#(bunch of jobs with the only other option being too disabled to work)

[basingstokemercury]

anyway to completely digress from all-nighter fuelled semi-poetic character analysis

personal life is rapidly approaching the point of impossibility

yes thank you i know i need a job to get anywhere and it's unfair to expect parents to completely support me when i'm perfectly healthy and the things i need to go into serious theatre aren't exactly cheap

so uh

still waiting to find one single job outside the creative arts that can be performed while being:

lazy, selfish, socially nonfunctioning, irresponsible, unable to maintain focus on boring/repetitive tasks, conflict-averse to the extent of shutting down when confronted, completely irregular sleep schedule, allergic to routine that involves more than a couple scheduled events per week, unsuited to manual labour, and oh yeah absolutely terrible at interviews

"you're such a good teacher" thank you. i've been a student. not going anywhere near a room full of kids.

"you said yourself you want to work with animals" i do. i'm also nowhere near responsible enough to be in charge of caring for little squishy things that could die if my attention wanders.

"waitress -" spent years going to restaurants with the kind of person who annoys waiters. wouldn't be one if it were the only job on earth.

"cashier -" just a less intense version of waitress. and anyway i'd never be able to sit there for hours doing the same thing over and over.

it's awfully touching that people have faith in me but i do think i know my own flaws.

okay that was rough. have a fairfax.

[copperbadge]

Hi Sam, how did you come to the conclusion you should be tested for neurodivergence? I've been reading a lot of Temple Grandin (Visual Thinking is fantastic) and see so much of myself in her books. But, I, too, am, let's just say well into adulthood, and I don't know if my life would change that much with a diagnosis. The only thing I can think of doing with a diagnosis is telling my siblings and childhood bullies that they picked on someone who had a reason for being "weird." But it doesn't change anything. Beyond the medication, did you find any solace? Thank you for sharing your journey.

I was just thinking I should do a post about this....

I don't recall the specifics and have never been able to find the post again, but sometime prior to 2019 I made a joke about having a short attention span, and someone said something like "Oh, did you finally get a diagnosis?" and I said haha no, I don't have ADHD, and a bunch of readers went, "Uh, you very clearly do." Some of them added that they thought I knew and was just being discreet about it. (As if I have ever been discreet about anything in my life.)

So I figured, okay, probably there's some level of neurodivergence there, given that my mother and siblings all have various diagnoses, and my father was clearly autistic. (Knowing what we know now about how ADHD can mask as other mental illnesses, there's a strong chance this comes from my maternal grandmother, who was the person in the family I was most like when she was alive.) I tried a couple of times to get evaluated and always had either slow or nonexistent responses from the clinics I reached out to, so I stopped trying. I had a ton of coping mechanisms in place and was in a good spot in my life, so I thought honestly, what would it change?

But by the end of 2021, while I was still in a pretty good financial place, and my career was doing well, I could tell that if things kept up as they were I was going to tank my job purely through being unable to get through a day doing productive work the way I used to.

I thought, well, if this is ADHD and it's getting worse because the whole fucking world is on fire, I have two options: I can assume I have it and just do the reading and figure shit out on my own, or I can get evaluated, get professional advice, and possibly get medicated. That seemed like the best return on investment, so that's what I worked on. My goal was primarily medication, because I didn't see myself being able to change much else about my situation on my own. And, truthfully, medication has been the biggest change -- I actually have an essay about that queued for the anniversary of my starting Adderall. But while it hasn't been a massive life-altering world-shattering change, all of this was worth it purely for the medication.

Uh, momentary sidebar in my memoir: there are downsides to having a diagnosed disability -- discrimination, legal barriers to certain things like holding government jobs or adopting, etc. Those have to be weighed when you're considering evaluation. If you think you may have autism, there's not necessarily an advantage to having a formal diagnosis unless you need accommodations; if you think you may have ADHD, the huge advantage is access to medication, which doesn't exist for autism as far as I'm aware. So your particular flavor of neurodivergence might dictate whether you get a diagnosis, or whether you just start operating on the assumption you have it. Both are valid, I think, it really depends on what's going on in your life and what you want to change.

Anyway, I have been doing other research, reading journal articles and pop psychology and talking to people, and that's been good, but even if I had none of that, the medication has been so helpful in getting me back on an even keel and then making life even better.

This sounds kind of weird to say but I'm not generally someone who needs a lot of solace. There is some relief in knowing that at least some of my fuckups in life weren't something I could have prevented by simply having more strength of character or working harder, and that's nice, but it's something I could have had without a formal diagnosis -- just like you could simply tell your siblings and bullies you have a diagnosis. (Being real, I doubt they'd care; bullies gonna bully whether you had a reason to be weird or not, and none of that would have been your fault regardless of your neurology. But it's all very situational, as I'm sure you know.) I wasn't badly bullied as a kid and there's nobody really to...tell, in the sense you're thinking of. But I didn't get into it for emotional solace; I got into it to fix a life that was, albeit extremely slowly, starting to fall apart. So if you're someone, as most people are, who derives emotional satisfaction or catharsis from having the diagnosis, I think it probably would be pretty helpful. But even if you aren't, like me, if you can get medication or accomodations, I think it's worth it.

[trickstarbrave]

i hate when ppl dont understand how intertwined all the fucked up systems of capitalism are. they present it as "take away [x] and things will work better!" when that damn well will not fix it. or they dont even realize the problem is actually capitalism not some other thing they have been fixated on

like. veganism argument: "we subsidize grains to feed livestock. if we stopped feeding livestock, we would have more food for everyone! the problem is livestock are eating too much of grains we could be eating"

a lot of the corn they are eating are byproducts of the ethanol industry. we are not in fact just growing huge fields of grains and refusing to eat them bc we can feed cows it instead. that would be way too costly. "subsidies" wouldn't cover it. at no point was the corn being grown for human consumption. most of the corn in the US is grown for biofuel. without livestock, we would not have MORE food to eat, we'd have a lot of leftover slop we have to toss out to slowly degrade in landfills.

its not the most healthy option to pump them full of byproducts. they should be allowed to forage and walk. but the problem is much more complex than than just "get rid of the cows to make more food for people!!" the cows eating the byproducts is whats making more food for people. not less. you can't just look at "grain products" and decide all of those were fit for human consumption. most of the stuff we feed farm animals is NOT fit for human consumption. for better or for worse.

and this is only one problem. some are relatively easy solutions (once all of the, yknow, capitalist incentive is removed) like how we have more houses than homeless people. just give people houses. except we should also look at: where are these houses being built, are they being built for quality and to last? because the answer is: they are built mostly in suburbs for cheap with lazy building standards and poor quality materials. we are tearing down homes with better bones and foundations for cheap, paper thin wood, new construction houses when many of them can be saved. these are homes far away from doctors and jobs that you actually need a car to get around to important places, so many people who don't have reliable transportation will still have many problems once settled in. to create more sustainable, walk-able communities and to have better public transportation we are still gonna need to tear a bunch of these down and rebuild communities, which is going to be a daunting task too.

food insecurity: okay we'll just give people food! except they might not have reliable ways to cook that food either. a lot of people who are food insecure grew up food insecure. they grew up in food deserts where microwave self stable meals were the norm. they might not have pots and pans or know how to find a recipe or make one themselves. many are chronically ill or disabled and don't have a lot of time and energy to cook. many people still think its better to give a food bank 10 cans of green beans that you forgot about and don't plan to use in donations rather than just giving the food bank 30 bucks.

idk. i dont really have an answer i suppose. i just wanted to complain about how messy and complicated these problems are. and i think if you're a serious activist you are going to need better, long term plans and big picture perspectives. these problems can seem incredibly easy to tackle on the surface to lots of online activists but are very complex issues to actually dismantle and combat. we can't just keep complaining and hope society collapses so we can rebuild from scratch. there is no after the revolution when everything will be good and perfect. no after the end of the world to pick ourselves up and make a utopia from the ashes. we gotta figure out the problem and start untangling it and deal with the first steps NOW. start with realistic goals. contacting local government. creating bettering, temporary solutions that are better than what we have now. disrupt the system bit by bit. get other ppl in on it. the world we wanna live in will not come to us overnight. we gotta build it brick by brick.

capitalism counts on it being too daunting of a task. they count on ppl just complaining and wishing it was better to sell them the solution without any real change. but real change has to come from small shit first. maybe start a community garden if you want a more sustainable community. make your own garden if you have the ability. collect rain water (YES ITS LEGAL IN ALL 50 STATES just heavily regulated in some. dont tell me its illegal in the US). create alternatives for companies you boycott. tell your local representative you want public transport and ask how to get it and rally your community for it enough that they have to bother ppl higher than them and actively have to start considering it. do ride shares. help out food banks with real stuff they ask for. look around your community for small problems you can address and find solutions.

[dissociacrip]

i wanna punch anyone who says "just stay home" to people irt anything about disability or otherwise frames staying home most or all of the time as an easy, consequence-less existence in the throat. this includes mental disability, but i'm especially talking about physical disability here.

i am ambulatory and not bedbound or housebound and i won't claim that experience. i'm also (mostly) capable of living independently. but part of the reason i didn't understand i was physically disabled for so long is because i have, up until this point, spent most of my life at home and in bed unless i was in school. i didn't go out with friends on a regular basis and most of the long outings i've been on were when i was less sick (even though i was born disabled) or when i was too young to understand that what i was experiencing was - in fact - not normal and not how "healthy" and "functioning" bodies work. having to work, having to be much more physically active, is what has really highlighted that my body doesn't work properly to me.

so like, the only way that i can avoid pain and suffering is by being at home. in bed. doing nothing. i get physically worn out just from sitting up and folding my clothes.

and i'm fed up with it because now that i'm in a situation where i can actually go out and do things with people, where getting to go out and do these things is bringing to my attention that i am in fact a cripple with limited physical capacity, i'm realizing how fucking miserable it is to be home all the time. because before i didn't really have a point of comparison. when i don't get to see people and socialize for a while my mental problems start jacking up too. my boyfriend tells me that working from home is probably the most accessible option for me once i graduate, but i don't want to because being home all the time. fucking sucks. and while my current jobs are manual labor that makes me miserable in other ways due to my body not working correctly, at least it's an excuse to get out of the house and be around other people.

not being able to participate in society to the same extent as others, barring the fact that said participation does open up some more avenues to ableist violence in my experience (sometimes i ask myself what is even the point if society evidently doesn't WANT me participating in it), is miserable. being home all the time and not getting to experience what is conventionally framed as "real life" is miserable. being isolated and cut off from the world fucking sucks.

not to mention isolation makes some of us so much more vulnerable to certain forms of violence - e.g. being stuck with abusive family and caregivers. just look at how abuse/domestic violence spiked during the height of the pandemic.

and if it sucks for someone like me, imagine how it is for people who are housebound or bedbound. or who are avoiding being in public nowadays because COVID could kill them and most people and institutions have thrown all precautions for that to the wind. this isn't even going into the ways in which society physically bars us from the public thanks to inaccessibility.

i remember when the lockdown first happened and a bunch of abled people were talking about how miserable it was to be stuck inside all the time and 1. my immediate thought was "welcome to the fucking club, this has been my life for ages" bc i'm a bitter asshole and 2. i wonder how many of those people make any kind of active effort to make the public safer and more accommodating to disabled people, including masking, whether they know them personally or not, because while maybe they can return to a "normal" life, some of us have never gotten that chance in the first place, do not have that chance right now, and those things are inextricably linked to the way society is structured and the oftentimes the decisions abled people make in their everyday lives.

so stop telling immunocompromised and high-risk people that they should "just stay home" and also stop pretending people who spend most or all of their time at home due to disability reasons are lucky or privileged.

[khaleesiofalicante]

Hey Dani. I hope you're feeling better today. I had a few questions if you're up for it.

How is the Alliance funded? Like I know cassie hasn't mentioned that but what do you think? Like in lbaf the Alliance is expanding so much so who pays them? And are they even paid? And do they have any rules and regulations and do they have to answer to the Clave?

