luke-o-lophus

[luke-o-lophus]

[luke-o-lophus]

Day before yesterday I had an unusual nightmare. I re-experienced the screams and shouts of my father. Not heard, not recalled, experienced. I remember being shocked in my half awake state how realistic it was. How vivid that memory was.

It baffles me thinking those memories are locked somewhere in my mind in all their vividness. Sure I _remember_ it happened, but I don't experience the specifics when I think back. But they're there somewhere...locked up, detailed, ugly.

[luke-o-lophus]

Ides of March, do your thing

likes to charge, reblogs to cast

[luke-o-lophus]

I don't know who needs to see this: Sense of Foreshortened Future

In my teens, I thought I'd die before I was 20. And in my 20s, before I was 30. Not that I had any plans to seek death. It wasn't about depression. Truly, in my heart, I knew I would die. I thought my body was telling me something, prescience or foresight. I'm in my 30s rn.

It's a trauma response. Your body is lying to you.

If you grew up like me, with very little agency and a family that made every day seem precarious, of course you'll have trouble believing you have a future.

You're going to see your 20s. Live into your 30s. Your 40s. Your 50s. You'll have great friendships and heartbreak and it's okay to set goals. You're going to do great things.

Right now, so many people in my life have this sense of foreshortened future.

No one knows what to call it. They feel ashamed to talk about it. It makes them feel alone. You're not! Many, many of us feel just like this.

Things aren't hopeless. We have each other. And we all have to live, if only to say 'fuck you' to a bunch of assholes trying to steal our futures.

[luke-o-lophus]

sometimes my brain just goes “remember that time this extreme traumatic thing happened??”

[luke-o-lophus]

My PTSD from childhood abuse and my borderline personality disorder are NOT an excuse for me to be a shitty person.

So stop using your shitty childhood and mental health issues as an excuse to be a shitty person.

Own up

Grow up

Do better

Our past provides an explanation for our automatic reactions and behaviors, but it NEVER gives us an excuse to continue being a shitty person when we have the capability to do better.

[luke-o-lophus]

[luke-o-lophus]

I love writing on Tumblr. There's so little pressure to write well. Because that's what I am: a writer. Not necessarily a good one.

[luke-o-lophus]

Nobody told us following our dreams is gonna be so lonely

[luke-o-lophus]

grieving the person you used to be

marian keyes// ?// bigger than the whole sky, taylor swift// fiona apple// @inkskinned// would've, could've, should've, taylor swift// father, the front bottoms// @inanotherunivrse// ?// memento mori, crywank// @dakotajohnsongf// @ryebreadgf// quote: deathless, catherynne m. valente edit:? // bojack horseman s6 e16// a pearl, mitski// would've, could've,should've, taylor swift// ?// @fridayiminlovemp3 // ?// @heavensghost

[luke-o-lophus]

Without a doubt the writing I'm proudest of. Is it my best? Idk. Does it make me go "_I_ wrote this?" .. absolutely

Trials, Errors

(Marc-centric, inside his thoughts, so prepare for angst. TW for deep dive into abuse, trauma, self harm, suicidal thoughts, panic attacks...the whole suite)

It's a wonder Marc has made it this far, into his thirties. When he'd stepped into teenage years, he'd never thought he'd survive this long. He doesn't remember very well what he felt back then, but he isn't sure if teenaged him had even wanted to.

His memories are just that, a mess. There's a splattering of good and bad in them. He remembers his middle school friend, that one guy who stuck with him for three years until their family moved away. Marc wants to reconnect with him now, he often wonders what he's up to these days. Did he marry, did he grow up to be an astronaut like he dreamed? Marc doesn't know; he doesn't even know his name anymore.

Marc remembers his first kiss when he was fourteen. The girl, again nameless, had kissed him on a sweet summer afternoon in late April. She'd held his hand gently; he remembers her soft lips and her big eyes and her pastel pink top. That's all he remembers, and a flash of her shy smile. But his mind blocks that train of thoughts if he tries to dig any deeper.

It feels wrong to have good memories from those years.

Marc often wonders why, why he refuses to forget. Why he must remember in meticulous detail everything She did to him, and everything he did to himself. As if he'll do some injustice to his younger self if he forgets and moves on. As if bearing the physical scars isn't enough, he must be a living memorial to that abuse. Maybe he worries that Steven will somehow get access to those memories and get hurt if he lets go of them even a tiny bit. A flimsy logic, maybe, but the best he comes up with.

It's a wonder Marc made it this far, considering he's survived by trial and error. Trying to be smaller, quieter so his mother doesn't get as annoyed with him. Trying to be cold, even rude, in school so nobody comes close enough to notice something is deeply wrong. Trying to stave of the gnawing, all-consuming urge to just end everything by toeing the line he wasn't sure he wanted to cross. A scratch here, a cut there. Trying to get safer, better at it. If Wendy noticed his skin bore more marks than She'd left him with, She made no mention of it.

