than I was used to. I was sure my Ritalin had worn off by then but maybe I was wrong. As I stood up to get a glass of water I nearly fell over and decided to sit back down. Turning to face Don, I tapped him on the shoulder trying to get his attention.

“What was in that molly?” I was vaguely aware of the way my words were slurring, but I felt weirdly energized. I was aware my heart was beating a little too fast, but I couldn’t concentrate on anything. I knew what ecstasy felt like, this was not nearly my first time doing it, but I felt really wrong.

“Don!” He turned to look at me and I felt uneasy. His eyes looked a little crazed – not that out of the ordinary but given the circumstances I was worried – “What the fuck did you give me?” It felt like I’d done 5 lines of coke in the last 2 minutes and I knew that E had been spiked.

Don’s face had an unmistakable expression of guilt written on it as he leaned down and whispered in my ear, his voice shaking, “I think it was cut with meth.” Fuck. My stomach dropped. I have to get out of here. I quickly shot up from the musty couch I was sat on, carefully holding onto Don’s shoulder so I didn’t fall, my legs still feeling unsteady. I opened my phone; the screen was too bright, and I had a hard time maneuvering it as I attempted to exit the house. Clicking the green Messages icon, I sent a text to Faun – e ws cut w meth im lesving – with shaky hands and burst out the door into the fresh air. I clicked my brother’s contact and pressed call.

It rang four times before he picked up.

“Nia? Why are you calling me it’s like 1am?” I could tell from the smooth tone of his voice he’d been drinking. He didn’t very often but he had an appreciation for cocktails and enjoyed getting buzzed now and then. He still was a year from being legal to drink but his friends we’re all 19 and 20 and bought alcohol for him. I found him fun when he got drunk, becoming talkative and giggly, but right now I wished so badly for him to be sober.

“Ray, hey listen I need you to come pick me up.” I was slurring, my voice a bit too pitchy to pass as anything but high. I knew he didn’t like it when I did this, but he never ratted me out. Sometimes I wish he did, maybe I never would’ve been able to go to that party in the first place.

I could hear a door shutting on his end, I assumed he was going into a different room. “What’s wrong?” My skin was bubbling with anxiety at the prospect of having to tell him what I did.

“Fuck, uh… I did something stupid. I’m at Emily Goguen’s, y’know up in Champlain Heights. Please pick me up.” I rarely used the word please.

“Nia, what the fuck did you do?” I almost started crying but I found my eyes to be bone dry.

“Please don’t yell.”

“Okay, really, tell me what is going on or I won’t come get you.”

“I accidentally took meth.”

“You what? What the fuck, Nia! Fuck this I’m on my way and I’m fucking telling Dad.” I cringed but I knew he was going to before I even called. The pit in my stomach grew deeper as the buzzing of my skin grew stronger. I could feel myself getting higher, everything was so clear and standing around was making me grow restless. Ray huffed on the phone and I heard him entering his car.

His tone was softer the next time he spoke. “I’ll be there in 5, just stay put, please. Do you want me to stay on the call or can I hang up?”

I felt like a child, which I was really, only 16 at the time, a whole life ahead of me. Still, I was grateful for the way he spoke to me, reminiscent of being 6 and getting a scrapped knee after falling off my pink Razor scooter. The high made me edgy, and my voice was sharp to my ears, “No, you can hang up.” I heard the click to indicate he’d done just that, and started pushing my cuticles as I waited, the task somehow greatly interesting me, and I did not realize until later I had managed to pick off all of the skin around my pointer and middle fingernails during the five-minute wait.

Ray pulled up exactly five minutes later in his ugly, blue 2011 Ford Fiesta he’d gotten the year prior after passing his driving test. What I wouldn’t do now to smell the inside of that car once again, a distinct attar of pineapple car freshener and Old Spice deodorant mixed with stale black tea, faintly present due to his ever-growing collection of empty paper cups from various different fast foods and coffee shops.

I stumbled into the car, feeling the strong impulse to clean the space, but attempting to push it down. From the passenger side overhead mirror I could see my blown pupils and sweaty forehead, pieces of my copper red hair sticking to my face. My freckles were showing through my concealer that had mostly worn off and I wanted to cover them back up. My skin was pale from winter (and probably the drugs in my system) but my cheeks were flushed like I was drunk. My high cheekbones made my face look gaunt in the lighting, but my face was wide which balanced it out, so I didn’t look completely skeletal. Ray was looking at me, the worry apparent in his eyes, but his face was flushed as well, and I could tell he’d been drinking a bit too much to drive. I had my license as well, but it was clear I was in no condition to take over on that front, so I didn’t bother saying anything. I wish I had. There’s a lot of things I wish. I wish I hadn’t gone to that party; I wish I hadn’t taken that E; I wish I called someone else; I wish I waited it out at Emily’s; I wish I walked home; I wish I took a cab; I wish I waited for Faun; I wish I wish I wish I wish I wish.

“Are you okay?” He didn’t take his eyes off me as I shut the mirror in front of me.

“Yeah, yeah I’ll be fine. Please just take me home.”

“Is Dad there?”

“No.”

“Maybe I should take you to Mom’s.”

“No!” I’d moved out of my mom’s completely just over 6 months ago, barely seeing her once a month. It was one of the best decisions I’d ever made. She never liked me much anyways, the feeling was entirely mutual. Ray seemed to have a close bond with her for some reason despite how she treated him like shit. I never called him out though, he no longer lived with her, so I didn’t really care what their relationship was as long as she wasn’t hurting him. She did treat him significantly better than me, however, so I figured maybe he managed to forgive her the way I never could.