How do the downworlders feel about David or Lance being the Prince of Darkness and Kincaid being the Crimson King? And how do they feel about the way Idris is rn with the dshadow demons and Idris Patrol etc?

Will we get to see/know what exactly happened to Joseph and what happened when Lance was born?

I've been very curious about what Max would do for a living to support his family but I never imagined him providing warlock services to mundanes. For some reason I was imagining him working for the FBI or something. What kind of work does he actually do and does he actually like it?

I'm sure having a child who has a disability requires a lot more care than it usually would. How would Mavid provide all that special care to Lance when they can't afford it. In IALS they could do that bc David became rich. Is he going to write in lbaf too?

Did Magnus cry when he met Lance for the first time too?

I know you might not be able to answer some or most of these because of spoilers and that's okay. I was just very curious. Thankyou!

Love, Yana

Hi, Yana! I'm doing a lil better. But the weather here is very awful and it's not helping with my mental health hehe.

Thank you for the questions. I love questions like these! Now, let's see.

It's definitely funded by the Clave. All sub-institutions - including the Institutes and the Idris Patrol - are funded by the Clave. Shadowhunters are paid based on their job - like heads of institutes, patrollers, Clave leaders, medics, etc. So, the person running the Alliance (the shadowhunter - since it's their full-time job to run it) is paid too. This is why Anjali wanted to do a pilot of the regional Alliances (to see if it works and is worth the money/effort) before they expand it. It's the Treasury's job to take care of all these expenses. The current Clave is doing well financially (yay) because of Devlin Corp (yay?). The Alliance, since it is run by the Clave, does answer to the Clave. There are a set number of meetings they need to have every month and targets they need to achieve (collectively decided by Alliance representatives) and they closely work with the Consul to do all of this. Happy to talk more about the Alliance since I looooove it.

First things first, not everyone knows about the Crimson King. Only tmi/lbaf gang, seelie world, crimson watch and a bunch of others (like Jackson/Achilles) know about it. It's still a big secret to most of the shadow world. Especially at this point in time. They all simply think Lance is going to grow up and destroy Idris. They don't know there is a way (a person) who can stop him. As for the down world, they are divided about Lance/PoD (which doesn't help the situ with the Alliance). Seelies support him. Werewolves do not. Warlocks have walked out (meaning if Lance attacked Idris, they won't support defending it) and vampires are enjoying the drama. Some of them understand the need for the Idris Patrol (not warlocks!) and others like the shadow demons (like vampires because it means they can move during the day)

Absolutely

Max doesn't have a lot of options in terms of his job because he walked out of the Clave. His only option is to work with mundanes. He can do a mundane job but he doesn't have any interest in it or have any qualifications either. We will look into Max's jobmore in his short story.

David is not in a place to write in LBAF. I don't think it has even occurred to him that he can write (mundane stories) in the shadow world. But you are absolutely right in that raising Lance (and Arthur) is going to be expensive and is gonna cause some problems. If you notice, what David did in IALS was kinda messed up (i still love u bb), we will see something similar (not from David) in LBAF too. It's all about the hustle, honey.

No. He was scared.

Loveeeeeee you.

[maryellencarter]

First of all, I'd like to thank everyone who helped me out with August's rent, giving me time to work on this.

Short version: I need to raise several hundred dollars to store my belongings while I work on getting on disability, since I can't afford to keep my apartment any longer. My PayPal is ethanrabbits at gmail and my Ko-fi is here.

Any help is vastly appreciated, including signal boosting.

Longer version: I've come to the conclusion that I'm not... employable right now. I can't stand up or walk for more than five minutes at a time, I don't have the degrees or work experience to get into a sit-down white-collar job, and the only other option is -- well, going back to forty hours a week of being verbally abused by customers and wrung dry by whatever call center company owns my soul. Which I just can't face, it's putting me into a major depressive spiral every time I go through job listings. Five years of that on top of my PTSD from an abusive childhood already broke me.

So I'm pivoting to try to get on disability, get housing assistance, food stamps, that whole... thing. Trouble is, we all know the mills of government grind slowly. Too slowly. There are options where I might not wind up back on the streets, things like mental health facilities with caseworkers to help me navigate the system, but I definitely can't keep my apartment for however many more months that would take.

So I'm fundraising to keep my stuff safe. I already lost everything once, five years ago -- all my books, childhood keepsakes, thirty years of birthday cards. I can't face losing it again.

There's a nearby storage facility that has small units starting at $55-$60 USD a month. I'd like to aim for at least three months of coverage there. I also need to buy a bunch of boxes and mail some valuable / irreplaceable (and rather bulky) things to a friend cross-country for storage. I have no idea how much that'll cost but it probably won't be cheap. I'd like to aim to raise $300-$500 USD total.

Thank you all so much.

[luidilovins]

You should turn your post on the Uncanny Valley into a book or something. I am not even kidding, it's brilliant and sorely needed information. Thank you for it.

Tbh its just speculative that the uncanny valley is an inherent biological trait and not cultural or a learned behavior at the moment. A good example would be the cultural phenomenon of colorophobia where in the US we have a longer history of using clowns in our horror pop culture genres than countries like Japan.

Clown entertainment has been around since the Egytian times and maybe some people have always been freaked out by them it honestly just takes one director or author to have an disproportionately irrational fear and good cinematography skills to convince people that they SHOULD hate clowns just as much, (I could say the same about the movie Jaws but thats a bit of a tangent,) or a memorable event that damages the public's trust in something that SHOULD be innocent or harmless. (A good examples being the John Wayne Gacy trials.)

Clowns are also thought to be in the uncanney valley so ita a fairly good argument on cultural phenomenon versus genetic traits. Up until aroud the 60s-70s clowns were actually fairly well liked by the US general public and a lot of older generation still find a fondness in it that would scare the living shit out of their grandchildren.

As far as evidence that I may be right about the "uncanney valley might be because of rabies" theory, there has been a small case study suggesting that the movements of a non-human robot that trigger the effect in us, is also present in people with parkinsons but the sample size is too small for me to be thoroughly convinced.

And don't be mistaken I also dislike this concept because saying that ableism is an inherent human trait is just as bad as saying racism is an inherent human trait. There is little to gain from distrust in the disabled and little historical evidence to suggest it was common or beneficial to discard disabled people. Disabled people's remains have been found time and time again to live to incredibly long livea and be cared for, and participate in their communities. I'm highly critical of this particular case study and I take it with a grain of salt because its on cosmo, but evidence of human disabilities and compassion can be sourced by actual bones and it's been placed on VERY credible sources. NPR, NBC, Discovery, Nat Geo, NY Times, literally the clostest you can get to creme of the crop news articles on DOZENS of accounts and if you have a goddam problem then pay for a tour to the Smithsonian, find an archeologist and coherse them into showing you the bones and then explain phorensics to you because you probably wouldn't understand unless you too were a phorensic archeologist yourself.

What I DO BELIEVE tho is that if the uncanny valley is a legitimate inherent trait, that like most evolutionary traits, it made it this far for this long because it somehow served us benificially. And the biggest benifit I can think of is identifying neuro-infectious diseases because they can spread agressivley, many of them lead to death or lasting effects and are fucking MISERABLE to catch. We're talking brain swelling, fevers, uncontrollable vomiting, tremors, hallucinations, motor and vocal tics, difficulty swallowing, seizures. This could all happen because they eat infected deer meat or because of one bad fox bite. It's miserable if you survive and horrifying if you dont. Rabies can survive in your muscle tissue for years before infecting your brain and once it does usually you only live for about 5-10 days in and out of concious knowledge that you're going to die painfully, and disease aggrivated psychosis. It would be hard to pinpoint the causation because the amout of time before full blown infection would vary too much to assosiate for a long time. So your only option is to hone in on telltale signs.

The disabled people who would suffer from herdeditary or developmental neurological disorders run the risk of prejudice from mistaken identity, but if a human is part of a community, and doesn't die within a week from having a wobbly head, it would sooner or later become apparent that they're not dangerous. I think nowadays culturally people don't press to learn more about disabled people due to social and political prejudice and never fucking grow up past that. Mistaken identity or not. You learn about people from the patterns of their behaviors so even ones that seem abnormal to you become a normal recognizable pattern for them. Fancy that.

We don't get grossed out by chimps or gorillas, who are even more distant cousins, and the proof that we don't have a search and destroy button for anything immediatly related to us is a bunch of bullshit can be found in almost every human's blood on earth. And not just neanderthals, but denisovans as well. And that's not even accounting for genetic backtracking the crossbreeding of other sapiens species before we were whittled down to just the three. What makes the tweet even stupider is that when neandertals still roamed the earth humans were shorter, hardier, and overall more rough looking so we looked even indistinguished then. We Also Chewed On Bones and neandertals handled cold climates better than us based on a study on chest cavity density and, skull nasal intake and heat circulation, providing genetic diversity and the upper hand in survival in the tundras or mountainous regions spanning over Eurasia. If it wasn't for humans fucking neandertals we might not have been able to spread over the contient or diversify the way we did.

So my full hypothesis is that if the uncanny valley is a genetic inherent human trait it was used to benifit people from catching agressive diseases in a time where the benifit of fearing a group member with rabies outweighed the cost of fearing a group member with a disability like parkinsons.

WHAT PISSED ME OFF was the idea that we are DESIGNED to be unwary of our evolutionary cousins could easily be used for white supremacist spaces to justify racism BECAUSE IT ALREADY HAS

So that one tweet that might seem like a quirky thinkpiece in my eyes is just fuel for eugenics trend round whatever number we're on. It's like we don't fucking learn. It would be REALLY easy to retool the concept that it's natural for people to be fearful of whatever the bullshit definition of sub-humans are. Claiming that black people were sub-human thus deserving of mistrust and submission to white ownership worked like a fucking charm.

Maybe if I go to college and major in psyche/socio/civics it'll be my college thesis. Right now I'm more of a hobbyist than anything, but what I DO know is that anyone can make an untested hypothesis to combat another untested hypothesis and it should hold just as much goddamn value. I combatted the idea that the idea that human othering was funneled into an unconfirmed effect that causes disgust and terror based on non-human sapiens is in fact racist and gave what is in my opinion a more evoluntionary practical approach to the uncanney valley.

The generalized links that I used APARENTLY weren't good enough for some people but aparently a single tweet that says "hur dur heedle dee uncanney valley exists because of human cousins" was taken at face value even tho it was probably tapped out in five seconds without regards to the reproccussions. I find a huge discomfort that less than studious links about the evolution of monkey social behaviors that I used as a guideline to explaining my concerns became the focal point for people to nitpick without even having the gall to "well actually" on the subject. That absolute ravaging NEED to rip apart at it and devolve into name calling because I MENTIONED racism is fucking suspicious and I don't trust it. I had to stop looking at the responses because some people were only reblogging and arguing with barely half of my argument and i was getting nowhere fast.

There were a few people that made actual points with cited sources that made their own rebuttle arguments. That I respect. It's just as valid an argument as mine and I'm ALWAYS willing to take on more credible sources to strengthen my stance or gain perspective.

But it's the utter dismissal of a concerning concept that just seeped into the subtext that gnawed at my gut. Some people on top of hating the linked sources I provided, admitted they didn't read it, refused to read between the lines to purposfully misinterpret or derail my main points, and detract that my claim that the tweet was a result of systemic white supremacy saturated into modern science was a bunch of bullshit because I claimed that 1500s anglos invented racism.

The thing is we did invent the racism that we fucking currently subscribe to.

We practice the science that we formulated based on our own social prejudice. Real people die from this.

We remain uncritical of our own theorums that we postulate then pat ourselves on the back like we're philosophical geniuses even though racism is a family heirloom with a new paint job.

We preach the eugenics ideals that we pulled out of our asses to benifit from fearmongering, promises of national security and unpaied labor.

White supremacists create subtext with the intention of it being consumed by accident or in ways that seem palatable.

Fuck.

That.

