#[ grownup logic...look she's trying to parent him the best she can...it's just that she's also a gremlin... ]

[fbfh]

here’s to always finding each other

pairing: percy x gn child of calliope reader

wc: 1.6k

warnings: percy kisses reader following a prior agreement that they don’t remember but it’s 100% consentual, you work retail, a hell yeah, memory loss, I think that’s it

summary: You didn’t really expect to have to spend your entire eight hour shift organizing shoe wax any more than you expected your fictional crush from middle school to be real and your boyfriend. Only one of those happened (and the shoe wax was still very disorganized when you left).

song rec: this lofi mix, boba manifesto - chris flemming (mostly as a joke but it slaps)

a/n: i am wOrKiNg oN tHiNgS!!!!!! It’s going well!!! expect some fun surprises soon!!!!!!!!!

Crouched down on the ground, rearranging an end cap of shoe wax in the men’s department wasn’t really what you thought being a grownup would be like as a kid. You can’t complain too much, the pay is pretty good and working conditions are decent - as much as they can be in retail. You stand up to check your progress (and stretch your legs) and notice that guy is still there. He’s been hovering around the athletic shirts and pants for a while, and he keeps checking his phone and looking around. You’re sure he’s probably just waiting for someone, but you’re considering asking if you can help him find anything. 

He has a vaguely familiar energy, and your stomach drops for a moment, hoping you don’t know him from school or something. God, that would be a nightmare. That’s happened to you once or twice, bumping into someone you went to school with, and it’s always as bad as you expect. 

‘You know what,’ you think, trying to see if you can fit the last few containers of wax on the shelf without making them topple over, ‘he’s probably fine. If he needs help he’ll ask for it.’ 

You go back to scanning and adjusting the prices of the clearance shoe polish - the company had changed their packaging recently, so it’s out with the old and in with the identical - but you still can’t shake the feeling of familiarity. 

He turns around, holding up an orange shirt that says ‘go for it’ in a ridiculous font, and you get a glimpse of his face. 

You crouch back down so he won’t catch you staring, and the realization dawns on you. He looks a lot like Percy Jackson from the books you read in middle school. Or was it high school? Everything between 6th grade and high school graduation is kind of blurry and confusing in your memory. Man, you should really re-read those, you heard there was a TV series in the works and you want to remember all the details for when it comes out. You’re a little surprised at how nervous that revelation makes you, like the feeling when you’re a kid going to a theme park and you can see the roller coasters as you pull into the parking lot. Weird. Anyway, it’s not the first time you’ve seen a customer who looks like a character from something. One time you saw someone who you swore looked just like Pidge from the Voltron reboot that came out a few years ago, and a coworker saw a girl who looked like an anime character she loves… Raka something? Her name sounded like gravity, but that wasn’t it. You shrug, making a mental note to ask her about it later. 

You stand up once again to take one final look before you move onto the next end cap, and see that the guy is standing next to you. You look up at him, and all those weird feelings of excitement and something close to anticipation amplify, as you get a closer look at him. He really, really looks like Percy Jackson. Like if the Viria art was a real person. 

“Uh… hi, can I help you find anything today?” You ask, snapping out of your daze and into your customer service voice. He takes a second before answering, and you’re a little unnerved by the way he’s looking at you; warm and intimately, like he’s known you for years. 

“No,” he replies, a dreamy tone to his voice, “I’ve got everything I need.” You’re pleasantly surprised and a little freaked out that he even has the accent. Seriously, if he’s not already, this guy should really get into cosplay. Also, is he flirting with you? He seems to realize what he just said, and backtracks slightly. 

“Actually, um, I was wondering if you could help me out with something over here,” he says, and you agree, in your signature chipper tone. He guides you to a table covered in various sweatpants behind a mirror. 

He glances around again, and you have to ask. 

“You know, if you’re having trouble finding someone we can-”

“Walkie customer service to have my group meet me at the front desk.” He finishes seamlessly. 

“It’s not my first time at the rodeo,” he chuckles, and you get the feeling there’s more meaning behind what he’s saying, like an inside joke you’re not a part of. 