“Okay, but I’m staying with you until Dad gets home. I’m not gonna lie to him about this shit. Fucking meth, Nia? Seriously?”

“It was in the molly.” He sighed and started driving.

My brain felt like it was filled with butterflies, or ants, some kind of movement that was itching at my skull. The paper cups scattered around were making me anxious and I needed to clean his car. I began picking at my nails again, but I needed to pick up those cups, you see. I turned around and started gathering the ones Ray had discarded in the back, filling up an empty plastic bag from Best Buy. I was fully switched around in my seat, nearly crawling into the backseat to reach the trash my brother had left. I felt him tap my side, I looked over at him and he started to scold me.

“Nia, stop that will you, you’re distracting me.” But I needed to finish gathering the cups. The car was dirty, and my skin was itching, the traffic lights burning my skin. I was elated and I didn’t want to listen to him, he was just trying to get in my way. I continued to lean over, not registering the swerve of the car as he looked over at me.

“Nia – ”

He turned over to push me back into my seat, his eyes leaving the road for no more than a few seconds. This time I felt the swerve as we broke into the next lane.

This is where I have a hard time piecing together what happened. From what I was told, we ended up running directly into a 2015 Dodge Ram 2500. In case you understandably have a lack of knowledge when it comes to cars, that is a very large, sturdy, and expensive pickup truck which I would probably consider the last vehicle you’d want to charge headfirst into while going 70km per hour. I don’t recall the actual incident of hitting the truck, whether that be from the drugs, the position I was in, or hitting my head on the roof of the car, I don’t know. What I do know is that when I woke up, we were in a ditch on the side of the road, with the car flipped upside down, and my entire body was screaming at me to Get Out!

I felt blood oozing sluggishly from my head and noted some indistinct pain in my right wrist where it had scraped something pretty badly and gotten twisted, but I otherwise felt alright. I couldn’t tell if the cloudiness in my head was from a concussion or the earlier events of the night, but I figured it was probably good I was awake, regardless of how dazed I seemed.

I turned my head to the left and was greeted by a view I will never be able to forget, it having been branded to the insides of my eyelids, scorched in my mind. Ray, with his left arm twisted in spectacular fashion, reminding me of Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, after Lockhart spells away Harry’s bones. My brother had always been squeamish with broken bones and I hoped he wasn’t aware of how his limb looked at the moment. His head was bleeding quite profusely, and I was alarmed despite how many times I’d heard in movies that headwounds bleed a lot. His eyelids were fluttering, irises appearing glassy and unfocussed. And then I saw it. A piece of glass was stuck in the left side of his neck. The windshield apparently had broken with the impact and my brother was lucky enough to get a piece lodged right in his trachea. It was thick, bright red blood – that I could’ve sworn was sparkling in my current inebriated perspective – was gushing out the side, so heavy I could smell it, taste it, in the air. I was frozen once I realized.

Do something, do something! Put pressure on it! Call 9-1-1! My mind was screaming at me, but it was all I could do to sit and watch the blood stain his clothes. He was wearing the corduroy jacket I’d gotten him for his birthday and a white button up, the red seeped into them until it was as if they’d always been that colour. My voice was caught in my throat, but I managed to push some sound past.

“Ray?” It was weaker than a whisper but in the silence that seemed to envelope us in that car, completely independent of the outside world and sirens that could surely be heard from blocks away, I knew he would be able to hear me.

He looked up, eyes focussing slightly on me, and a tear slipped down his face, only it went the wrong way since we were still upside down. He mouthed the words “I love you”. We never said that to each other. As close as we were, our relationship had always been more comparable to that of a best friend than sibling. We weren’t overly affectionate, never hugged or said I love you, hung out for enjoyment rather than as a punishment. Most people didn’t know we were brother and sister until we pointed it out, we never really looked alike and were absent of the traditional distaste and rivalry usually present between siblings. I knew, as he looked me in the eyes and said those words, this would be the last time I’d ever see him outside of a morgue.

I sat in my seat next to him with dry eyes, wishing desperately I could cry, needing to express the feeling of utter horror and despondency that completely overtook my body and mind, but I couldn’t. Barb told me time and time again that I was in shock, there was nothing I could’ve done, but I will never be able to believe that. I still remember the moment the final tear slipped down his face. He smiled at me, pain evident in his eyes. His entire body was covered in the metallic smelling red, and I wanted to vomit. I wish I could say the crash had sobered me, but it didn’t, not really. I was still entirely in a daze as I saw his muscles relax, smiling falling from his face, eyes not quite rolling back all the way but enough to give me nightmares for the next 20 years. The life had been absorbed from his body, leaving a heavy shell. I was told afterwards this all happened within the span of 10 minutes, but it felt like years. By the time the first responders had appeared I was an old woman. Grayed hair, and arthritic bones. Mourning for the brother I’d lost oh so many years ago, when I was just a girl. I think in a way I died in that car with him, I never was really the same. But who would be? Best friend and confidant, older brother, idol, dying in front of your eyes as you do nothing, knowing for the rest of your life that his death is – was – your fault. Knowing you could’ve done something, anything really, to prevent his untimely loss of life before the paramedics arrived. If I’d been the same after that night I would have to be much more disturbed than I ever thought.