I don't hate the person who wrote the tweet. Chances are that they gave the tweet as much thought as they took the time to write it and went on their day as a fun little thinkpiece. Everyone on the internet does it. But its that kind of thinking error that needs to be adressed as a progression of historic and scientific prejudice that gets rehashed, recycled and untouched and continually damages and is weaponized against marginalized people. I am not wrong for taking it seriously especially when a bunch of people were sitting around nodding their heads just as effortlessly.

I don't owe the internet any more sources than the tweet. I don't owe anyone on the internet a full scientific ananysis. And the people's reaction to what I had to say was actually what further convinced me I might have hit the nail on the head.

[hellyeahtrickster]

It occurs to me that I have friends here that I don't have contact with in other spheres, so ... life update: my mother passed away unexpectedly last Friday. I'm doing as well as one would expect. Been going through her things as both a walk down memory lane and a goodbye. I keep coming across things she never got around to using, and it hits hard that now, she'll never have the chance. And I can't stop thinking of the stories we watched together that now she won't know the ending to, or shows I wanted to try with her. And then there's all the things we used to do together on the regular -- all the places I can never go with her to again. And all the places we wanted to go to "someday", but now she never will.

We were two weeks out from our second COVID shots, and 4 weeks from being totally vaccinated. We were finally going to get back to EPCOT, to see the Flower and Garden show. Finally going to get back to the Florida Mall. Going out to lunch. That I won't be doing this things with her anymore ... it's unfathomable. I can't wrap my head around it.

Thanks, anti-mask / anti-vaccine Covidiots, for prolonging the presence of this pandemic -- basically stealing the last year of my mother's life. She was anxious to see her elderly mother again, because we don't know how long *she* has left ... and now she never go to see her mother again. I knew losing my mom would happen someday, but my mother was relatively young yet, so I thought it would be a while ....

It doesn't help that she died after the second night on a new bed. See, she slept on her side all the time, what with the couch being narrow, but with a twin mattress, the bed was much wider. She snored a lot -- I highly suspect she had sleep apnea. When I found her the next morning, she was on her BACK. The doctor agreed that her cardiac arrest could have been caused by sleep apnea. In trying to make my mom more comfortable .... Yeah, I know, it's not my fault, but I cannot shake that thought away, that she's not here anymore because we tried to do something nice for her. How cruel the humour of the universe can be.

(I'd put the rest of this behind a cut, but I don't see that option anymore? Sorry!!)

And it REALLY doesn't help that, not only have I lost the person I was closest to, but now I am stuck alone with the person I least want to be with: my dad. I'm pretty liberal, and he's pretty conservative. We fight a LOT. We haven't really since mom died (things got a little tense here and there, but not like we usually are) ... but I know it won't last. It can't -- not when he believes BLM are terrorists, or that gays have an agenda. And now he keeps wanting to do things with me, like watch my shows, and a petulant part of me is like, no, this is mom's territory -- stay out. I don't want to do anything with him. (Especially since I know he'll start ranting once the shows start talking about racism and homophobia.)

My parents always had a volatile relationship. Mom didn't know you could get pregnant the first time, and when she found out she was pregnant, her Catholic family bullied her into marrying him.* And he cheated on her at LEAST once (with a girl who was only a few years older than me at the time -- I was 15, she was 19, he was 33). My mother was far from perfect, so I don't blame all the marital problems on him. But my point is they were married "in name only" for about the last 25 years, so it's ... offensive to me now that he would dare to act bereaved.

I know he can be hella manipulative, make himself seem generous so as to be loved, and then turn on you like a viper, getting irrationally angry. I can't drive, we live in a very rural area with no public trans, there are no friends or fam less than an hour away, I've had next to no job for the last 17 years, I barely feel like a functional human being (am coming to seriously suspect I have ADHD and Dyscalculia; I have diabetes and suspect have PCOS and a thyroid problem; all these things having strong interconnections; and I have no insurance, nor do I qualify for aid, thanks to living in Florida), and I feel utterly trapped. There's a reason Rapunzel is my fave princess. I've had bad experiences with cabs, so using Uber / Lyft kind of terrifies me. Plus, he'd want to know where I'm going, and likely either insist on coming too, or insist I can't go, because his house, his money, his rules. The ONLY time each year I get away is when I go to Dragon Con (and I'm worried he might forbid that in the future -- he has once before).

And then there's the problem of ... he has no one. As much as I can't stand him, he lost his job because of COVID, he's lost his wife, he has no real friends (total homebody), and like it or not, he has supported me financially for so long. Even if someone else were to take me in, or I can get a job and save to leave ... how can I leave him (a person with severe rheumatoid arthritis / in not-great health)? I owe him too damn much, and I feel like it would be entirely callous of me. Yes, I realise that that's the abuse talking, but ... it's also true?

Anyway, I feel like I'm on Sliders, and keep stepping into progressively worse timelines.

* Let me mention that I have long suspected my mother is -- was -- on the autism spectrum, but when I mentioned it to one of her sisters, the sister seemed skeptical, saying that if anything, mom had a penchant for reading out loud, so they thought maybe she had a reading disability, and took her to a specialist, but "that's it". (Mom was in "remedial" classes through high school, so it doesn't sound like they did enough -- and maybe couldn't because the science just wasn't there.) I explained that mom frequently seemed to have trouble grasping concepts, especially humour. Like when a radio ad featured someone reciting a love-letter to a tomato, she was all, "That's stupid -- tomatoes can't read!" Try as I might, I could not get her to understand that the love letter was a playful way to tell US about what makes the tomato so good.)

Anyway, when I talked to my grandmother recently, she said that my mom "always had a special way of looking at things," and that she guessed mom was "what do they call it -- neuro-something? 'Aspie'? High-functioning, but still." And I told my cousin about it, and he said, "Wait, I thought it was common knowledge in our family that your mom was autistic?" (Note: we have other, officially diagnosed family members who are on different areas of the spectrum.) People always commented when I was growing up that it was like my mom's role and mine was reversed -- like I was the parent, and she was the child.

But to think my family had *recognised* that something was up, and left me, a child, to deal with it on my own?? To think they *pressured* someone who was "special" into having a child?

I know my mom loved me, but my whole life, she said she wished I'd never been born, and so she'd never have married my dad -- I know both can be true, that she loved me but wished she'd never had me (she'd have never known what she was missing). She only survived her marriage because I was there; I've always felt she'd have had a better life if she hadn't married him. When she tried to leave him, her mother would not take her in, because divorce was against her mother's Catholic beliefs (never mind that my uncle divorced twice)

I loved my mother, but were fought a lot, and she frequently exasperated me as we struggled to communicate. She frequently left words out, but did not believe that she did; when we met her last PCP the first time, he looked at me and said, "Is she always like this, or is she having a stroke?" And she would always angrily proclaim that I wasn't listening, when most of the time, it's that I couldn't get her to understand that she was working from a misconception or misunderstanding in the first place, because she would focus on ONE THING, to the exclusion of all else.

An example of an exchange (copied from a letter I wrote to a friend): We got into a weird argument yesterday. She had asked me for pain reliever, a glass of tap water (you're supposed to drink a full glass of water with the pills), and a "cold water" from the fridge (it's too cold to drink it all at once, but we both prefer ice water in general). Later, I was picking stuff up from her table-tray, including a bottle of pain reliever, and put a bunch of stuff away. When I passed by again, she asked for more cold water. I happened to look as see that she had the tap water glass still full, even though she had asked tor it half an hour before. I asked if I needed to bring the pain pill bottle back, because she hadn't drunk the tap water yet -- had I taken the pill bottle too soon, or had she forgotten to drink the water? She was all, "no, I said I need COLD water!" I said I knew that, and I would bring it; I was just asking of she had taken her pills already, or if I needed to bring the pill bottle back too. Her (again): "I said I need COLD WATER!" Me: "I know, and I will bring that -- I just want to know why you haven't drunk the tap water yet? Did you take your pills?" Her: "No, I'll take them at bed!" Me: "So I should bring back the pill bottle? Did I put it away too early?" Her: "YOU DON'T LISTEN! I SAID I NEED COLD WATER!" Me: "And I said I will bring that -- I'm just asking if you also need your pain pills?" Her: "You already took the bottle!! Did you forget that already?"

And then I finally spotted the white pain pills on the napkin under the tap-water glass, so I knew that no, I didn't need to bring it. But it's a frequent struggle to figure out how to phrase questions so I get the answer I need -- nearly every time, I get her screaming at me that I don't listen.

She loved me, but she was never mothering. She hated to be touched, so never hugged me; I was pretty touch-starved. I learned to read because she was a very slow reader when reading me stories; I got impatient and learned to do it for myself. She couldn't help me with my homework. She resented having to take me to school recitals and science fairs. She wasn't someone I could get advice from. I admit I was often envious of characters who had physically-loving, compassionate, wise mother-figures (who weren't so binary about morality -- and so weren't always screaming that this or that character should die, no matter how small the transgression).

But I wish she were still here to frustrate me -- that's so much better than not having her at all. And I wish I had been better at keeping my temper.

She was an atheist, and firm in that belief. Maybe she's right, or maybe her firm belief is affecting me, because I would dream frequently about others I have loved and lost, and swear I feel them, but with her ... nothing. Just a gaping hole in the fabric of my waking life, threatening to suck all the light and hope into it.

[harley-sunday]

Things We Lost in the Fire [01]

Prompt found on Pinterest: During a bank robbery you’re surprised when the criminals seem to recognize you and retreat in fear. Only after do you learn that your high school sweetheart now runs a global crime syndicate and has you placed on a “no harm” list. You decide to pay him a visit after all these years. 

Pairing: Sebastian Stan x Reader (F)

Warnings: Language.  

Word count: 4279

AN: This is as AU as AU’s get, so don’t say I didn’t warn you. But that prompt, oh that prompt was magnificent! This story basically wrote itself, during two very boring afternoons at work. I think it’s unlike anything I’ve done before, story-wise, so I hope you’ll like it. Please let me know what you think! Also, as this will only have about four parts and it’s not your usual reader insert  I’m thinking of doing a taglist, so leave a comment if you want to be included. Once you’re on the taglist I would appreciate a reblog or comment for any chapters that follow. ♥

Masterlist

“Well, fuck you too!” you sneer, flipping off whatever asshole cuts you off so bad you have to slam your brakes, the seat belt restraining you as you jolt forward. Jesus, can no one drive these days, or what? 

You want to give yourself a moment to recover from the near-hit but then some other asshole behind you honks a couple of times, urging you to get a move on. You flip him off for good measure too, cursing quietly because it’s not even seven in the morning and you’re already done for today. 

You’re still pretty pissed off when you pull into your designated parking spot at work, close to the entrance of Carver State Bank. You’ve worked here as a bank teller ever since you moved from Atlanta back to Savannah four years ago and well, it’s not your dream job but at least it pays the bills. You started out as a temp, not really interested in working at a bank, but you needed the money. Bad. And then when they offered you a permanent position after your three months were up, you figured, why not, and stayed. 

At Carver State you’re the only one of the tellers who works full time, the rest of them all middle-aged women who, at most, work three days a week. There’s five of them in total, and all of them are very kind. You have a soft spot for Bea though, the oldest of the bunch, because once she found out you were out here all by yourself, she decided you need some TLC. She checks up on you whenever you’re sick, brings leftover dinner to work for you to take home whenever she gets the chance, and she keeps hoping you’ll find a nice guy to settle down with. You even spent Christmas with Bea and her family last year. And honestly? You love it.  

Bea is also working today, but won’t be here yet because the bank doesn’t open until nine, and you only got in early to decorate Bert’s office, who turned fifty-nine this weekend and starts at eight every damn day. 

Rummaging through your purse you manage to find your keys just before you make it to the front door and once you open it, you hurry to the keypad to punch in your alarm code without really looking at the display. The lights that are supposed to come on automatically don't, and so you wonder if the alarm was already disabled by someone else but you can't check now unless you ask Bert to log on to the security system and that's not really an option at this moment. 