“Oh… yeah.” you say, and he can sense your surprise, “How did you…” you trail off, and he can sense the silent question in your voice. He lets out a breathy chuckle, cheeks flushed pink.

“Like this.” 

He catches your face in his hands, and presses his lips to yours. Your eyes widen in shock, mostly at the fact that you don’t feel threatened by his presence at all. You’re shocked at how comfortable you feel around him, how you feel in your bones that you’ve known him for years when the logical side of your brain is telling you that you first saw him ten minutes ago. He pulls away, searching your eyes for… something. 

“Uh…” you glance away, brow slightly furrowed, then back up at him, “what the fuck?” 

His expression softens, and he says gently, “Give it a minute.” 

You’re about to ask him to give what a minute, when a barrage of memories, feelings, people you don’t think you’ve ever met but seemed to be best friends with knocks you off your feet. You try to take in a breath, but the air in the room seems to have taken a temporary vacation from your lungs. 

You look up at him, eyes flared in understanding and shock. He mutters something in confirmation. Someone yells nearby, and you both look over to an adolescent boy asking his mom why he can’t wear neon basketball shorts to school. Percy looks back over at you.

“Is there somewhere a little more-” the mom starts arguing back and forth with her son at a louder volume, and he continues, “private… where we could talk?”

“Uh, yeah, I’ll… I’ll get somewhere.”

A few minutes later, you’re sitting across from each other on two step stools in one of the stock rooms. You’re still surprised at how easily you had lied to your boss that your long distance boyfriend showed up a few weeks early after over a year of not being able to see each other, and you needed a moment to catch up. She had agreed readily, asking that you tell her when you’re ready to get back to your tasks. 

“I’m sorry about that,” he starts, snapping you out of your train of thought, and you look up at him, “I never would have kissed you without asking, but you made me promise last time that the next time you lose your memories I would get them back to you as fast as I can.” 

“Uh, it’s okay, I feel like I remember talking about that.” Your memories are still fuzzy, but coming back sporadically.

“It can take a few days for them to come back fully.” He adds. 

The most surreal part of this is you remember vividly what happened in the books - because you lived through it. You hold back a giddy laugh bubbling up.

“So…” you begin, and he looks at you, his gaze warm, “it’s all real?” you breathe the words, almost afraid of an answer. 

“Yeah,” he chuckles, looking away briefly, overwhelmed that you’re with him once again.

“The short version is, since your godly parent is Calliope, you sometimes get sent to other worlds. You kind of have to hop scotch from one place to another, like getting a goldfish used to a new bowl of water. The mist - or sometimes,” he glances up, pointedly and irritable, “other factors - usually take away a lot of your memories. They say it’s to make the transition easier, but who knows. Anyway, there are these waypoints, kind of like a time loop that you hang out in until you’re either ready to leave or one of us finds you first.”

“So this…” you motion around to the rows of cardboard boxes filled with plastic cups and paper towels. He nods and you let out a laugh of relief that you really won’t have to work here long term. 

“As soon as you’re ready we should probably head out to camp. It’s gonna be a bit of a drive.” 

“Wait, it’s all like… here? Like in this world?”

“Yeah,” he smiles again, once more sending butterflies through your chest. 

You let out a disbelieving, excited laugh.

“Alright. Yeah, okay. Let’s do it.” 

Before you can get up, he takes your hand in his. He watches his fingers skim back and forth for a minute before looking up at you. 

“You know that I’ll always find you, right?” there’s an overwhelming torrent of emotions he’s somehow managing to convey through his eyes. 

“It doesn’t matter where you go, or how long you’re gone, or if we even remember each other. I will always find you.” His hand comes up to your cheek for the second time today, and your head tilts into his embrace automatically. You somehow trust him more than anyone or anything else right now. You nod gently.

“I do.”

He glances away again, cheeks flushing red, and he sighs, kissing your forehead. 

You get up and head towards the exit together, and he wraps his arm around your shoulder.

“How about we get some bubble tea once we’re in the city?”

“Oh hell yeah!” 

You don’t remember the last time you had bubble tea, but it sounds really, really good right now. 