Marc remembers being terrified, like a vaccum was sucking the air right from his lungs with every failed gasp. Dragging nails on the walls of his room, lips parted in a silent scream and begging for it to be over. Hugging the side of his study table for some comfort.

It's always been lonely, it'll always be.

Marc sips his coffee standing in the balcony of their new apartment. Steven had insisted on getting a flat with a balcony once they had the money to afford it, and Marc didn't have the heart to tell him the idea terrified him a bit. He stands a good foot away from the edge of the balcony. He knows what thoughts could intrude his mind if he leans any closer to the edge, a physical form of the line he's been trying to avoid for as long as he can remember. London traffic drones several storeys below, and the afternoon sunrays are too mild to give any real warmth.

It's a wonder Marc made it this far just by trial and error. He must have done some things right, he guesses. Like letting Steven in, like switching to an electric trimmer and throwing away the blades, like buying himself a nice chocolate cupcake on his birthday.

Maybe he'll dig deeper in his memories someday, maybe he'll get Steven to help him. Maybe cherishing some good memories from those years won't feel criminal someday.

All he can do is try.

[luke-o-lophus]

Ik this is dark and depressing, and more of a character study than a 'story' but it's among the pieces I'm proudest of

God Forbidden

Summary : Marc finds himself in his hotel room between the meeting with the Gods and his search for Senfu's sarcophagus. He takes a moment to let his thoughts deepen, darken.

Warnings: Marc's mental health, ableism, blood mentioned but no violence, self depreciating thoughts, suicidal thoughts, dark character study, ANGST

Marc doesn't remember returning to his hotel room. His feet find their way there, or maybe that's how the magic of the Great Pyramids works. Maybe a portal opened up to bring him here. He absently fumbles through pockets for the key, eyes trained on the dried streaks of blood all over his arm as he unlocks the door. To the mess he had left the night before.

Marc often fantasizes about coming back to a clean, safe, warm home after a long day of work. It's a luxury he has been privy to for only a short period and may just have gotten addicted to. Tt's gone back to the old ways ever since he parted ways with Layla.

Then again, he isn't sure what he did today counts as 'work'. He hadn't known he'll be thrust into a meeting with the literal Gods when he left this room earlier today. He drops onto the bed with a sigh, covering his eyes with an arm. His wrists throbbed, a phantom crawl of pulsating energy. He allows himself to scrunch his face, a whimper bubbling at the throat. He's trying not to think of what just happened, but his mind is being treacherous, rewarding him with vivid flashes of memory.

This is a man who does not know his own name.

This is a safe space to tell us if you feel exploited by Khonshu.

This is not about my feelings.

He has done no crime.

Marc should be used to it by now, but it somehow still hurts. So many times he thought he has done it, he's free from the grasp of his mental health. When he established himself as a capable marine, he'd thought he'd finally made it. Then the harsh cold reality hit him in the face, and he was left with the realization that it will never be enough. First putting his life on the line for his country and now for goodness knows who, he's still reduced to a broken mind. Nobody pauses to glance at what he has managed to achieve despite that. Even when he himself sets his feelings aside, it's still not enough, and people wonder why he doesn't open up more. It's not worth it.

There's an ache in his lower back, an annoying sting at his knees. That memory has him rolling aside and curling his legs to his core. Harrow towering over him, standing between his subdued form and the council of Gods. How easily Harrow had pretended to care for his well-being and used it as leverage against him. After all, who believes the words of someone who is unwell, needs help? Not even the Gods.

They weren't his Gods, but they were somebody's. And they had seen everything, done nothing. Deep embarrassment crawls through Marc's veins. He had just admitted to a room full of beings that he was in need of help...when has that ever gone well? Hasn't he learnt enough?

There's a residual burn in his throat, courtesy of Khonshu's shouting. He isn't suprised, but he lets himself be a little disappointed that Khonshu did not tell him he'd take over his body. That the God did not see the need to get his consent, hell even inform him. He does not understand, but again how can He?

Marc knows he should clean up soon, before the blood dries enough to need scraping off. But he lets himself slip into his thoughts for just a while. He wishes he could just slip away from all this, curled on soft covers in a nondescript hotel room. To not worry about the blood on his hands, the ache in his bones, the tears in his eyes. To give in to the exhaustion burrowed impossibly deep in his soul. He vaguely wonders if Steven ever feels like this. But no, Steven is too pure, too hopeful for such thoughts. This darkness is reserved just for him and whatever other monsters reside in his brain. Monsters whose begging whispers for help go unheard by a whole Council of Gods.

Maybe the only God who will regard him seriously is Ammit. She sounds like someone who could actually dish out what he deserves, and maybe even craves. At this moment obliteration doesn't seem too bad compared to what Khonshu puts him through...all to stop her. And for what?

He physically shakes off those thoughts, curls tangling even more at the movement. Clicks his tongue a few times to draw himself back to reality. There's a lot to do; find Senfu's sarcophagus, find Harrow, stop him. Swinging his legs off the bed, he sighs at the sight of the pyramids through the single window. A quick shower sounds good right now, a fresh shirt, a cap. Maybe it's not worth it, but he'll try. For Steven, for Layla, for whoever else who may die if Harrow succeeds. Or maybe, he'll die trying. Either way, that is worth it.