The sun’s already been up for about an hour, so there’s enough light from outside to help you find your way to the back anyway, and so you figure there’s no harm done. But then you hear a sound coming from Bert’s office you wish you would have paid more attention to whether or not the alarm was activated. Your heart’s in your throat in an instant and for a moment you wonder what to do, because maybe someone’s robbing the bank, but then you hear a quiet, “Gosh darn it,” coming from the office and you can’t help but let out sigh of relief.

“Hi, Bea,” you almost whisper so as not to scare her, but she still does, clutching her pearls when you open the door. Just the sight of her instantly lifts your mood. 

“Oh, sweetie, don’t you ever do that again!” She slaps you with the ‘Happy Birthday’ banner she was trying to pin to the wall and then laughs when you fake being hurt.

“Oh, Bea, I’m sorry,” you say, pouting a little for full effect, “but why are you here anyway? Didn’t we agree I’d handle the decorations?”

“Oh honey,” she says, handing you the banner and thumbtack she was holding, “I’m sure we did, but I really couldn’t remember, so I figured I might as well come in to either do it myself or to help you.” She grabs a bag of balloons from the desk and pulls one out, stretching it and bringing it up to her mouth, but not before she says, “You do the banner, hon, I’m better at blowing anyway.” 

The rest of your workday is pretty uneventful, except maybe for the second serving of cake Bert offers you after you’ve given him your best rendition of  ‘Happy Birthday To You’ with the fake British accent you mastered at University. Don’t ask. 

Bea’s in the middle of telling you how she excited she is her grandson Zachary starts Kindergarten next week and you are trying your very best to make it look like you’re paying attention when really you’re trying to figure out whether or not it would be weird to go get a cocktail after work. By yourself. On a Monday. Because goddammit, after the morning you’ve had, with that near-collision, you’d sure as hell deserve it.

You have just dutifully hummed to let Bea know you’re still listening, or pretending to anyway, when the automatic doors open and a young couple walks in. As most young couples do, they head straight to Bea and so you stand up, relieved to get a break from her monologue, because even though Bea is as sweet as they come, the woman sure loves to talk. You let Bea know you’re going to get a coffee just before she greets the clients and make your way out of the secured area to the small kitchen down the hall. 

You’re waiting for the machine to come to life, impatiently tapping your fingers on the counter top because it takes this thing at least a full minute to warm up, when you think you hear a noise coming from the front. It has you rooted in your place, your ears straining to hear anything else, but it stays quiet and so you wonder if you’ve imagined it. The machine’s finally up to temperature and you’re about to press the button for a cup of coffee when you hear Bea shouting something that sounds like, “Over my dead body!” 

You’re not sure if it’s instinct or those endless safety drills Bert puts all of you through every three months, but your body has reacted long before your mind does when you find yourself running to his office. You enter without knocking, slightly out of breath when you whisper, “You need to push the button, Bert,” before you run back out again.

You know you’re supposed to go hide somewhere, wait it out until the police comes after the call from the panic button goes through. Maybe even try to make it outside using the back exit, but you can’t leave Bea out there all by herself. What if something happens to her? What if something has already happened to her? You find yourself getting angrier the closer you get to the door, because goddammit, how dare they try to come here? How dare they fuck up your quiet Monday afternoon with their attempted robbery. 

Attempted yes, because if it is up to you they will not succeed. 

By the time you push the handle you are fuming and ready to give these fuckers a piece of your mind, but then you see three men standing on the other side of the secured area, all armed to their teeth with assault rifles and guns, and it keeps you rooted in your spot, your voice lost somewhere in your throat. A quick glance around the room tells you the young couple is nowhere to be seen and for a moment you’re thankful but then you can’t help but wonder if they had any part in this. Your eyes land on Bea then, who stands behind her desk, a defiant look in her eyes even though three men have their guns trained on her. All of them are quiet and for a moment you’re proud because it looks like Bea’s got the upper hand.

It’s then you spot the fourth, and what you hope is the last man out of the corner of your eye. He’s trying to pick the lock of the door that leads to the secured area you’re standing in right now, a groan escaping him when he spots you. He sounds annoyed as if you’re just a distraction he now has to deal with. He stands up quickly, drawing his gun and one by one the men turn to you as a sort of response to the sound guy four made. 

They are all wearing balaclavas as a disguise and so you can actually see their eyes go wide when they see you. For a moment you’re sure it’s because they weren’t expecting anyone else to be here, even though everyone knows there are always at least two tellers present in a bank at any given time, because security, but then it’s almost like they recognize you. 

One of them actually mutters a quiet, “Oh shit, it’s her.” 

As if on cue they lower their weapons and retreat, quickly leaving the scene of the crime without taking as much as a penny, leaving you and Bea stunned at what just happened.

“And you are sure that is what they said, ‘Oh shit, it’s her?’ and then they left?” the Detective asks you for what feels like the hundredth time. 

You nod, “Yes, I am sure.” 

You let out a frustrated groan because you’ve been questioned for over an hour now and honestly, it makes you feel like you’re the criminal. “I’m not sure I can give you any new information at this point. I’ve told you everything already,” adding what you hope is an exhausted sigh for good measure. “Can I go home, please?” you try and to your surprise the Detective tells you you can. 

He informs you that they’d like to do a follow-up interview tomorrow and lets you know that they’ll contact you when they have any leads or news regarding the case. “We would appreciate it if you stay in the area for at least a day or two, Miss,” he says while pocketing the tiny notebook he used during the interview, “or at least let me know if you are thinking about leaving Savannah.”

You nod, because it seems like a fair request, before the Detective dismisses you with a wave of his hand and a quiet, “Thank you.”

When you step out of Bert’s office you find him leaning against the wall, hands in his pockets, “You ok?”

“Yeah,” you nod, because it sort of true. Sure, you’re still a little high on adrenaline, but other than that you feel fine. Maybe because the whole ordeal last only about twenty seconds or so. For you, anyway. “How’s Bea?”

“A little shaken up,” Bert admits, while walking you to the exit. “Her husband picked her up once they were done questioning her and she agreed to take the rest of the week off.” He turns to you, his voice unusually soft when he says, “I think you should too, kid.”

“What and sit at home, driving myself crazy thinking about this?” You shake your head, “No thanks, Bert, I’d rather just come in tomorrow.”

He sighs, knowing you’re too stubborn to take his advice, “At least start a little later then, ok? Eleven is fine.”

“Fine,” you huff, crossing your arms in front of your chest, not liking this special treatment. 

“Fine,” Bert mimics and gives you a wink. “See ya tomorrow.”

You glance at your alarm clock again, letting out a frustrated sigh when you see it’s already three-thirty in the morning and you’re still wide awake, the events of earlier today replaying in your mind every chance they get. You know you’ll probably won’t sleep any more anyway and so you grab your phone, pull up Google and type ‘2019 bank robberies’, surprised when you get over six million hits within less than a second. You know banks get robbed left, right, and center, but you never expected to see ‘Georgia’ pop up in so many results, stunned when you read the headlines:

Armed robbery in Macon, GA, leaves tellers tied up, but otherwise unharmed, in empty safe. Robbers walk away with half a million U.S. Dollars.

Macon, GA, robbery linked to Atlanta, GA robbery. 

“These guys are professionals,” local Sheriff admits among ongoing investigation. 

Pembroke, GA, next target of band of robbers. Two people injured after public tries to interfere.

Georgia robbers most likely part of a much larger crime syndicate operating nationwide. FBI now involved. 

“Jesus,” you mutter quietly, after finishing reading the last article, your eyes wide in shock. It’s not so much that, if it really is the same group that’s responsible for all these robberies, they have committed an awful lot of crimes already, it’s more that they never seem to hurt anyone. The only time people got hurt was when someone tried to run them off the road after the crime occurred. From the stories they seem almost polite, which is weird. 

Not for the first time you wonder why and how they seemed to recognize you and more importantly, why they left after that. Does it have something to do with their unwillingness to harm people? Biting your lip you go over everything again, from the moment the young couple came in until the robbers fled the scene, but still there is nothing that stands out. 

The sound of your phone ringing wakes you and you’re surprised to see it’s already eleven-thirty. Oh shit, you were supposed to be at work at eleven and so you’re sure it’s Bert calling when you answer with an, “I’m sorry, I overslept. I’ll be there in thirty minutes.” 

“Uh,” the voice on the other end of the line is much deeper that Bert’s and you groan when you realize your mistake. “This is Detective Johansson, we spoke yesterday?”

“Yes, God, I’m sorry,” you sit up and cover yourself with your blanket even though he can’t see you, “how can I help you?”

“I just wanted to let you know we’ve gotten a hold of some of the security camera footage of the area, and I wonder if you could come in today to see if there’s anything or anyone you might recognize.”

“Uhm, yeah, sure.” You clear your throat, “When, uhm, when would you like me to be there?”

“One would be good,” detective Johansson says. “Just ask for me at the front desk.”

“Will do,” you say, but then you hear the call has already been disconnected and you look at your phone in disbelief. How rude. You shake your head and thumb through your contact list, pulling up Bert’s number to let him know you won’t be able to make it to work after all today, not surprised when he tells you he already asked Cathy to fill in for you for today and tomorrow. Just in case.

“Nothing?” Detective Johansson sounds a little shocked. He’s shown you footage of several security cameras, and one even captured the robbers in their getaway car, without their masks on, but the image is too grainy to see any facial features you might recognize. He must know this too but he makes it seem like it’s your fault. You decide right then and there that you really don’t like him. You’re sure he’s good at his job, but he’s got the social skills of a shark.  

He returns to the stills from the security camera footage inside the bank, once more lining them up as if you haven’t already studied every single detail. You have been here for almost two hours and Detective Johansson has been relentless in his questioning, making you go over everything again and again as if you haven’t already told him everything you know when he took your statement yesterday. 

“I’ve already seen these,” you offer quietly, “I doubt there’s anything else I can give you.” You let your eyes dart over the photos again and while you’re aware the Detective says something about looking harder, you hardly register it because all of a sudden your eye catches something on the left side of the bulletproof vests the guys are wearing and you hold your breath, because no, it can’t be.

You try to play it cool and hope you don’t give anything away when you let your eyes dart over the four photos again. On every single vest there is a patch with the letters JS on top over the number 82. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. Fuck. At first you thought it was just the brand of the vests but now that you’ve actually seen what’s written there you know that it’s not. And you also know why they might have recognized you. 

Fuck.

Your mind is going a million miles an hour, trying to figure out what to do. The decision is made for your when Detective Johansson, rather unfriendly, tells you they’ll be in touch if they find any new leads, effectively dismissing you. 

You clear your throat and look up at the detective, “I’m sorry, I really wish I could help.”

He just nods and grabs the pictures, leaving the room without so much as waiting for you to follow him. 

“Asshole,” you mutter quietly, hoping none of the security cameras picked up on that.

You try to act cool as you leave the station but your heart’s racing and you tell yourself to slowly, slowly walk to your car so as to not draw any suspicion. Once you’re in your car you take your phone out of your purse, but then you realize you’re still in front of the police station and this might not be the best place to Facebook-stalk the person you think might have something to do with all of this, and so you start your car and head to Tybee Island, the twenty-minute drive doing nothing to calm your nerves.

Finishing the coffee you’ve ordered you think back to the past twenty-four hours, because that’s how long it’s been since your life got turned upside down. To the minute. You’ve checked.

Not for the first time it feels like you’ve ended up in a movie, but the fact that you had to stop for gas on your way over here was a perfect reminder that this is still very much real life. No matter how bizarre it seems. 

The waitress brings you the bill even though you didn’t ask for it and you’re about to tell her there’s a thing or two about customer service she still has to learn, but then you figure you might as well get back to it, because there are some questions you desperately need answers to. 

You try to recall the pictures the Detective showed you and even though you are certain that, even with the knowledge you have now, there’s no one on there you recognize or know from when you were younger, the JS 82 is a dead give-away. It has to be him. But why? 

You’ve tried everything but there’s nothing about him on Facebook or Google, even though you aren’t really surprised, because why would there be? You’re sure most criminals would rather avoid social media. Just to be certain you try Josh as well, but also, nothing. That’s not surprising, considering how bad of a state he was in when you last saw him. You wonder if he even is still alive.