[pinkandgreenarepurpleandyellow]

Horrible Idea for Venom 2

(Pre-stupid idea note: Most of my knowledge of Marvel came from 5 movies, 4 cartoon shows, a shitton of internet posts and arguments that cited 209433 panels and analyzed them, and also the entire marvel universe has no sense of continuity or logic, so i can do whatever the fuck i want in my own stupid shitpost. Thank you understanding this.)

So, ya know how in some of the shows and comics it was Flash who became Venom instead of Eddie? 

Here’s my proposal: 

Venom 2 electric boogaloo features a surviving scientist of Drake’s lab obsessively trying to re-create a symbiote, any symbiote. The one they have the most data of is Venom (I'm making all of this up fyi, pls don't @ me) so the scientist makes an almost identical symbiote that’s a little less actively bloodlusty (i will call it V2 for simplicity). Problem; symbiote is still very much violent and uncontrollable, so it escapes. It oozes/whatevers into an alleyway and waits, cuz it’s still a baby. Flash Thompson is walking home from school and sees the black blob. Thinks it is cat. It is not cat, and here’s Flash and a symbiote that wants to eat his organs but also has no fucking clue how parasite-host relationships work. 

Flash faints from V2 biting into his intestines. Movie logic makes it so good ol’ Dan is passing by just in time to see the unconscious teen. Drives him to hospital and starts examination. Is very surprised when MRI leads to the same results as it did to Eddie when he had Venom. And the blob looks a lot like Venom. But then the news channel announces that a monster has been spotted eating the whatever mob in the city, and Dan sees Venom on TV. 

So he calls Eddie and Anne because they need to be here.

When Flash wakes up the three are standing there ready to talk to him. Dan is contemplating making a brochure for if this happens again (So you have a symbiotic parasite leeching off of you).

The movie is basically them trying to teach Flash how to control V2, and Venom teaching V2 common sense such as ‘don’t eat your hosts organs’. In the background, the scientist realizes that V2 is highly unstable (imperfect copy and all that), and that they need to find V2 before it kills itself and whoever it may have bonded with. 

Flash and Eddie bond. Dan tries to contact Flash’s parents and meets the horribly abusive dad. Dad flies into a rage as soon as he and Flash are home, beating Flash for the bill (which Dan discounts to like 20 bucks),  being stupid, making him miss the game, and w/e else. V2 defends by transforming Flash and the resulting 10-foot tall monster thing bites off dads head. Flash freaks out after he turns back to normal. Calls Anne because she’s a lawyer. Anne talks to the others. By the time they get there, Flash is gone.

Flash runs and he’s sitting on a rooftop crying. He hated his dad, sure, but he didn’t want to kill him, he’s still a teen for fucks sake. Then someone flies into the roof next to him. It’s spider-man, but a good half of his mask is ripped, and Flash can tell it’s Peter Parker. Bad guy of the day is still there, ready to kill Spider-man, so Flash forces himself to be less scared, gets V2 in gear, and kicks butt. He patches up Peter’s mask best as he can, and runs before peter wakes up. (as far as spidey knows, no one knows his identity)

This is the technical climax because up until this point Flash denies V2 existing, flinches back from dad, runs from everything confrontational as much as he can. This is the part where he stops running, and goes to find the others. Tries learning again. 

Scientist joins them and works on helping stabilize V2 but it does’t work. V2 should be dead, but it bonds with Flash on a molecular level, leaving them to literally be stuck together no  matter what. Fire can’t kill it, only hurt both of them. Same with sounds. The only reason it bonds is because of its instability or w/e.

Dan, Anne, and Eddie all adopt the kid, but on the papers he’s now Eddie Brock’s adopted son.

The last shot is titled 5 months later (or w/e) and everyone looks happy and at ease. Flash walks in and all three grownups come over to hug him and Dan and Anne ask how school’s going, and then they all sit down. Eddie brings out a cake with candles on it. Everyone, symbiotes included, sing Flash a happy birthday. He blows out the candles and says something like “thanks dad. And mom. And other dad. And symbiotes.”. Eddie makes a parasite joke, Venom and V2 grumble back, and the camera slowly pans out on the scene of the people sitting at the small table, laughing over cake, a small and weird but wonderful family.