I sat in that car beside Ray’s corpse for 3 more minutes before I heard the sirens closing in around us – me. I thought I might pass out, either from the toll of what I’d just witnessed or from my concussion, but I remained upright, probably from the adrenaline. I couldn’t move so I just waited, and hoped I’d die too before anyone reached the scene. It would be much preferrable to any other outcome I could think of at the time. I could vaguely register the pain in my wrist, but I felt so numb I’m sure you could’ve shot me in the foot and I wouldn’t have blinked.

A young fireman named Walter ended up getting me out of the car. The door was smashed and stuck which meant I’d been trapped in there either way. I was happy I hadn’t bothered trying to escape as I'm terribly claustrophobic and finding out I couldn’t would have thrown me into a proper panic attack. The fireman was incredibly nice, saying reassuring things the entire time they were opening the door with the “Jaws of Life”. I ended up seeing him again in the hospital actually, or at least that’s what my father told me. He wanted to check in on me and left me some hydrangeas in a vase. I always preferred chrysanthemums but I'm not that picky when it comes to a floral arrangement.

After the door was busted open I was carried out by Walter. I was shaking and apparently babbling nonsense but in my head I was trying to tell them to save Ray. I wasn’t really aware of all that much, completely blind to the crowd of spectators that had rudely gathered to witness the violence – wasn’t it supposed to be taboo to stop at a car crash? Wondering vaguely about what happened and wishing you could get a better look as you drive past the scene. My head wound had made me a bit incompetent and the meth in my system was really not helping the entire situation.

I was laid on a gurney and rolled onto an ambulance. I don’t remember much about the ride; the sirens, the bright lights, a paramedic named Alice who spoke softly, smoothing out my hair while the other put an oxygen mask on my face (which I wasn’t entirely cognizant enough to question though now I'm not really sure why they did it) and splinted my wrist. Alice asked me if I was on drugs and I nodded but was unable to speak when she asked me what ( I would find this a common occurrence after the accident, my voice seemingly stolen alongside Ray’s). She just nodded and said something to the other ME that I didn’t quite pick up. She asked if I could tell her my name and I shook my head. She must’ve noticed the iPhone in my pocket and grabbed it, turning to the medical ID page.

“Is your name Begonia?” I nodded, though the name sounded foreign on my ears. I liked the way Alice said it though, she had a light Spanish accent and a matronly tone that made me feel safe. I wondered if she had kids of her own; she looked young, but my own mother had me at 19 so who could say? She told me her name after complimenting mine. “Begonia is a beautiful name; I love the flowers. I’m Alice, okay? We’re gonna make sure you’re alright and take you to the hospital.” Her voice was sweet like syrup and I became sleepy as she spoke.

“No honey, you can’t fall asleep yet. Just stay awake a little bit longer and I promise you they’ll let you sleep at the hospital.”

I don’t remember anything of the rest of the ride to the hospital. I was dropped off at the Emergency Room at the Regional, head still too foggy to allow me to recall anything before I was sitting in a white bed, in a white room, with white sheets and a light blue hospital gown on. It was morning and my father was sitting at the end of my bed in an uncomfortable plastic chair, his eyes bloodshot and moist. He’d very obviously been crying for a long time and my chest panged with guilt. I reached up to feel my head and realized there was a cast on my wrist. With my other hand I touched the cotton that covered my forehead, wincing when I felt the sting of what had to be stitches in a nasty gash. I would spend the next 5 years of my life with a variety of diverse haircuts that attempted to hide the ugly scar that served as a reminder of the worst night of my life. Even now it is still extremely obvious, but I can’t be bothered to try and hide it, I so rarely look in the mirror that it wouldn’t matter if my skin turned blue.

My dad hadn’t looked up, so I attempted to gain his attention but once again found my voice failing me. I tapped on the bed a few times before he seemed to realize and face me.

“Nia… how are you feeling?” His voice was raspy and thin. He reeked of cigarettes and stale coffee, though this wasn’t anything out of the ordinary. I remained silent as he looked at me, searching my face for something I'm not sure he found.

“Nia, I, I'm not sure how to say this to you.” Here it comes. Almost worse than watching my brother die, the confirmation. “Ray, he’s, well dead.” I saw my father’s eyes begin to tear up again as I stared straight ahead. I couldn’t feel the sobs that racked my body, nor the hot tears streaming from my eyes. I saw my dad start to move closer but sit back down when I flinched. Of course, I knew my brother was dead; I had front row seats to watching the event happen, but somehow I still didn’t believe it until the words left my father’s mouth. According to my dad, who many years later described to me how eery the whole event was, my sobs were completely silent, and I was entirely unaware of everything happening around me. This dissociation lasted the first few days after the accident, and the entirety of my hospital stay. Leaving the blissful gap in my memory I have now.

Barb told me this was my mind’s way of coping with the tragedy and stress of what happened. I was honestly just happy I had an excuse to skip some of the dreadful retelling she forced upon me.

❈

The funeral was of course a depressing and solemn event. I was still yet to speak and found myself thankful for the way people gave up on trying to get me to communicate. I dressed in a black skirt with a black short sleeved button up. A dark coat thrown around my shoulders as the cast on my right hand was too big to fit through the sleeve. I looked terrible, barely a week out of hospital before I watched Ray sink into the ground. The wound on my forehead was still quite nasty, though it looked better than it did before. I tried to cover it up with my hair but was unsuccessful. I got bangs soon after.