You turn your phone over in your hand while you look out over the beach and wonder if you should just swing by his house. Well, his parents’ house. You doubt he still lives there, even though that would make one hell of a headline: ‘Armed robber found living in basement at parents house.’ You can’t help but laugh when you picture the scene of him being arrested, taken from his room in nothing but his boxers. 

You shake your head and make up your mind, knowing it will probably lead to nothing anyway, but you just have to know. Maybe he has nothing to do with this and it’s all one big coincidence, but you won’t know until you go there, won’t you?  

You’re not sure if actually going to see his mother is a good idea, because what if the police have put a tail on you? You grin then, because you are definitely not important enough to be tailed. Jesus, you’re just a bank teller. Get a life.

Plus, if it really is him, you reason, well, they haven’t been able to catch him until now, so what would your visit change? It seems like the police still don’t have a clue who’s behind all this. You’re assuring yourself it’ll be fine. 

Leaving the money needed to pay for your coffee and a little tip on the table, you get up before you grab your purse and head back to your car. 

The drive over to his parents’ house doesn’t take long, also because you still know how to get there without your navigation, and are you really surprised it still looks the same as it did sixteen years ago? No, of course not. 

You hesitate for a moment before you get out of the car, because if anything this is all just fucked up, but you know if you really start to think things through now you’ll never make it to the door. It takes you a few minutes to pull yourself together but then you’re finally on your way. 

Taking a deep breath you ring the bell and it isn’t long before you hear footsteps coming towards the door. You hear the handle being turned and for a moment you wonder if he’ll be on the other side, but then you you see his mother standing in front of you and suddenly there’s this lump in your throat that you try your best to swallow away. 

“Oh honey,” she says, her voice as sweet as you remember, her Romanian accent still there somewhere in the background, even after all these years. “He knew you’d stop by. Come on, get inside,” her voice drops then, “don’t want anyone to see you.” 

She wraps her arm around your shoulder and closes the door with her left foot, the way she always did and which often got her scolded at by her husband, claiming her shoes left a mark on the door he had to repaint every year. 

You let her lead you to the living room where she points to the couch, “Sit.” You obey, of course you do, and watch as she heads towards the kitchen to get you a drink no doubt, but then she seems to think better of it and walks to the bar cart instead, pouring two glasses of Scotch. She hands you one before she sits down next to you, “Cheers.”

“Cheers,” you say, but you notice the way your voice catches in your throat, making it sound like your asking a question. You want nothing more than to have her explain everything to you, but you don’t know how to start and so you just sit there, the sip of Scotch you took burning its way down your throat.

“I really can’t tell you much,” she offers after a while, because like always she knows exactly what you think, “but he wanted me to give you this.” She takes a folded envelope out of her bra, an apologetic smile, “Sorry, honey, had to keep it safe.” She laughs then, “At least it’s warmed up.” 

You can’t help but smile too and carefully take the envelope from her, putting it in the side pocket of your bag. That’s for later.

“He also wanted to give you this,” she continues while she takes something out of her purse. It’s a single key, no ring, no marker. She gives it to you, “Pawleys Island. I’m sure you remember the address?”

You nod, because yes, yes you do. You know this will lead you to the last beach house on Atlantic Avenue, where you spent many summer days with him. Happy memories start flooding your mind, but you push them back. For now at least. Maybe tonight you’ll let them in. 

His mother puts her free hand on your arm, interrupting your thoughts, and gives it a little squeeze, “I really wish I could tell you more, but he made me promise not to. Plausible deniability, I guess.”

You’re not sure if she’s talking about her or you. 

She smiles then, “He’s changed, I mean, that much is obvious, but,” she clears her throat, “the boy we both know and love is still in there somewhere. It’s not all bad. Just,” she squeezes again, “just hear him out, ok?” 

You nod, because you don’t trust yourself to speak, tears already threatening to spill from your eyes. Being here, talking to his mother, it takes you back and it reminds you of all the good times you had and you can’t help but wonder what happened. Well, you sort of know what did, but you wonder what got him there and if the dots you are slowly starting to connect are the right ones. 

You know what you’re doing is wrong and that you should probably just call Detective Johansson and tell him everything you’ve found out so far, but you just can’t. You want to hear the other side of this story first. 

You want to know why your high school sweetheart started robbing banks.

[teal-crown]

Mitty's unprofessional guide to Menus in RPGMakerMV

Hello guys, Mitt here!

I'm here to give you guys some tips and tricks on how to tackle menus in RPG Maker MV! This will be another one of those big posts yeee!

Disclaimer: I'm far from being a good programmer, but I've learned a few things from trial and error, and I hope my tips will help anyone out there!

I'll also explain exactly how I did Marinette's current menus, and give you a few tips on how you can make something different from a simmilar concept.

I would like to first quickly mention the “Luna Engine”, which came out a while ago. I have never tried it, but it looks handy, and might be the way to go if you're willing to spend a few monies. I can't really give any advice on it though, so do your research first.

This post will be divided in 3 parts:

1. Evented Menus - Common technique, practice makes perfect, try new things.

2. Marinette's Menu - Combination of specific plugins.

3. Making your own menu

So let's get into it!

1.Evented Menus

I figured I would talk about these here!

There are many ways to go about evented menus in any version of RPG Maker. It’s usually quite easy to adapt the method from diferent engines.

Sadly, I'm not very skillful with evented menus, so I can’t directly teach you how to build cool shenanigans, but I remember I made a very simple one for one of Marinette’s previous builds by following some tutorials. These might give you a heads up on how to start with interactable image buttons/ image based layout: [1][2][3][4]

After you get the hang of the mechanics, just start experimenting!

- MV has some performance issues, so it's important to fix those as well when using this technique (or similar) to avoid blinking pictures. There are some preloading plugins out there, but you can also manually load pictures beforehand.

- You can get plugins to the mix to make the job easier. (there are for example plugins that let you call events like they were common events, and another one that lets you assign common events to keyboard keys etc.)

- It's important to practise with dummy menus in projects, mess around with variables, conditions and pictures, and have a ton of patience. This is how you learn to make fancier stuff.

- It's better to pull off this kind of menus in shorter games, otherwise it can get really confusing when it comes to certain mechanics you might want to implement. Be cautious when deciding on making an evented menu for a longer game. (I’m primarily refferencing a fully evented items menu)

- If you find a developer with a really amazing menu out there, it's always nice to ask if it's evented, as you might get some tips from them! A few devs in the discord group are very skillful with evented menus of all kinds, so keep an eye out for them!

- If you just want to event the main menu, use the following script calls to call the other scenes:  (Also check out this helpful list)

SceneManager.push(Scene_Item); //Opens Items scene

SceneManager.push(Scene_Save); //Opens Save scene

SceneManager.push(Scene_Load); //Opens Load scene

SceneManager.goto(Scene_Title); //Goes to title

SceneManager.exit(); //Closes the game

The point is, you can do nearly everything (and sometimes better!) with events, as you can do with plugins. All it takes is a lot of patience and practise.

Marinette's current menus could’ve definetely been made with events to have animations and nifty details, but the approach I took was way simpler for me, personally, since I don't have much experience with detailed evented menus, especially when we go into the items, options, save... I honestly have no clue on how to make all those features work properly yet. It would be nice to study the subject one day, though.

2. Marinette's menu

This is the part where I talk about our menu!

- I started by making a few mockups, which are just images with concepts for menus, from which I posted some in a previous post.

I knew I wanted to keep the map behind the menu visible, preferably either with the default MV blur effect or darken the screen a little. I also knew I wanted to be able to use the items from the menu since the begining.

For both the items menu and the main menu, I used a combination of different plugins.

-Soulpour777's "Horror Menu Customizer" to draw out the simple options in the main menu, replacing the default ones. I also made a plugin myself, with heavy help from an online tutorial, that added an invisible window on the top left to center the image.

-Jiffy's "Grid Inventory" to make the item menu's layout.

-Nelderson's "Replace window with Picture" to draw out the images attached to each window. This was the only plugin that I found that worked with transparent images. Be mindful though, some windows overlap, and the images are centered on the top left of each window/ box. If I remember correctly, though, the "Menu Backgrounds" by SumRndmDde is also a good option to do this, but it turns transparency into black, which didn't work for Marinette. Also, disable the game's textbox frame unless you want it to be drawn on top of the images.

-Finally, SumRndmDde's "Super Tools Engine" was used to move around and delete certain windows/boxes that got in the middle of the layout I wanted initially. Basically it edits the boxes’ placement on previously made menus, like the grid items' menu and the main one.

This is how I went about the current menu, and it works wonders! ahaha

Even though I still have some images to finish for it, the layout is final for the most part.

Now...

3. Making your own menu

This is where you'll make a menu of your own!

The reason I explained Marinette's menu like that, is because you can use a simmilar combination of plugins to get any layout you want, with a little searching! Using this kind of approach makes it honestly easier for people like me who...sadly haven't learned how to code yet, but are eager to play around with it.

The first step would be to sketch out some mockups, having in mind the plugins that are available to you. There are a few instances where features you might want are harder to pull off yourself without knowing how to code for being extremely specific. An example of this is menus which open moving menus on the side or something like that.

This is an example of that kind of menu:

This one would probably work best with eventing, if you don’t know how to code.

Be aware of your own limitations, but try to innovate!

With all this in mind, the steps to make a menu would be:

1. Pick a plugin (or just use the default?) that draws out a layout that you can edit with the Super Tools Engine. There are numerous plugins out there that do this, so it isn't hard to find one! Look for cool features in those plugins! Here, have a bunch

2. Edit that plugin with the Super Tools Engine to rearrange the windows or remove any you don't want.

3. Use Nelderson's "Replace window with Picture"or SumRndmDde 's "Menu Backgrounds" to attach images to each part of the menus, like a puzzle. Might require some trial and error, screenshot the window to get it right a little more easily.

Aaaand that's it! You can probably change the text or replace it with images as well, but that calls for more plugin hunting.

Try to mix and match plugin features, ask for the help of coders and be patient! It won't be that much of a headache, and you'll be happy and relieved after finishing a pretty different menu! Also, go past page 1 in google ahaha

If you get stuck on something for too long, leave it and come back later when you have evolved your skillset like the programmer pokemon you are!

I hope this little guide helps anyone out there, don’t be afraid to contact me if you need help. I’ll try to help if I can!

Thank you so much for reading, I’ll see you guys later!

-Mitty

[somuchfuckingsalt]

College

It takes Percy a while to figure out what he wants to major in in college. 

The guidance councillor at his school had given him numerous different career quizes but every time Percy went through the list of suggested careers nothing particularly sparked his interest.

At least nothing that would require a four year bachelor’s degree.

He knows right off the bat that he’s not going to pick a career that requires him majoring in a humanity - he wouldn’t survive a single semester if he majored in something that required a lot of reading and essay writing.

When it came to math he did pretty good at the problem solving aspect, it was just he tended to mix up formulas and numbers.

Annabeth was the one that suggested a science. Those classes were always the ones that he did the best in, particularly when he could apply the questions to real world examples. The only school assignments he ever gotten Bs or As in were science labs, since they required more hands on skill and less reading and sitting and focusing.

He ponders doing marine engineering and designing ships and boats for the rest of his life. He’s spent enough time with Beckendorf and Tyson to know that he enjoys building and making things but if he’s being perfectly honest the idea of majoring in an engineering course - which are commonly very difficult - freaks him out so he decides against it.

He settles on marine biology, though he won’t admit it’s settling. He loves the ocean and ocean animals and already knows a lot about them. And it’s a science, which is a kinder subject to him than others.

He thinks he’ll be alright so long as he keeps himself on a schedule like he did while he was trying to play catch-up after the kidnapping incident made him miss half a school year.

He thinks that because he has an interest in the ocean, than it’ll be easier for him to pay attention through his classes. 

He’s just a tad wrong.

It’s not that he does poorly in his classes or that he isn’t able to maintain (for the most part) a good studying schedule. New Rome is even catered to demigods so his ADHD is accommodated.