END

[itsnotpatsy]

trish and daphne

IF THEY HAD A KID MEME.

STATUS: NOPE.

Name: dakota kluger (yes, trish is very gladly taking daphne’s last name)

Gender: cis male

General Appearance: relatively short for his age, auburn hair waved long down his back into a ponytail he prefers to have braided, pale and thin. eyes are a very clear shade of almost translucent green. charmingly childish in expression, silently wide-eyed, leans toward ringer tees and oversized tees of every possible kinds. tends to lean toward blue and yellow, which often means favored yellow hi-tops, blue shirts of all kinds, the soft white-and-blue of faded jeans.

Personality: quiet but exuberant when addressed kindly or spoken to directly, dakota’s the kind of kid who gets along with the other children remarkably well for a natural sort of charisma he carries about him and an easy smile in spite of his childhood. he’s very prone to silliness and can be a little hyperactive when allowed, the sort who only really shines when faced with those he’s most comfortable around. an introvert at heart, however, he’d prefer to spend all day reading books and doodling. the sort of boy who gets invited to all the class birthdays, enthusiast of bowties and bright colors, perhaps too prone to coloring on the walls in bouts of excitement, art shared, need to confine it to the refrigerator. intelligent though not tremendously well-spoken, his vocabulary’s moderately impaired and he has an ear for making up words. genuinely surprisingly happy, he has a tendency to be shy in spite of himself when meeting new people, though shakes it off fairly quickly. educationally far behind other kids his age, this is supplemented with personal tutoring and painstaking attention from both parents that eventually allows him to catch up. trish learns his social situation, thankfully, is so beneficial because he was, at least, surrounded by other children. he has no shortage of fascination for people.

Special Talents: an excellent little artist with a talent for colors and a penchant for shapes, he does very well expressing words through images, a human game of pictionary. he’s very good at getting his points across expressively. he can also do a handstand, which he is tremendously proud of. a very patient listener though an active fidgeter, he can parrot back most anything said to him, and he’s always very very locked onto what’s being told to him. a very meticulous follower of instruction once he’s informed. can touch the tip of his nose with his tongue.

Who they like better: there is no such thing in the kluger household, no one or the other. daphne and trish have mostly equivalent understanding, as though dakota’s young, he’s not so young that it’s impossible for trish to understand. daphne is the less stern parent, though more likely to be a bit sterner when he’s out of hand at first, and trish, though good at deflecting, is regimented and a little tighter where scheduling is concerned. daphne is much beloved for being the one willing to follow just about any flight of fancy– the boy loves, loves, loves her and this indulgence is something so rewarding, the attention so lovely, that she returns it in spades. his favorite thing to do with daph, who is mommy, happens to be piano lessons, since daph knows loosely how to play fairly decently, and honestly he likes trying to make up melodious sounds. with trish, who is mama, he likes getting to finish drawings– she’ll sketch a line and he’ll complete it, and then she’ll do the next one, and on and on, until it makes a tangible shape or something like it. he has no preference– he knows only that these are his moms, and even if he misbehaves, even if he’s scolded for something, the important thing is he knows how loved he is.

Who they take after more: his charisma and willingness to speak, charm glowingly welcome, is all daphne, as are larger portions of his personality. he’s let her take point in most conversations, and learned from her how to inflect tone in ways that most would likely consider dramatic, mimicry of his more outgoing parent. while he’s definitely more like daphne in a social setting, his penchant for quiet alone time has been mostly learned– yes, learned– from trish. she reinforces the idea of being alone with yourself and it being okay, and as a result he has a very, very developed playroom that’s more or less filled with every activity imaginable. he likes reading best, and he’s a few grades above his level. he’s more than frequently found sneak-reading with a flashlight under the covers of his gratuitous spaceship bed, something both his parents let go for… at least twenty minutes.