The matter was very traditional, taking place in a church even though none of our family was really religious. It was only the second time I'd ever been in a church, the first having been for my cousin Julie’s wedding when I was four years old. I don’t remember anything of it aside from the material of my dress itching at my neck and making me rather miserable. Of course, not nearly as miserable as I was the day of the funeral, sitting in a pew at the front of the church, listening to a priest claiming Ray would’ve wanted us to celebrate his life. I knew this not to be true; Ray was extremely dramatic and would’ve cherished the thought of everyone he’d ever spoken to moping around for weeks after his death, beside themselves with grief. He sometimes referred to himself as “Romeo” after having been broken up with by another girl he was supposedly in love with, stating he better just stab himself in the heart now if he couldn’t have her. On the rare occasion he broke up with a girlfriend, he’d lounge around, eating ice cream, pretending to not be upset and comparing his cold heart to that of Richard VIII. The concept of him being any different over his death was almost comical; Ray was nothing if not predictable.

I sat beside my father, who sat beside my mother (it was an extremely awkward arrangement that neither I nor my father cared for) and seemed to have the idea that I could evaporate if I thought hard enough about it. Unfortunately, I did not evaporate, or even come close to it, instead finding myself exactly where I'd been the whole time. I mostly tuned out the service, only really paying attention when my father and Ray’s best friend, Jake spoke. I managed to escape the duty of having to speak that day thanks to my fragile mental state and mutism. Though I'm sure I would’ve been forced all the same if I had been able to talk in any capacity, regardless of where my head was at.

Faun was sitting in the pew behind me, feeling quite guilty about the whole ordeal. Or friendship dissolved soon after, I think she blamed herself for taking me to the party. It didn’t bother me too much though; we were never the closest and I sometimes thought her to be extremely annoying. An endless stream of shitty boyfriends that she only acquired so she could further repress her sexuality. When we were 14 we kissed at a sleepover and she admitted she was in love with me. I felt bad for not returning the feeling and our relationship had been on rocky territory ever since. I don’t understand how she thought she was in love with me since she barely knew anything about me, but either way she never brought it up again and soon after the monsoon of boytoys had begun.

My brother’s friends and ex-girlfriends also attended the event. I didn’t approach any of them, far too scared they’d blame me for the death of their friend. One of them, Alex, went up to me to say how sorry he was about everything that happened. He was crying quite heavily (I later found out he was the friend Ray had been drinking with and the second last person to see him alive) and I could smell alcohol on his breath. I stood there while he spoke, telling me about how great my brother was as if I was wholly unaware. Body waving side to side as he stood with his hand on the wall beside me. He offered me some bronze liquid in a flask, and I obliged, savouring the burning sensation that followed in my throat. Alex’s voice was steady and deep, reminding me of my father’s. I’m not sure how long we stood there, him spinning a fantastic web of anecdotes and stories about my brother, some entirely new to my ears. We passed the beverage back and fourth until it was empty. My head felt lighter and heavier somehow simultaneously, and I found it much easier to listen to Alex talk. Later he tried to kiss me in my bedroom during the wake. His mouth was sour, and his tongue seemed too big for his mouth. I wondered how he was able to talk so much without it getting in the way.

We moved in procession to the cemetery after the service. The grass was a vibrant green colour, and I didn’t understand how the world kept turning after Ray’s death, for mine stopped the moment his heart failed to beat. The sky was a lovely shade of cyan-blue, with clouds so perfect they seemed animated. Pink carnations were planted near the outskirts of the yard and I could smell spring in the air; a heavy, floral aroma that never failed to comfort me. I thought it should be raining, it felt inappropriate that the weather refused to match my despair. My mind wandered as we approached the empty grave and I considered what it would be like if Ray was here beside me. He’d probably be making jokes, telling me to lighten up for a minute or my face would get stuck that way. He’d mock my silence, saying how I never managed to shut up for a minute before but suddenly I'm as proper as a nun. I'd smile, ruffling his hair to piss him off and try to refrain from laughing aloud. The absence of him only felt stronger as I imagined this scenario, so I shoved it out of my head.

The casket was lowered into the ground, my father was a pallbearer and I often think about how he must’ve felt carrying his son’s body before watching him being buried. My mother sobbed loudly which annoyed me, it felt a bit exaggerated. I had a few tears falling from my eyes but mostly, I just felt numb. Incredibly and absolutely empty inside. To onlookers it may have seemed as though we weren’t very close, my reaction being similar to that of his ex-girlfriends’. However, this didn’t account for the loss of my voice, or the broken state I was in mentally. Maybe it was better that my reaction was rather dulled. It meant people didn’t feel the need to approach me as they did my mother. Less concerned given she was the one playing up her emotions to the point of embarrassment. My father cried, more than I but far less than my mother. He didn’t cry very often – I'd actually only seen it once prior to the whole event – and I figured he probably needed it. At this point I felt as though I'd shed enough tears to last a lifetime so Ray wouldn’t mind if I was a bit subdued in comparison. He never was a crier anyways.

As I sprinkled soil onto his casket I imagined he was right beside me, watching, ready to criticize as usual. The dirt stained my hand, clutching the sweat and turning my skin a muddy brown colour. As I wiped the dirt on my jacket I could hear him nagging about how I better go wash my hands, what was I, a six-year-old? He was in denial about me growing up and took every chance to remind me I was still just a kid. Not that he had much on me, but I enjoyed it. I never was one to shy away from attention; at least not before. Little quirks and inside jokes between us were always some of my favourite things, the type of humour you could only get from living with someone your whole life. No matter how much his memory will fade there are some things I can’t let myself forget. His mocking tone when he’d make fun of me is one of those things. If I ever managed to let go of that sound then I must be dead as well.