His dyslexia isn’t entirely though, which is a disappointed, as part of New Rome’s way of helping their dyslexic students is to have things be in Latin, which Percy cannot read.

He’s passing. His assignments are getting in on time (mostly) and he’s getting better at not procrastinating (a lie he tells himself) and he is really good at his labs (that one’s true).

He’s a mediocre student, really. He’s not in danger of failing but he’ll never make the honour roll. So his grades aren’t the issue.

The fact that he’s fucking miserable is the issue.

He’s constantly worried about school. Worried about his inability to stop procrastinating. Worried about that one assignment that dipped his grade just a little too low. Worried about that if he takes one night off to relax he’ll wind up falling behind.

But most of all, he’s always, always, thinking about how much he just Does Not want to do that assignment. Or go to that class. Or read that chapter.

He Does Not.

He wants to go swimming. Or surfing. Or work on his car because the old junker is the only thing he could afford. He wants to hang out with Tyson in the forge or doodle while Annabeth makes drafts.

He won’t admit it. Or show it. But he’s not happy.

Paul’s the one that notices.

Well, he doesn’t really see any signs that Percy is truly not a Happy Camper at college, but he’s the one that asks Percy the most questions about how school is going, his study habits, etcetera. Mainly because as a teacher that’s taken many a required course on how to help kids with learning disabilities, he knows a bunch of different ways kids like Percy can manage through school.

So Paul’s the one that Percy mentions to that he can’t go back to his dorm after his morning class because then he won’t want to leave again and he’ll wind up skipping his afternoon class.

And Paul’s the one that Percy complains to when he talks about lab reports and the very, very thick and expensive textbooks all of his science classes have and there’s just sooooo much reading.

And Paul’s the one that Percy asks for a way to keep himself focused the whole way through that one three hour class he has because it’s hard enough to do so in the 90 minute classes but three hours is damn near impossible.

So when Percy makes an off-handed comment when they’re IMing one day about how Paul managed to convince himself to go to classes he hated in college, Paul asks which classes he hates.

Percy’s joking when he says all of them but Paul can see the truth behind his smile.

So Paul keeps asking, trying to be subtle and kind of failing at it. Percy’s very insistent that he likes college. That’s going to get his degree. That he just complains because school is always stressful and complaining relieves stress.

But when Percy comes home for Christmas Paul quietly takes him aside and reminds him that it’s okay to not go to take some time off school if he’s not entirely sure marine biology is what he wants to do or is happy with.

Percy assures him that yes, he wants a marine biology degree but by this point neither of them are convinced.

A few days later Paul brings it up again, and mentions that since Percy’s on a scholarship if he took time off or dropped out he wouldn’t be wasting any of his parents’ money and he wouldn’t be in debt.

A few days after that, Paul starts asking him if he ever thought of being a firefighter, or a cop, or going into trades. Percy admits that yes, he had, but he wants a degree.

The next thing Paul does is straight up putting a stack of papers detailing the training, salaries, and job prospects for firefighters, cops, and a variety of trade vocations he thinks Percy might be interested in on Percy’s bed where they won’t be missed.

When Percy says goodbye to head back to New Rome Paul tells Percy that it’s okay if Percy doesn’t want to get a four year degree. It’s not his only option. It won’t make him any less smart or any less successful if he doesn’t. He’d support him. Sally and Annabeth would understand.

Percy, frustrated, insists that Paul’s reading into things wrong, that his issues at college are just stress and adapting to a new environment.

Paul looks at him long and says, “If you say it’s what you want, I believe you and I’ll support you, but if you ever change your mind I’ll help you with that too.”

And Percy goes back to college, still insisting it’s what he wants and that he can do better once he adapts to the new structure. But if he changes his mind, he’ll give Paul a call.

He makes that call before the month is out.

[huphilpuffs]

flares

chapter: 31/? summary: Dan’s body has been broken for as long as he can remember, and he’s long since learned to deal with it. Sort of. But when his symptoms force him to leave uni and move into a new flat with a stranger named Phil, he finds that ignoring the pain isn’t the way to make himself happy. word count: 4k (103k total) rating: mature warnings: chronic illness, chronic pain, medicine a/n: As always, immense thanks to @obsessivelymoody for beta’ing!

Ao3 link || read from beginning

They settle into bed that night with no intention of going to sleep.

Dan’s laptop is open, resting on his thighs. Phil propped up two pillows against the wall for him to lean against, his back and neck still tender from the pressure point test Dr. Kissel performed. The duvet is draped across his lap, his toes sticking out from the end of it. 

Phil stares at the screen over his shoulder. Dan can feel the warm puffs of air from his breathing against his skin.

He types fibro mialgia into Google. 

Its response is Did you mean: Fibromyalgia, just enough to have a quiet breath rumbling between Dan’s ribs. 

He clicks on the first link, a webpage from the Mayo Clinic. He’s pretty sure that’s in America somewhere. It probably doesn’t much matter. The top of the page tells him it’s believed to amplify painful sensations by changing the way the brain processes pain. He thinks that’s what Dr. Kissel said. 

Dan’s not entirely sure what fucked up pain processing is supposed to feel like, but he thinks this is probably it.

The next paragraph is about trauma, about how it sometimes triggers fibromyalgia. Dan tries not to let the fact that he doesn’t relate make his insides twist too much. 

Phil must be able to tell, because he leans in close and whispers, “It says ‘sometimes’.”

The one after that includes a list of other conditions that may be related. Dan reads it once, twice, three times before his gaze lingers on the last two. His stomach goes tight. He doesn’t realize his fingertip’s tapping his computer until Phil reaches over to grab it, snagging one of Dan’s hands and drawing it into his lap.

He doesn’t ask what Dan’s staring at. It’s probably obvious. 

Dan’s spent years trying to convince himself he definitely wasn’t depressed, that definitely wasn’t his problem, and now it’s splashed across the page again in the clearest of sans serif fonts. Dr. Kissel didn’t mention that one. He wonders how much of his chart she’s read, if she knew it would make him feel like this.

He almost shuts the laptop and gives up on research. Maybe he doesn’t want to know after all.

But then Phil reaches over and scrolls down for him, leaving the list of symptoms lighting up Dan’s screen.

Everything after that is overwhelming in a different way. There’s a lot of symptoms. A lot of possible treatments. Dan’s never considered most of them. Massage therapy sounds incredibly unpleasant. Acupuncture, too. Getting enough sleep sounds so implausible that Dan actually laughs, too loud, too sharp. 

The next page on Google is a lot of the same. So is the third, and the fourth. 

Exercise is mentioned a lot. Dan’s joints ache at just the thought of trying to go out for a run, at the memory of how painful it was just to walk to class back at uni, of how sick he used to feel after gym class back in school.

There’s a lot they don’t know about fibromyalgia, he learns. There’s no cure, no definitive answer on why things hurt. There’s a bunch of studies that show little abnormalities that might cause it but none of them agree and none are conclusive and Dan doesn’t much care.

He knows, finally. And there’s some stuff they do know.

It’s not fatal. It’s never fatal. Dan reads that bit out loud, because Phil’s sitting next to him, gaze tripping across the page just a bit slower than Dan’s. Dr. Kissel already told them that more than once. The extra layer of reassurance makes Phil lean in close, his body pressed against Dan’s side.

He dusts a kiss to Dan’s bare shoulder, soft, loving. 

There was a time when Dan might have been terrified by the prospect of a lifelong condition with no cure and no potential to be let out of his misery. It’s still scary now, not knowing what to expect for any of his future. But giving this up isn’t really an option anymore.

Phil lets go of his hand to wrap his arm around Dan’s shoulders instead, leaning in close so his head rests right above Dan’s collarbone. 

“I’m glad you have an answer,” he says. His voice has gone low and gravelly. 

He sounds tired. And he has to work in the morning. And Dan suddenly feels bad for keeping him up for so long with a cycle of redundant articles that say the same little bit of information in slightly different ways. He closes his laptop, scrolled only halfway down the page. 

“You’re not gonna keep reading?”

“I can read tomorrow,” he says. “Apparently I need to focus on getting enough sleep.”

Phil chuckles. He pulls away just enough slip down the mattress until he’s lying down. Dan tosses the extra pillow onto the floor and rests his laptop precariously on the corner of his bedside table before doing the same. He reaches out, draping his arm across Phil’s stomach, cuddling up against his side.

He can’t handle the pressure against his back tonight. Phil doesn’t seem to mind.

His palm settles flat against Dan’s ribcage, head dipping down. Dan looks up to meet his mouth in a quick kiss goodnight.

When he pulls away, he’s smiling.

---

Dan dreams of being old that night. 

He’s sitting in a mostly empty room with white walls and a sofa. There’s a blanket draped over him and an ice pack sitting uselessly atop his head. It’s just like his life now, except when he looks down, his hands are wrinkled and spotted with age. 

He wakes up. The room is still dark, hardly a touch of light filtering through Phil’s curtains. Phil’s still sound asleep, snoring softly.

Dan’s brain is echoing his nan’s complaints about how achy her knees were, the ones he could relate to when he was only fourteen. 

He swallows, presses himself tighter against Phil’s side, and stares at the window until he falls back asleep.

---

His chest is tight when he wakes up in the morning.

Phil’s not in bed anymore. There’s a note on Dan’s bedside table telling him Phil’s already gone to work. It has a silly little smiley face drawn in the corner. Dan’s laptop has been moved to sit on the chest of drawers instead, more stable there than where he placed it last night.

He sinks back against his pillow once he’s spotted it. His breath comes out as a sigh, his hand coming up to rub hard at the line of his sternum, as though that will ease the pressure there.

His knees crack when his climbs out of bed. There’s still a tingling, radiating sort of pain where Dr. Kissel pressed against his body, all down his legs and up along his spine. Some of them feel swollen, but when he rubs at the back of his neck, there’s nothing there.

Dan grabs his laptop and changes his pants before moving to the lounge.

He turns to look back before he leaves, hand gripping the door frame to steady him. The duvet is ruppled on both sides, a giant ball of fluff where Dan’s feet were. There’s a pillow on the floor and two pressed close together at the head of the mattress. Dan’s phone charger rests on his bedside table, plugged into nothing. 

Something spasms in Dan’s chest.

It takes him a moment to realize it’s anxiety.

---

The kettle is half full of water on the kitchen counter. There’s a smoothie in the fridge with a straw already sticking out of it. Phil left the cereal box out, plastic bag half poking out the top of it, and the cupboard door open overhead. Dan closes it as he sips at his breakfast.

He doesn’t turn the TV on this morning.

He drags his computer onto his lap and opens the article he’d left half read last night. He doesn’t finish it. There’s other things on his mind this morning than symptom lists he’s already read and collections of advice that only seems half effective.

Working with fibromyalgia, is what he types into Google today.

The first link is to a WebMD article. Dan clicks it without thinking much.

People can work with this, is the first thing Dan learns. It makes his chest feel funny, something half relief and half not blooming there. Keep working, is what the article says, and Dan tries not to think about the day he handed his resignation to Sue, body aching so much just getting there had been a hassle.

He fails. 

He thinks about it for so long that his vision goes out of focus, the article sliding into double. It snaps back into place when he blinks and scrolls down to the next part, too many lists of too many questions to address way too many problems. 

The advice is … a lot. It’s flexible work hours and working from home, extra equipment at work and less tasks. It’s finding a job that’s not too stressful and lets you sleep in, and one where you don’t need to do manual labour but can also survive when your brain isn’t working right.

Right in the middle of it, there’s an ad for some pill that starts with, Does your penis curve when erect?

Dan laughs. It’s only then that he realizes his throat’s gone tight and his eyes are stinging. His fingers are shaking over the keyboard when he jams the down arrow to read the rest of the page. It takes him too many tries to stay steady enough to click the arrow bringing him to the next one. 

Can I get disability with fibromyalgia? is its header. 

Dan almost forgets how to breathe. He doesn’t read it. He doesn’t go back to Google. He closes Chrome entirely and slams his laptop shut and tells himself it’s because the advice was about American law and not because his stomach suddenly really doesn’t like the smoothie Phil made more him.