Personal Head canon: one dark, dark, dark evening hellcat had headed down into the very forbidden sewers of the city (how many times had daph said she wouldn’t put up with a kitten trekking around in the refuse of new york) after hearing about an underground drug smuggling operation whispered above on the streets, courtesy of contacts and some very special super-hearing. she’d trekked through and through and through the labyrinth, and things had gotten stranger the further she went. it had started to look deliberate, labyrinthine. it had started to look like a place people were.

by the time she found this ludicrous structure of wooden boards and tin roofs, she’d skulked around, discovered a very small populace squatting down, down, down in the dark sewers with the biggest meth lab operation she’d ever seen, and by then? she’d certainly seen a lot. cowl radio had only half worked to drop a contact location to a police in, one acquired and shared with younger brother spidey, not so little anymore. a legal operation would arrive, but she’d wanted to get a head-start, case out the possibility of what was happening, the diversity of the operation.

it had turned out it was a village of sorts, of people trying to make a living off the mass production and the distribution of their product. a village filled with people, children, even, living lives far below the pay-grade of any child. trish had known that all too well all on her own, corralled the cluster of children, the small group, and begun to lead them outside as carefully as possible. the ruckus could wait– this was more important, and it seemed all the ‘grownups’ were busy doing what it was they did. she couldn’t fathom the understanding for why this operation had happened down there, though she was sure eventually she would find out.

the police raided the underground situation way deep down beneath the city itself, the underbelly of the place, and dragged out droves of people, adults tried for accounts of child endangerment, neglect, drug trafficking, the list went on.

and then the mighty hellcat went about contacting one alana stark, trying to be absolutely sure all these kids would have safe places to go. a sharp tug had accidentally sent the great cat toppling, tumbling over when she took two steps forward against the sudden force of her own step. dangercat not alert, not a thread, but a little boy, long hair and eyes a green not too unlike hers. he’d smiled at her warmly and then squeezed his arms around his middle shyly, asked in a small voice, h-e-double-hockey-sticks-cat? and the hero had turned over, not even gotten up, just rolled with a mouth full of bright, pointy fangs. h-e-double-hockey-sticks-cat the hero had said back, brightening the child’s smile.

throughout the overseeing process the little boy hadn’t let go of a clawed glove, small hand tightly squeezed in a palm. (she would learn from his time then with a child psychiatrist that he’d known about her, mythical cat hero over the aboveground, drawn outrageous little pictures, images, like she’d been the hero without ever knowing.) she’d watched alana make as many arrangements as possible– iron man, anyway. and once everything had been set, the boy’s smile dropped, and he’d looked down, maybe, maybe, maybe beginning to tear up.  she’d knelt, pressed her hands into his, asked lightly, you okay, little man? his head shook. does something owch? another head shake.

big kitty.

she’d watched the other kids talk, seen them in little throngs and groups, watched how none had spoken to him, not really, but he’d stuck to her like glue the entire evening. logical, of course. spooked, new, though they hadn’t seemed mournful to be out.

so the cat had asked, soft and a little hopeful, do you maybe want to come have pancakes with me? for a little while. a wife to ask about it, of course, pancakes could not yet become home with. couldn’t just make such a decision without important input.

outside a manhattan diner, the cat watched the boy shred apart soft pancakes with his hands, tearing with little fingers into strips and dunking into syrup slathered all over a plate. he couldn’t be more than five years old, though she didn’t know for sure– not with that kind of malnutrition or deprivation to light. kept her eyes on him through the thin glass, still assured to pay attention.

i think he might’ve been the one who didn’t have anybody. i think he has a hard time with the other kids– i don’t know how it worked. it was fucked up. i think he hoped one day i would help, somehow. he knew who i was.

a beat in the silence and then daphne’s voice, why don’t you bring him home, hero?

Face Claim:

jacob tremblay!

[isa-ly]

THE ELEPHANT’S STAKE

TW: mental health, therapy, repression

Did you know that my go-to party trick is drawing an elephant with just one line? I know, pretty lame. Now you know why I never go to parties.

Okay, so, what’s with the random elephant theme, you may ask? Well, funny you should mention it. (I say, as if we were having and actual conversation and it wasn’t just me pretending to talk to someone in order to feel less awkward. The irony here is that writing this blog is supposed to help me to do exactly that. I never said my brain’s logic made any sense.)