[luke-o-lophus]

Ok Imma tag the MK fandom here because idk how to deal with this because wtf. It has to do with identities. Imma start slow.

I know I used to disconnect from reality at times during my teenage years (context, heavy domestic abuse). I had an alternate life in my head where I played a character. Eventually I realised it was going too far and I was losing track of reality and forced myself to cut ties with that identity. It was awfully difficult. But I stopped all the activities I'd do to 'connect' to that world, that character, and others in that universe. This was when I was still young and had no access to therapy. By the time I could go to therapy (at 19) this wasn't the primary issue at all, and there were much bigger issues. This thing didn't occur as a thing to talk about in light of everything else...just a quirky thing an imaginative kid did.

Lately I've been realising that in times of extreme stress, when I try to calm myself down, I start talking to myself as "we" and "us". I've apparently been doing it for ages but it struck me only recently. I was like huh, wonder what that's about. Didn't think much of it.

NOW I'm going through my old journal and a short paragraph makes my blood run cold.

Dated August of 2015, I'm writing "Dafuq should I do about my alter? I can't stop from doing what she does...I do. I am her. She is me. We are one. But I don't agree all the time. Actually ever."

Idk why my reaction was to come here and yap. Guys, I didn't know much about personality dissociation and all before watching MK. I didn't know the term "alter". WHAT THE FUCK WAS I WRITING HERE. Is there something about me I don't know.

[luke-o-lophus]

Update, found two entries where I am writing out conversations with... myself? In a script format

I have NO MEMORY of these wtf

Ok Imma tag the MK fandom here because idk how to deal with this because wtf. It has to do with identities. Imma start slow.

I know I used to disconnect from reality at times during my teenage years (context, heavy domestic abuse). I had an alternate life in my head where I played a character. Eventually I realised it was going too far and I was losing track of reality and forced myself to cut ties with that identity. It was awfully difficult. But I stopped all the activities I'd do to 'connect' to that world, that character, and others in that universe. This was when I was still young and had no access to therapy. By the time I could go to therapy (at 19) this wasn't the primary issue at all, and there were much bigger issues. This thing didn't occur as a thing to talk about in light of everything else...just a quirky thing an imaginative kid did.

Lately I've been realising that in times of extreme stress, when I try to calm myself down, I start talking to myself as "we" and "us". I've apparently been doing it for ages but it struck me only recently. I was like huh, wonder what that's about. Didn't think much of it.

NOW I'm going through my old journal and a short paragraph makes my blood run cold.

Dated August of 2015, I'm writing "Dafuq should I do about my alter? I can't stop from doing what she does...I do. I am her. She is me. We are one. But I don't agree all the time. Actually ever."

Idk why my reaction was to come here and yap. Guys, I didn't know much about personality dissociation and all before watching MK. I didn't know the term "alter". WHAT THE FUCK WAS I WRITING HERE. Is there something about me I don't know.

[luke-o-lophus]

Ok Imma tag the MK fandom here because idk how to deal with this because wtf. It has to do with identities. Imma start slow.

I know I used to disconnect from reality at times during my teenage years (context, heavy domestic abuse). I had an alternate life in my head where I played a character. Eventually I realised it was going too far and I was losing track of reality and forced myself to cut ties with that identity. It was awfully difficult. But I stopped all the activities I'd do to 'connect' to that world, that character, and others in that universe. This was when I was still young and had no access to therapy. By the time I could go to therapy (at 19) this wasn't the primary issue at all, and there were much bigger issues. This thing didn't occur as a thing to talk about in light of everything else...just a quirky thing an imaginative kid did.

Lately I've been realising that in times of extreme stress, when I try to calm myself down, I start talking to myself as "we" and "us". I've apparently been doing it for ages but it struck me only recently. I was like huh, wonder what that's about. Didn't think much of it.

NOW I'm going through my old journal and a short paragraph makes my blood run cold.

Dated August of 2015, I'm writing "Dafuq should I do about my alter? I can't stop from doing what she does...I do. I am her. She is me. We are one. But I don't agree all the time. Actually ever."

Idk why my reaction was to come here and yap. Guys, I didn't know much about personality dissociation and all before watching MK. I didn't know the term "alter". WHAT THE FUCK WAS I WRITING HERE. Is there something about me I don't know.

[luke-o-lophus]

I love that I discovered fandom at my age (68). I’m retired after 40+ years of working full time. My kids are grown and my grandkids are young adults. I finally have the time to follow interesting people on sites like this, who broaden my perspectives and stimulate thought. I’ve immersed myself into the world of fan fiction where I’ve discovered extraordinary authors who so generously share their talent and creativity. This is truly a rich and delightful time in my life. I’m so grateful for Good Omens, the show that introduced me to this fandom that means so much to me.

#Never too old for fandom

[luke-o-lophus]

Just found out there's a group on inaturalist dedicated to showcasing the silliest observations