A tear rolls down his cheek.

He stares at the blank TV screen until it falls off the bottom of his chin.

---

The lounge is full of both their stuff.

There’s a PlayStation and a Wii on the TV cabinet, above neat shelves lined with a shared collection of games. There’s two DS chargers plugged into the wall. There’s a stack of DVDs by the door to the balcony, Dan’s piled on top of Phil’s from when he first moved in.

The blanket Phil got him is draped over the sofa. Decorations he had before Dan moved in are all laid out on the furniture and hanging on the walls. There’s a throw pillow that used to live on the sofa that now sits in the corner of the room.

Dan thinks too much about how none of his A-levels or GCSCs will ever be enough to get him a job that would give him any of the things on WebMD’s list. 

And then even more about all the horror stories he’s heard about people living on benefits.

And then, once his chest hurts and pressure is welling at his temples, about how he doesn’t really have a choice but to need one of them if his body’s not going to be fixed.

It’s not. Dan expected that. He tries not to care. Part of him doesn’t.  

But the other part of him reminds him that Phil’s parents are still paying his part of the rent, echoes his mum’s warnings about leeching off Phil until tears are welling in his eyes once again. It pictures the people back in Wokingham who told him he’d never go anywhere if Dan didn’t learn to deal with a little bit of pain.

His brain flashes a quick image of being back there.

He reaches for his phone, just to distract himself. He ends up texting Taylor instead.

Dan: can you come over? i have news

Taylor: already on my way out the door

---

“You look less shit today,” is what she says when she opens the door. There’s a smile on her face, wavering just enough to let Dan know it’s her attempt to act normal. 

He doesn’t feel less shit. The post-appointment high has settled into something just as heavy and insecure feeling as before, just tainted with different memories, weighted with different fears.

“Yeah,” he says, “Well, stuff happened.”

He leads her to the lounge without explaining first. His body is achy and she knows he needs to be sitting down. When she settles down next to him, it’s with her whole body turned towards him, legs tucked under her and arm draped across the back of the cushions, like she’s waiting for something.

She doesn’t ask for it.

Dan takes a moment to steady his breath before saying, “I’m not dying.”

She chuckles, breathy and uncertain. “That’s good,” she says. “You better think it’s good.”

There was a day, back in at uni, when she’d tossed her textbook aside and said killing me would be less painful. And Dan, safe in the knowledge that she wouldn’t try to send him to a therapist, lest the advice be turned back on her, had admitted sometimes I wish I was dying just so I’d know the pain would end.

“It’s good,” says Dan. He turns towards her, offering a smile that actually feels genuine. “I have a diagnosis.”

“Oh!” She bounces on her knees. “And?”

“It’s fibromyalgia.”

She nods, just once, brows going a little furrowed. “Is it bad that I don’t know what that means?” 

Dan laughs. “Neither did I,” he says. “I reckon most scientists don't either, if Google is a reliable source.”

“Sounds accurate, if my quarter of a bio degree is anything to go off,” says Taylor. A smile quirks at the corners of her mouth. 

Dan’s not sure he’s ever seen her smiling when talking about those classes. It’s nice.

“Yeah, most of my old doctors confirm the theory,” he says, smiling too. “Dr. Kissel’s actually good, though.”

“Yeah?” says Taylor. “And this fibromyalgia thing, is it good?”

He shrugs. The anxiety from before burns in his chest again. His head tilts back against the sofa, and he watches Taylor’s brows furrow in concern. 

“Probably shouldn’t be. The symptoms are royal shit and there’s no cure and I don’t really know where to go from here,” he admits. “But having an answer? That’s good.”

A smile spreads slowly across her face, close-lipped and content. Dan watches her eyes flick between both of his, her head falling to rest against her open palm as she stares.

“I’m not gonna pretend to understand,” she says. “My diagnosis– I knew what was wrong, I just didn’t want to admit it, you know?”

Dan nods. He wonders if that’s one of the things she learned about herself in therapy, wonders how he never really saw it that way. Maybe because he couldn’t relate. He never felt like he knew what was wrong with him. Until now.

His heart clenches at that, eyes falling closed against the rush of anxiety-tainted relief that floods the already too-full space between his ribs. 

Taylor reaches over, resting a gentle hand on his shoulder. Her voice is quiet as a whisper when she says, “I’m so happy for you.”

He laughs. It comes out as a puff of air that sounds half like a sob, but it’s the best he can muster without actually breaking into tears. 

She must be able to tell, because she pulls away and settles back against the sofa. Dan counts his breath for a moment afterwards, until the steady rise and fall of his chest feels less fragile. When he opens his eyes again, Taylor’s staring up at the ceiling with him, lips still quirked up.

“You get to join me in the arduous process that is recovery now, you know,” she says. “Welcome to the dark side.”

Dan smiles. “Shouldn’t it be the brighter side?” 

“Hush,” she turns to him. Her smile’s reaching her eyes, like it rarely used to before. “I’ve been rehearsing that in my head for the last, like, two minutes, let me have this.”

When Dan laughs that time, it actually feels genuine.

---

Taylor stays for dinner. Phil invited her.

They eat around the coffee table. Taylor lets Phil have his usual spot next to Dan with a joke about how she’s pretty sure it’s morphed to their spines by now, and drags over a chair from the dining table instead. She tells Phil all about her new courses as they eat, a grin wide on both their faces.

Afterwards, they play a round of Mario Kart, because they can. Dan wins. Taylor comes in second this time, and Phil complains about how she’s never allowed to play with them again because, even if he can’t beat Dan, he can beat the computers. Usually.

Dan teases him with that last bit. He points out how often Phil ends up stuck in the item clusterfuck and, when he pouts in response, presses a quick kiss to his cheek. Because he can.

It feels normal. As normal as it can when, a few months ago, he and Taylor were playing this game on their DS’, miserable in Dan’s uni bedroom. 

So, not normal at all. 

Taylor’s laughs so much happy tears leak from the corners of her eyes. Dan has an answer for why his chest aches when he laughs too much. Phil reaches around him, and flattens a hand against Dan’s ribs when his breath catches around an exhale. 

He whispers a quiet one, two, three, against the round of Dan’s shoulder.

Dan leans his head back against the cushions again, and enjoys the company of the two people who will give him a second to steady the broken parts of his body without making him feel bad.

When he looks back up, he smirks at them both, and starts a round of Rainbow Road without warning.

---

The anxiety starts to come back when darkness falls. 

Phil leads him to the bedroom without a word. Taylor’s just left, the sky’s just starting to go dark. It’s been a long time since they last sat up and watched a movie late into the night, Dan realizes, but he doesn’t much mind. It means he gets to wrap himself in cozy blankets and rest his head on a fluffed up pillow and feel Phil’s arms around him.

He gets to reach up and chase away the tedium of the day with soft kisses pressed to Phil’s lips. 

Tonight, though, he doesn’t. His mind is too preoccupied by the time he slips under the covers. He stares up at the ceiling and tries not to think of all the long nights he spent with just his pain and his questions to keep him company. Days when the brush of his duvet was too much against his skin, when his pillow pressed too much against the back of his neck.

It’s because there’s tender points there. Dan knows that now. 

It doesn’t feel like he should.

He reaches out into the space between them and catches Phil’s hand over the mattress, squeezing once. 

“Can I ask you something?” he says.

“‘Course,” says Phil. He rolls over, so he’s curled up on his side facing Dan, head resting against the crook of his elbow.

Dan doesn’t look back at him. He feels weird when he asks, “You know that thing you made me do the other day? To get my thoughts out of my head? With my webcam?”

“Yeah,” says Phil. “Why?”

Dan swallows. Phil must be able to hear it, because he squeezes Dan’s hand, just for a second.

“Would you find it weird if I wanted to do it again?”

“Why would I find that weird?” asks Phil. He lets go of Dan’s hand, only to reach out and clumsily search for his fringe in the darkness. He swipes some curls away from his eyes. “I told you I used to do it, didn’t I?”

Dan shrugs. It’s awkward, with his pillow tucked right above his shoulders. “Yeah. Just feels weird.”

“Well, it doesn’t have to, if it helps,” says Phil. “Do you want me to set it up for you?”

Dan considers it. There’s comfort in the idea, a weird kind that soothes his mind into thinking Phil actually can’t find it weird if he’s willing to help Dan do it. But it’s getting late, late enough that Dan’s pretty sure if he peeked outside he could see the the flashing trails of airplanes over the city, and Phil worked all day.

“I think I can manage,” he says. “Pretty sure I haven’t forgotten how to use my laptop just yet.”

Phil laughs. His hand trails across Dan’s chest as he slips out of bed. When Dan turns to look back from the doorframe, the hallway light lets him see just enough to tell that Phil’s still curled up on his side, smiling.

---

He sets his laptop up on his pillows, with the grainy window of his webcam app filling the screen. 

The room stays silent for long seconds after he hits record. Dan adjusts his hair, all curly in the way he hates but can never spare the energy to fix. He fidgets around on his bed until his too-bony knees are out of shot and you can see the waistline of his pants so he doesn’t look naked.

Part of him wants to laugh at himself. It doesn’t matter. No one will ever see this. Dan doesn’t even think he’ll ever look back at it. 

He takes a deep breath, brings his fingers to his head, and says, “Hello internet,” just like last time.

And then he rants into the camera until he’s lost track of what he’s already said and isn’t sure any of it is making sense and the anxiety in his brain fades into some sort of mental fatigue. He’s lying down on his side because he lost the energy to sit up and his laptop clock is telling him it’s been over half an hour.

His hands are shaking when he reaches over to shut the recording off. Dan’s not sure when that started.

He’s not sure about a lot of things, he realizes.

Dan rolls onto his back, and stares up a ceiling that’s just like Phil’s but feels way less familiar until he musters the energy to hold his body upright again.

---

Phil’s still awake when Dan goes back to their room.

He looks up from his phone as Dan closes the door behind him and walks over to crawl into bed. He pulls the duvet over his body, right up to his chin, and curls up on his side. There’s a headache welling in his temples, and a heaviness lingering in his chest.

“Were you listening?” he whispers.

“No,” says Phil. He reaches behind him to set his phone down, sending the room dark, and then reaches out to tuck a strand of Dan’s hair behind his ear. “I don’t want to intrude.”

Dan hums. His eyes drift closed as Phil’s thumb traces small circles on his cheek. 

Part of him wishes Phil had overheard, so he could soothe Dan’s anxieties without him needing to ask any scary questions. Most of him just wants to hold Phil close and pretend he isn’t suddenly questioning the stability of his entire fucking life, of all the wonderful things in it.

So he does. He grabs Phil’s hand, and dusts a soft kiss to his palm, and then presses closer until Phil’s arms are wrapped all the way around him, holding him tucked against his shoulder in an awkward horizontal hug.

“Thank you,” he whispers.

Phil doesn’t respond with words. He just brushes a kiss to the top of Dan’s head and then, when Dan looks up, a second to his lips. 

And a third and a fourth and a fifth until they actually settle in to sleep.

[vaguely-concerned]

I played Death of the Outsider finally and I have some Feelings about it

and most of them not very positive. nice stuff first tho!

THINGS I LIKED:

- billie is such a good character. still new to her old self and slightly tender from coming out of the protective shell of lies that was meagan foster, full of old scars and doubts and bitterness but trying for something better, something kinder even though she still doesn’t quite understand what she’s walking towards -- the genuine care and tenderness in her voice when she talks to daud or thinks about deidre. I love her.

all that and she effortlessly IS also the queer disabled woc the gamer bros refuse to believe could possibly exist. exquisite. 

- the idea of ‘killing’ the outsider is compelling, but it’s the sort of idea that needs a full length game to support it and its implications. cool idea, completely wrong execution.