The sun beat down on my back, my skin burning in my black clothes. I wasn’t sweating yet, but most of the men around were – suit jackets aren’t exactly known for their breathability. My nose was dry and aching red, sore from how much I'd been wiping it the last couple days. Still the sweet seeping tinge of flowers and spring managed to crawl into my nose, settling underneath my skin, the buzzing from before had returned, I could feel my heartbeat loudly in my throat and had the desperate urge to just run. Instead, I just followed the rest of the party, sitting down in the passenger seat of my dad’s car. The silence that settled over us was uncomfortable and stale. He turned on the radio, Led Zeppelin filled the air around us, thankfully relieving some of the tension. I felt in my left pocket for one of the carnations I’d picked from a nearby grave earlier. The flower had begun to wilt, heat taking effect on its delicate composition. When I got home I put it in between the pages of my oldest copy of Romeo and Juliet. Ray would have found it funny if he was around to see.

The drive to my mother’s house was short and minimally awkward. We sat in silence – aside from the music – only because there was no alternative. My hand remained clutched around the dying flower in my pocket as we left the car and entered the home. Other people had already arrived, clustered in the living room, picking at tiny ham sandwiches and various desserts my mother had undoubtedly stress-baked the day before. I wasn’t hungry so I sat as far away from the food and people as humanely possible while staying in the living room, not wishing to hear my mother’s scolding about how I need to socialize more. Eventually I managed to slip away into my old bedroom, where Alex was sitting on my bed drinking a mickey of Smirnoff I assumed he swiped from my mother’s freezer. He offered it to me, and I accepted, the weird repetitive déjà vu like act, mirroring earlier and making the whole day feel like somewhat of a dream.

When I went over this part with Barb she always felt the need to emphasize that it wasn’t a dream. I knew this, obviously, which I told her every time, but she was inclined to disbelief when it came to my denial over my brother’s death. “Begonia, you must realize he’s gone. Dwelling is helping nobody, especially not you. This isn’t a healthy mindset for you to have. Always comparing living to your dreams. I want you to tell me you understand this isn’t just some dream you can wake up from.” The first time she said that to me I was thrust into a bout of wordlessness, as it struck a bit too close to home. The next time she brought it up I just told her of course, though even now I still cannot say I fully understand. How can I when all of my assumptions have been constantly disproven time and time again. How can I ever say this isn’t a dream when I'm not even sure I'm real? James always tries to reassure me, “Bee, I'm telling you, if you can feel this beat, the pulse in your wrist, your neck, your chest, you are alive,” he’ll say while pressing my hand to my wrist, but we both know it isn’t that simple.

Me and Alex made out for a few minutes until I managed to excuse myself. He was a bad kisser and tasted disgusting. I left him sitting on my old bed while I went downstairs to find my dad. He was sitting at the counter with a can of root beer, blank expression sat upon his face. When his eyes met mine he sighed, grabbing his keys out of his pocket. It was obvious neither of us wanted to be here, for numerous reasons, so we left. And if the radio stayed off as we drove home we didn’t acknowledge the silence that time. In my hand was the crumpled carnation, and for some reason it made my chest hurt. A deep ache of dread. I could feel my heartbeat, hear it over the drum of the car engine, and I crushed the flower further. I was careful not to rip it though, as if that was crossing some kind of invisible line my mind had set for me. My fingers felt waxy when I finally let go.

Back home, I opened the copy of Romeo and Juliet. I retrieved the deteriorating plant from my pocket and placed it in the center. Closing the book, I stacked it under a few dictionaries, a magazine under it so it was trapped on either side. I sat down in front of it and cried. Not the huge gasping sobs my mother seemed to fancy, nor the quiet weeping of my father. No, I cried the tears of a child who just found out their grandparents died, the soft uncomprehending grief that overcame them as they first learned what death really meant. How long forever was. My legs pulled up to my chest, hands loosely hung around knees, unable to clasp together because of my cast. I closed my eyes and I swear I could hear the sound of Ray sighing behind me, but when I opened my eyes I was alone. I went to bed, earlier than I ever had in my life, still believing it was a dream and I'd wake up like Alice after her adventures in Wonderland. But when I awoke, I was met with the slow, oozing perdure of my reality. The one which I could not wake up from, and the one where my brother was dead.

#my writing #writing #original writing #original content #original fiction #creative writing #dark academia #tw death #tw drugs #tw mentions of sex #tw swearing #tw mental illness #tw medication #alo writes

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stfreds-arc · 5 years ago

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@perdefinitio asked : unusual hcs: 8, 12, 20, 26, 50 !! ( i really wanna know all of them but tried to restrict myself haha. ) / unusual hcs , not accepting !

8 —— what do they sleep in ? pj’s, normal clothes, nothing ?

it’s safe to say that, at any time of day or night, you’ll find her sleeping in some combo of t-shirts and underwear or sweatpants. it mostly depends on the climate ( read: verse ), but she doesn’t own actual pajamas or nightwear or anything like it. in her main verse ( southern california ) it’s mostly a tank top and her underwear, that’s about it. in verses where she’s relocated to colder places ( i.e. uk ) it’s t-shirts and sweatpants, but never anything fancier than that. ( she’s also always barefoot which must NOT be nice for anyone sleeping with her and her frostbitten feet ).