Anyway, I asked myself that exact question too a few months ago, when my lovely therapist Kerstin asked me whether or not she could read me a story about an elephant. Now, don’t get me wrong, I love animals and those big-boned, long-tusked, gentle-calm giants definitely have a soft spot in my heart. However, I never really expected them to come up in a conversation with a trained psychotherapist. But hey, what the fuck do I know about cognitive behavioural therapy. Not enough to be aware that it includes elephants, apparently.

Since I didn’t want to be rude and was actually kind of intrigued, I asked my therapist to yes, please, read me the story about the elephant. I actually found the story online (pft, Kerstin, where’s your originality), so I shall copy and paste it here for you to read it too, in case you want to:

“When I was small, I used to love circuses, and what I liked best about them were the animals. The elephant in particular caught my attention, and as I later found out, other children liked the elephant too. During the performance, this enormous beast would nobly display its tremendous weight, size, and strength. But after its performance, and until just before it went out on stage, the elephant was always tied down with a chain to a little stake in the ground that held one of its feet. The stake however was just a minuscule piece of wood, hardly a couple of centimeters long. And although it was a strong thick chain, it seemed obvious to me that an animal capable of tearing a tree from its roots, could easily free itself from that stake and flee. This mystery continued to puzzle me. What held it there? Why didn't it escape? 

When I was 5 or 6, I still trusted the explanations given by grownups. So, I asked my teacher, my father, and my uncle about the mystery of the elephant. One of them explained that the elephant didn't escape because it had been mastered. So, I asked the obvious question: “If it's been mastered, why do they keep it in chains?”

I don't remember having received a coherent answer. With time, I forgot about the mystery of the elephant, I only remembered when I found others who had asked themselves the same question at some time. Years later, I discovered that, to my luck, someone had been sufficiently wise to come up with the answer.

The circus elephant does not escape because it has been attached to a stake just like this one since it was very, very small. I closed my eyes and imagined a defenseless baby elephant fastened to the stake. I am sure that in that moment, the little guy pushed and pulled and tired himself out trying to get himself free. And, regardless of his efforts, he couldn't do it, because the stake was too strong for him. I imagined him tuckering himself out and falling asleep and the next day trying again, and the next day, and the next. Until one day, a terrible day in his history, the animal accepted its futility and resigned itself to its fate.

That enormous powerful elephant that you see in the circus does not escape because, unfortunate thing, he thinks he can't. He has that memory etched into his mind: the futility that he felt shortly after he was born. And the worst part is that he has never returned to seriously question that memory. Never again did he return to test his own strength.

The first thing I said to my therapist after she had read me the story and was waiting for my reaction was: “Am I the elephant?” To no one’s surprise, she had nodded and then asked me how I had gotten to that conclusion. And well, that’s what I want to talk about today.

It’s a little hard for me to find a beginning to this, so I’ll just start with what came to my head first: My childhood. Oof, what a bummer. A few minutes into her second post and she’s ready to whack out the big guns. Okay, back to being serious. Somewhat.

Don’t get me wrong, I had a lovely childhood. Really, I was an only child, born to two very lovely parents who really cared for and loved me, and I have tons of wonderful memories of growing up. Oh, what’s that? Can you hear it? Sounds like a big “BUT...” that’s about to smash through the glass wall of my positive nostalgia. Look, let’s just say it as it is: While my time as a kid and teenager were truly lovely, fun and filled with good people and better friends, there were undeniable issues and traumas in it as well, and it would be simply wrong not to acknowledge those.

And one of those not-so-great things was that growing up, there were a lot of ‘can’t do’s’ in my life. Especially when it came to emotions. I’m not gonna give you the full rundown of every single issue in the relationship with my parents or my own self, but I’ll say this much: My feelings, especially ones of anger, sadness and hurt, were often brushed over, my arguments ignored and my attempts of standing my ground nipped in the bud. Discussions, fights and quarrels, especially with my mum, made one thing very clear: I had to stay as quiet and small as possible to avoid being yelled at even more. If I spoke up, even when I thought I was in the right, things would escalate and get even worse. Ergo, if I showed and displayed my real emotions and thoughts, I would suffer the consequences – which were never good.

So, I learned not to. I learned to stay quiet. To revert back into myself and zone out, go some place else in my mind and just wait for the storm to blow over. Instead of getting angry, I fell silent. Instead of getting sad, I went numb. As my therapist always says: Instead of feeling, I would simply not feel. Because at the time, it was what kept me safe. It was what kept me loved. And all a child wants is to be loved.

In many ways, this was my stake. This was what kept me standing in one spot. Whenever I tried to pull it out, I would fail, struggling and thrashing to escape, to make my emotions clear and feel them freely. Every time I tried, it would only leave me even more exhausted, would leave me feeling like a fool for thinking that maybe if I tried just one more time, pushed just a little harder, the stake would yield. But it never did. And at some point, I just gave up.

This all might sound very sad and tragic. I’m aware that I’m by far not the only teenager that fought a lot with their parents. And probably also not the only one who just kind of gave in after a while. However, I can’t deny the fact that this has shaped me in ways I am only now recognizing years later, while sitting in therapy and having elephant stories read to me because for some reason, for some fucking reason, I cannot access, feel or share my emotions.

For some fucking reason, I am chained to that stupid stake. 

My therapist read me the story because she knows that I’m aware what it’s about. It’s about me, as a kid and teen, trying to escape from the emotional boundaries that were set by my parents and eventually by myself, and failing time and time again. As I grew up and got older, those boundaries grew with me in my head. And yet in real life, they were nothing but a tiny stake of wood that, having grown a lot stronger, I could have completely overpowered and ripped out of the ground by now. But because they have been with me my entire life and because I hold all those memories of never being able to shake them, I never thought I could.

I always looked at them like the elephant looked at the stake. As something that couldn’t be moved, that couldn’t be changed.

“Until one day, a terrible day in his history, the animal accepted its futility and resigned itself to its fate.“

Hits different now, huh.

So, what’s the moral of that story and brief delve into my emotionally compromising childhood? Fuck the circus, I guess. 

In all seriousness though: I wanted to write this post because that therapy session actually helped me a lot and I find myself coming back to this story whenever I slip into the darker place of my mind. So, I wanted to put it on this blog as a reminder. A reminder to myself and anyone else who needs it, that even though it might seem virtually impossible to change something, be that your own thought patterns, behaviours or personality traits, it never is. 

You know that cheesy saying that change is the only constant in life? Well, as cheesy as it is, it’s true. And I think by realizing that, by hearing that silly story of the elephant in the circus, it opened up some new possibilities. One of those being that whenever something feels like it’s unyielding and not doable, maybe you just need to take a step back and look at it again. And maybe you’ll see that it’s actually just a small, wooden stake and you’re a whole ass elephant that could take down a tree, if it wanted to.

The exact opposite might be true too, and the stake might still be too big. And in that case, that’s perfectly okay too. Remember what I said one post ago about picking your battles according to your own strengths? Yeah, that’s still valid too. But it also doesn’t mean that you have to despair. Because there is always room for growth and the chance of becoming stronger. Emotionally, mentally, and in every other way.

I hope this doesn’t sound too much like a self-help book from some self-proclaimed lifestyle guru who’s also a part-time pickup artist and sells questionable detox teas on the side (not sure where I’m going with that one). Metaphors can sound super lame but in my case, they’ve always been helpful as my brain really loves translating lessons and conclusions into images. Essentially, I’m just the kid that was always into Arts And Crafts and I need to ~visualize~ everything in order to process it. I know, I annoy myself too.

But hey, my therapist made a good call by telling me this metaphorical story because it made me realize a thing or two about how I’ve set myself all of these boundaries I could just as easily (or should I say isa-ly, HAH) kick again if I tried. That stake I chained myself to might have provided a sense of safety all those years back when I was a child and teenager, being yelled at and not listened to by my parents. But it is no longer providing that security. If all, it’s holding me back in realizing all of my newly found strengths. 

So, maybe it’s about damn time I ripped it out of the ground and got the hell out of that circus.