12 —— do they prefer sleeping alone or with someone else ?

this… this is a tricky one. if we ignore all her issues with intimacy and relationships for a second, however, fred 100 % prefers to sleep with someone else. the reasoning is simple — she DOESN’T sleep when she’s on her own, not really. most of the time she sleeps a couple hours a night, rides a wave of exhaustion until she’s worn herself down and falls into what constitutes more a coma than sleep for a whole day ( usually her day off ). when on her own, her sleep is UNEASY — it tends to be light, awaken by the tiniest noise, and when they don’t wake her it’s because she’s being haunted by nightmares ( one of them is recurring, and she dreads going to sleep because of it, too ). she can only really SLEEP when she’s with someone else she truly cares about. it doesn’t have to be someone she has romantic feelings for, it can be a close friend or a platonic connection of any kind, as long as she TRUSTS them to keep her safe, or to at least care about her enough that she can let go a little, unwind, relax.

20 — what do they hate being teased about ? are they teased often ?

freddie only really has two big achilles’ heels ( aside from her whole past, obviously, but that’s nothing she’d just casually mention to anyone who wasn’t an extremely close connection ) : the first involves being called ANY sort of misogynistic slur, which drives her angry to the point of INSANITY but her anger is almost always aimed at herself, and from the outside might look closer to HEARTBREAK. ( ‘lighter’ ones aren’t that much of a problem: things like bitch make her laugh, she’d happily call herself that when joking or making a point — the ‘heavier’ ones however have brought her close to tears once or twice ). the second, the most commonly exploited, is her EDUCATION —— as she never really had one ( dropped out of high school on her last year, barely made it through the first years in the first place ) freddie’s often self-conscious about voicing her thoughts, opinions and beliefs as she’s afraid of coming off as ‘ stupid ’ or ‘ ignorant ’. that’s why anyone makes fun of her for being uneducated her mood is utterly ruined and it turns into self-hatred. she’s good at hiding it, and usually, when made fun of, she’ll smile politely and go quiet, but deep down it’ll truly destroy her self esteem ( any more than it already destroyed itself tbh ). as for the latter question, i wouldn’t say she gets teased often on these matters ( she makes a good job of protecting herself from potentially exposing herself too much ). her friends do tease her, but for quirks she has no problem admitting — her reckless driving, her inability to cook, her being a cat lady, etc.

26 — what are they most passionate about ? what could they debate about for hours ?

books, music and movies. it’s quite predictable, true, but she loves her stories passionately: though one might never say it ( she makes a good job of hiding it with sarcasm and all the usual barriers she puts up to keep herself SAFE ), freddie’s a huge ROMANTIC, which makes her extremely passionate in regards to certain types of media. she could go HOURS discussing a character’s motives in a particularly engaging novels, as well as get into heated arguments about entire discographies of her favorite bands. you’ll seldom see her burn with this much PASSION for anything other than stories with tragic characters and impossible happy endings, really.

50 — where do they see themselves in 2 / 5 / 10 years ?

ah, okay, this is a REALLY good one. because the thing is, in order to see herself in the future you need to have PLANS and fred just… doesn’t. or, better yet: she doesn’t think she’ll be allowed to. deep down she believes her PAST is gonna catch up with her for a reckoning, and that’ll mean either going back to work for victor in some capacity or probably die. right now she’s just happy with SURVIVING — she’d like to keep surviving a few years more, but the way she sees it right now, it’s unlikely. ( deep down she nurtures the dream of getting a family, maybe buying the bar off peter’s hands eventually, making a name for herself — these are fantasies she won’t let herself indulge in, however, as she’s firmly convinced they’ll just break her heart when they inevitably fall apart ).

#perdefinitio #hc.#inquiries.#i .... love u these were all so good i'm.#i adore u <3

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thebeautyofdisorder · 5 years ago

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The Undone & The Divine (BBC Dracula) - Chapter 8

A/N: Okay, sorry it’s been like two weeks since I posted the last chapter. I am such a mess. This is a bit shorter, more of a set up than anything, but informative? I have so many ideas for this, that it took me a minute to figure out in sequence what’s going to happen when.

Pairing: Dracula & Agatha/Zoe, off and on Dracula/OFC

Rating: M, for blood, language, and mercenaries with guns.

Chapters 1-2 Here - Chapter 3 Here - Chapter 4 Here - Chapter 5 Here - Chapter 6 Here - Chapter 7 Here

Can be found on AO3 - Right HERE - or enjoy below the cut

Chapter 8

By all accounts he appears as a human man, at varying states of age depending upon how regularly and well he is fed, lingering even at his most satiated at around 45-50 years – presumably the age of his death. His hair is thick and inky black, kept shorter and slicked back when in public view; his nose aquiline and aristocratic; his eyes appear black at a distance but in close quarters and lighting seem to have a dark mossy-brown hue; admirable bone structure, and a mouth that is at times both harsh and jovial depending upon what impression he wishes to put across at the time. His accent is tainted by those of his victims, but always holds a slight thickness and gravel, reminiscent of his native tongue. His teeth, even when not in the state of blood frenzy, still seem longer and sharper than normal, particularly the canines. His fingernails also are long and honed to a point, and seem to be of inhuman durability and sharpness. He is excessively tall and somewhat broad, though of a generally slim build regardless of his bestial strength. No physical deformities upon the rest of his body when in his humanoid state, though his eyes can seem to gleam in the darkness like those of other nocturnal beasts.

When in the presence of human blood, those eyes dilate and become ringed in crimson, and all blunt edges of his teeth sharpen to slight but lethal points. Animalistic tendencies manifest – hissing, snarling, growling, the hunched stance of a predator, etc. Interestingly, he also seems to bare all the normative signs of the common morphine addict – tension, restless movements, irritability, the inability to control his emotions and behavior. He possesses speed the likes of which the human eye can barely detect, but only in small bursts in the midst of attack, by my witness. He was able to manifest a continual fog, as stated earlier in my narrative, and could very well be at fault for the storm swirling in the seas now, as I write. He can deform himself to fit into any small space, one could assume, though I have only seen him do this by defiling the physical forms of other living beings – notably a wolf at the convent, and the late Jonathan Harker, who was also undead at the time. Whether that’s relevant to this ability, I don’t particularly know. He can call wolves and bats to his service, and possibly flies – whether this works with all creatures and he’s merely chosen these for theatrical purposes, or if he’s limited to creatures of darkness and decay, I have yet to discover.

The ‘kiss of the vampire’ is a strong opiate, meaning most victims are often unaware of his bite or the danger they are in until it is too late. He can create and control the dream state in which they enter, often choosing scenarios of an erotic nature. Whether this is for his own amusement or because of the effect it has on the blood, I can only deduce. This method seems to be equally employed through both sexes though I have yet to see any direct indications of intercourse, willing or unwilling. If he possesses a sex drive at all, it is seemingly outranked by his desire to feed.

He is highly intelligent and possesses a biting wit, which in another context might even be endearing, and his charm is carefully honed to attract potential victims. Though his mental weaknesses are notable, including his arrogance, lack of self-awareness, and dependence on his victims to take in and retain key skills and information. As opposed to learning the language of a new land through study, he merely drains one of its countrymen and absorbs their inherent knowledge. This leads to a flurry of unpredictable behavior and reckless death, and also speaks of his impatience and lack of discipline, which has undoubtedly lessened with age. He was, in life, an excellent ruler and even better general with a skill for strategy currently wasted on petty mind games. If he could ever reach a point of managing his appetite for blood and destruction, he could be an invaluable resource - a first-hand witness to the last four hundred years of European history.

I’m sure you will, dear brother, quickly dismiss this as folly, but however much you would like to categorize him as yet another mindless demon from the pit, I assure you he is anything but. He may fear the cross, but don’t think there is a heavenly power that instilled that fear. It reeks of an entirely human weakness. You would do well to remember that, should you run across him or any of his kind in the future. While his existence seems to have been very luck of the draw, it’s nowhere near as anomalous as Dracula himself would like us to believe. Others could have survived and done what he has done. In fact, I could almost guarantee it.

Zoe read through Agatha’s words again, this particular afterward for maybe the twentieth time since she’d found it. Not for any particular information, more over just marveling at the clarity, simplicity, and dare-she-say fondness with which it was written, in comparison to the information she’d been brought up with. Shockingly, the nun was able to more realistically sum up the vampire than any other Van Helsing before or after her (granted, she had the firsthand experience), and with so much less fire and brimstone, religious nonsense. It was half of why she’d spent so long away from ‘the family business’ as it were, until she’d had to take over the institute. Science had always been the only god she would acknowledge.

Whatever logic Agatha had administered from across the pond however, while well used, had been entirely riddled with her elder brother’s showmanship and particularly Catholic brand of fending off the forces of darkness. Agatha may have seen him as the devil incarnate, but that didn’t stop her from acknowledging his humanity – and in that, Zoe couldn’t help but agree. Dracula was very much still a man, no matter how immortal or powerful, and he still had all of man’s other weaknesses, sans physical vulnerabilities. Minor detail.

She supposed it had made it easier for both the zealot and the scientist to see their subject of animosity as no better than a rabid dog that needed to be analyzed and destroyed. But that had never been the case at all. A self-serving lesson to learn, she had to admit, but an important one. So long as he had retained some of his humanity, there was certainly hope for her.

It was the only thing keeping her sane through the mock trial this experiment had turned into. Every turn she was being questioned and analyzed harder than she had since grad school, and yet still regarded as the antagonistic and dangerous party. It was a contradiction that made her genuinely question the mental capacity of her colleagues.

Yes, let's aggravate the person we're terrified of. Honestly.

Their latest critique, however she loathed to admit it, was actually sound. They needed a control. A 'direct contact' feed to compare to her bottled one, and they all knew there was only one vampire to compare to. Clearly they didn't actually expect him to participate, they only wanted to de-legitimize her process.

But it would make an impact, wouldn't it?

-----

It was just before sunset, traces of red just beginning to seep onto the surface of the sun, and for the first time in a great while, Count Dracula was unenthused. He was beginning to be rather fond of daylight, even if it came with certain disadvantages, as he was beginning to discover. Perhaps vampires were better off as creatures of the night after all.

Most if not all of his preternatural abilities were greatly weakened by the sun, though why he wasn't sure. It made him feel languid and slow, which was perfectly fine for an afternoon on the beach, but highly inconvenient when he got hungry and none of his more willing resources were available. Physical conditioning or a lesser reality of the lore he'd always accepted, who was to say?

Who indeed.

He had given Zoe plenty of space to run her little experiments without interference, aside from keeping an 'eye' out to ensure she wasn't in any immediate danger. But there was only so long that would last, and despite having ample opportunity to create more brides...he felt like he needed more answers before that inevitability occurred.

Agatha had been right, annoyingly, as usual. Lab rats were not something he needed, especially ones who could question him on topics even he didn't fully understand anymore.

If the Van Helsing women were good for anything, aside from healthy competition, it was certainly bluntness and clarity. Being the only thing close to another vampire of any mental capacity to be in his proximity for over 300 years certainly didn't hurt.

Zoe Van Helsing was someone he needed, a concept he could scarcely understand and wasn't entirely fond of, but if he wasn't mistaken, she needed him as well - and hated it even more.

----

"Dr. Helsing, is this really necessary?"

Zoe found herself staring at the younger but far more egotistical doctor through the glass that separated them with an expression not unlike one would give a particularly frustrating insect who refused to die as fast as she wished it would.

"Is what necessary?"

The man, Dr. Connors, pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, punctuating his next words with unnecessary flare.

"Well, our sponsor doesn't understand the necessity of this trial, when it cannot possibly prove anything. All of our intel on the 'vampiric condition' states simply that they require blood to sustain life, but also that it's nearly impossible to kill them. Surely your continued … existence without blood doesn't fully prove or disprove anything. And without anything to compare it to…"

"For now," she interrupted stubbornly, attempting to ignore his tendency to discuss her as though she were a theoretical construct.

"Even so," he continued blandly, "There are surely better uses of our time, in the face of an increasing number of...undead. Preventative measures, protection for the innocent. Unless you can get some sort of control data…"

Their 'sponsor' had sent this idiot to report back on how his precious money was being spent, and it had become an increasingly infuriating thorn in her side. Or stake in her heart, she was sure he hoped. Zoe had just begun to second guess her tendencies toward homicide, when she felt the tell-tale hairs begin to rise on the back of her neck.

"Oh fuck me," she cursed aloud, completely indifferent to the confused looks of those observing her. They wouldn't be confused for long.

"Careful what you wish for Doctor."

Everyone but Zoe took a startled glance around. She turned around, eyes directly finding the dark ones on the outside of the glass, quirking a stern brow despite the relative chaos of everyone else receding into the corners in panic.

Count Dracula merely flashed her a shit-eating grin in response, relishing her disapproval in equal measure to the human fear beginning to fill the room. Pungent and yet satisfying, she noted, rather unhappily.

"Oh Zoe how the tables have turned," he couldn't resist prodding at her through the encasement, ignoring the guns pointed at his back in favor of taunting her, hands in his pockets. The picture of malicious nonchalance.

She wasn't trapped, as he had been. They'd learned their lesson in that regard at least, but it was a barrier she'd permitted for her own sanity. Watching everyone walk on eggshells around her was grating, and it ruined her focus. Plus, it helped with the sensory overload until she got more accustomed to it.

"And yet you're still the one at gunpoint," Zoe shot back with a hint of a blithe smile.

He turned and directed his overly fond smile towards the tattooed gentleman with the over-sized assault weapon, greeting him like an old friend. The man that Zoe had never seen with a single facial expression looked so dumbstruck that she had to fight down a laugh. This was apparently the last straw for their visiting dictator.

"Count Dracula," came more of a squeak than a shout from the bespectacled doctor's mouth, with such a forced amount of distaste that Zoe was now certain he had lost his mind entirely. "You will not be permitted to attack anyone here."

Shooting Zoe an incredulous look, mostly as she could read translating to ‘Is he serious?’, the vampire watched her answering eye roll very obviously telling him ‘He's an idiot, but reports to the money’.

Dracula finally looked away from their silent exchange, and took out a small pocket flask, not unlike the one he'd left her before, and shook it in the other man's general direction as he passed by him with total indifference.

"Not to worry, I brought my own," he stated, opening it and taking a long swig. It cleared a direct pathway for him easily, bee-lining for Dr. Bloxham who sat at the control panel. She naturally flinched on his approach, despite trying to hide it. He noticed and flashed her a charming smile, to his credit only showing the slightest hint of fang.

"Terribly sorry about the finger," the Count apologized humbly, almost convincingly sincere as he draped a long arm over the back of her chair. "...But would you mind letting me in?"

Bloxham looked somewhat confused. "You want to go in there?" Her eyes shot up to the ceiling. The sun had not completely set. He gave her an encouraging smile with a faint trace of pity.

"I would love to go in there."

Zoe merely rolled her eyes and tapped on the table with relative impatience, as he paced through the parted seas of scientists and interns alike to join her in the completely ineffective glass prison.

"You evil little thing, you didn't tell them," he accused with quiet glee as he approached her from the opposite side of the table.

"If their superstitions help them feel safe, then all the better for me," she excused in a murmur, hoping he hadn't just given the game away completely.

His grin was one of near pride, as he bent his tall form forward to rest his hands on the table. "I can go slit his throat if you want me to. Heaven knows you won't."

She sighed, not trusting herself to answer. "Why are you here?" she asked instead.

"You needed me, didn't you?"

------

Okay, so this could go really amusingly or very terribly - we’ll see what I come up with, eh? Shouldn’t be as long of a wait this time, fingers crossed.

Tag List: @break-free-killer-queen @mephdcosplay @charlesdances @punk-courtesan @crowley-needs-a-hug @hoefordarkness @bellamortislife @malkaviangirl @imagineandimagine @chelsfic @dracula-s-bride @my-fanfic-library @hyacinth-meadow @mymagicsuitcase @littlemessyjessi @desperatefrenchwriter @ss9slb @crazytxgradstudent @claesbang @mr-kisskiss-bangbang @gettingcrazyforlife @carydorse @dreamerkim @gatissed @alhoyin @girlonfireice @festering-queen @jangleprojet @guardianbelle @vampiregirl1797

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#bbc dracula #dracula 2020 #claes bang #dracula #dragatha #zoe van helsing #my writing #the undone & the divine

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