- saying that: I love that the injustice of the outsider’s creation being righted is only made possible by a long unbroken line of mercy and kindness. daud saved billie from the streets, corvo spared daud, daud saved emily and spared billie after her betrayal, billie tried to save aramis stilton and became entangled in the void, emily spared billie, billie took this job in the first place partly because she loves her dad daud and wants him to find peace. that idea is so beautiful that I wish the rest of the narrative was strong enough to hold it up lol.

there’s also something going on here with other people holding on to the important pieces of you -- that billie is ‘all that is left’ of daud after he’s dead. once he saved a child from true loneliness and gave her a purpose, made her feel seen again, gave her the closest thing she had to a home, and when he’s completely lost himself in the void... that kindness is still alive in billie, and she helps him find his way. again that is really touching and thoughtful and plays wonderfully into the chaos system in these games thematically! too bad about all the stilted dialogue and characterization messes and uh. everything else. 

- most of all I love how clear it is that billie and daud love each other. it’s a quiet love that has nothing to prove anymore, it’s survived all the blood and the ugliness and everything they’ve done to each other and to the world, a love with no demands left. it’s not the sort of love you usually see, in all its unsentimentality, but it’s real. when daud tells her he’s proud of her and trusts her no matter what she chooses to do, you feel how much he means it. (making his insistence on trying to make her choice for her all the weirder -- see my long rant of lamentation about his characterization in doto below lol)

there’s something about daud’s undramatic yet complete acceptance of and respect for billie that... I didn’t know I needed this, but it was a nice gift nonetheless haha, thank you. (it’s similar to how good it feels in D2 when you realize corvo just likes emily a lot as a person, even aside from her being his daughter. a good series for father & daughter stories)

- this carries over from D2, but I think the journal/log entries are better written and more insightful than the stuff out in the world.  

- it cannot be overstated how much the gameplay loop of these games is just... pure crack cocaine for my brain haha, very few things give me this specific kind of brain tingle. I love the sound of looting and I love the art style and ambiance and I love planning out a strategy after finding all the options and I love never being spotted or killing anyone and I love the puzzle elements they put into exploration sections and I love the feeling of how you move through the environment. it’s one of the few games where I routinely get so into it I end up with a crick in the neck because I’ve been so focused for so long and never noticed I’ve been sitting in a way that makes my entire spine hate me. I needed something to get me through the last few days and it did deliver that, at least. karnaca is pretty enough that I didn’t even mind that most of the levels were recycled from D2 either. 

- I’m not quite sure whether I understood this right but there’s a woman standing behind daud in the void -- I wonder if that is actually his mother and he’s been so close this whole time? at first I thought maybe it was jessamine but god no I hope she’s finally at peace after All That Nonsense, she shouldn’t have to hang around there anymore. there’s also a figure near him I could swear was corvo with his mask on, but he’s not dead canonically so that would make very little sense. oh well I’ll take my feels where I can get them even if I have to make them up wholesale  

- the bankheist was cool as fuuuuuck, that and the emotional impact of daud dying was sadly the height of this game for me, after that it all went mediocre real quick     

- paul nakauchi as shan yun was, as I have said before, a blast. ‘ugh I cannot continue my throat is as raw as a plucked pheasant’ fsdkfhlsadjkhfas

- daud’s funeral is genuinely touching. she gave him the entirety of her old life for a sendoff, battered and worn and dear as they both were. someone hold me 

THINGS I  H A T E D:

- the stuff they did with daud’s characterization. I am so unreasonably angry over this haha, the more I think about it the more I hate it. I think there are paths you could go with his ACTUAL character to make this work, but this was not it. I’ve said this before, but his most iconic, most defining scene is him surrendering himself to corvo’s judgement without justifying himself or deflecting the blame for any of what he’s done. this isn’t even regression in his character, it’s just.. a different character altogether. they could have gone for the angle that delilah almost managed to end the world b/c daud showed mercy and that’s the reason he’s moved to action, I think that might be a more compelling motivation for him at least. OR have him be more conflicted about how to do things -- violence is still the only tool he knows how to use but it’s not what he wants to or even can be anymore and the conflict troubles him, ‘His hands do violence, but there is a different dream in his heart’. or even use a different character for the ‘kill kill kill’ angle, he didn’t need to be here for this dlc at all.   

also, just on a purely practical level... for all his flaws and longstanding moral shortsightedness daud is not a stupid man. why the FCK would he be so sure that killing the outsider will fix anything? if I, dumbass extraordinaire, could within half a minute wonder if maybe something even worse would take the outsider’s place if you removed him... why does that never occur to the Knife of Dunwall tm, a man about Void for like half a century or whatever?? ugh fuck this, I’m having a hard time explaining exactly why it all feels weird and wrong to me, but know that it does and that I Do Not Like It lol. I feel cheated out of something important I thought I had.  

- again, this should have been a full game. (I think it is sold as one already, but it just hm isn’t) there’s way too much shit of literal cosmic importance for the game’s universe being picked up here for something this short to cover. save this HUGE idea for a rainy day should you ever want to do another game in the series and do something else with the dlc, honestly. 

- god but the outsider is insufferable in this. I don’t know what happened, but by the end I was like ‘*thoughtfully strokes chin* maybe daud has a point billie keep that knife handy’. he’s annoying and boring, which is wild to me because he was always a lot of fun in the other games.

for real tho I don’t know if this is just my atheist-but-still-angry-at-god-somehow??? talking, but daud HAS a point. people are responsible for their own actions, but the outsider didn’t have to do any of what he did either. he could have chosen to be bored through the centuries instead of seeing what people would do if you gave them such ~*morally neutral*~ abilities as y’know summoning a bunch of rats to eat other people. the game wants me to buy the ‘but really this black eyed boy is woobie tho uwu’ so badly and no I’m not buying that give me my refund I want my chaotic neutral bastard back pls. I’d probably be more inclined to want to help him like that. where’s his salt gone, arkane. if you didn’t want him to be edgy why did you make him look like that.  

- this is the lamest possible version of the outsider’s backstory lol, it feels like the pearl clutching panic about satanic cults back in the day all over. listen if it’s this easy to make a god the thrill is sort of taken out of it, if these randos did it anyone could. also how the fuck are they just normal-ish people anyway? why do they follow modern fashions? haven’t they been hanging around for thousands of years, haven’t their culture changed in any meaningful way? (I realize these aren’t the same guys as back in the day but it’s just weird) why do they speak a language billie and the player can understand? why did anyone think ‘idk some cultists no one’s ever heard of before with no thematic significance whatsoever’ was the way to go world building wise? they’ve taken all the unknowable eldritchness out of the eldritch horror and we’re all poorer for it now haha 

relatedly the last level is... just not very good. you come down from the awesome bank heist and then there’s... whatever the fuck this was.

- while I do like billie finding daud in the void and him remembering her I hate that he goes out still full of self loathing and rage when you talk him into the nonlethal option, that he can’t forgive himself or find any sliver of hope or peace. I wish there had been a few more moments for the two of them to come to peace with themselves before he gave the outsider back his name, some real catharsis. as it is I was annoyed when the outsider ‘woke up’ or whatever b/c it felt like he was stealing attention from what I was actually emotionally invested in and not done with.    

they had  n o t  built up billie’s or my sympathy for the outsider well enough either. again this is something I think they could have done if they’d structured things differently, if they’d been more deliberate in making you understand he was basically a child and letting you dwell on it. because there is a parallell there between him and billie, and billie and daud, but I, how do I put this, did not give a fuck  

in short this was really similar to my experience with D2 in that there’s enough good there that it’s all the more painful when it fails to deliver on it again and again, and it ruined things I already liked about this story from the first game (daud’s arc and everything to do with the outsider, mostly). give me some months of denial and hard core headcanon work and I’ll probably be able to live with it

[shmegel]

Stream of Consciousness Texts That I Sent to A Large Grouptext of Friends at 2 AM Again Like The Unhinged Woman I Am: Coronavirus and Chronic Illness Edition

——————-

My dad started talking about giving my brother hope about the school year and going back to school, and I’m realizing that’s probably happening before the vaccine (which will likely come out around January). What the heck am I gonna do? Do I need to move out? Schools are gonna be where this thing spreads. My brother will bring it home, I don’t know what I’m going to do about it?

I wish I were healthy so the prospect of living on my own wouldn’t be so scary. I’m so weak and exhausted, I feel like making three meals a day, doing my own laundry and cleaning, and somehow handling groceries (I guess Shipt and sanitizing them myself) would be too much for me to do alone with my limited energy. And that’s not even taking into account factors like what to do in flares when I’m BEYOND sick like can’t get out of bed, or finding a place safely, or not losing my mind alone. I don’t know, I haven’t really thought about this.

I just want to be healthy, guys.

It’s so upsetting because this could’ve been over months ago if the majority of people took it seriously quickly. If everyone stayed inside for just two frickin weeks we could’ve been fine. But now some of us may have to do it for a year because this stupid country isn’t even compassionate enough to sacrifice two gotdang weeks for the weakest of us. And I’m one of the lucky ones, able to stay in like this for maybe a year! Others just die! I’m frustrated that this is a situation in the first place, and I’m frustrated that I’m sick enough that it still could kill me even months after people have stopped caring. I never asked for this. I’ve done everything I can to be healthy. I spend more time trying to improve my health than any one of you and yet I’m the one still sick at the end of the day with very few improvements. I’m so tired.

I would be tired even without Covid, but this is just highlighting the inequity in disability. It’s highlighting the privilege many have of being able to NOT worry about health, about doing nothing to stay healthy and still having infinitely more energy than someone working hard on health and getting nowhere. God I wish I could be as carefree as those spring breakers hanging out in crowds on the beach for no reason other than they can and they don’t care. I wish I didn’t have to care. I still would, but I wish it wasn’t forced upon me. I hate that even if individuals have basic empathy (which of course many don’t), our system lacks it. This country makes me sick. Literally.

I wish I could just fly to another country with low Covid numbers (one that allows flying in if you obey their mandatory quarantine), quarantine for two weeks, then start over. I’m sick of this country anyway. Unfortunately, that would require me to be in a US airport and in a US airplane, so I can’t even do last resort stuff.

And I doubt anyone has the same level of quarantine we’re doing here- no outside cooked food, just cookable groceries. Thoroughly sanitizing everything that comes in. Not even leaving the house for work or grocery shopping. And most importantly the fact that I’ll be doing it until I’m positive it’s safe, which will probably be until there’s a vaccine.

I guess I’ll just super-quarantine in my own house. Stay six feet away from everyone. Everyone wearing masks at all times. No touching anything that anyone else might touch. I don’t know, it just seems daunting to know that many months from now things will not only have not improved for me, but will have gotten worse. Especially since this whole thing was entirely preventable- I wish Cheeto in Chief had an ounce of compassion. I wish he was punished with the disease- even if he had survived it might’ve taught him it was real and dangerous early on. I wish my life mattered to this country, this system, and to millions of people here. I mean, if you knew someone would die if you didn’t simply stay in your house for two weeks, wouldn’t you do it? I can’t believe that same logic doesn’t apply to lives like mine for so many people.

Anyway, what do I have to look forward to when all this is over? Shopping? Restaurants? Seeing friends maybe once a week? Petty. It’s all petty. I wasn’t working toward anything before this except for health, and that’s not going to be fixed because I can’t even get any blood tests right now, let alone have doctors do any in-person appointments and important checks like MRIs, X-rays, CT scans. Everything put on hold and nothing on the other side. You all have jobs and education and lives outside of the house- I really don’t. I mean, I had a part time job but it’s not like it’s working toward something, and I may have lost it in the pandemic anyway. You have jobs and new houses and apartments and boyfriends and education and children and energy to do pretty much anything you need to do and exciting or productive lives to live. What do I get when I come out of this? Probably just a bunch of cavities to fill because this happened when Sjögren’s Syndrome started melting my teeth and they can’t do much without more tests. I really have nothing to look forward to- that’s part of why this has been easy (I’m not missing much) but it’s also why thinking ahead proves to be just... disturbing. I try to stay positive but my day to day life has felt pointless for a long time, and in the short term that doesn’t matter, but god it’s a terrible thing to confront when I recognize that my only two options in a few months are going to be stay inside and feel sick OR leave my house and feel sick, and either way I don’t get anything done or really work toward anything except feeling ok, which I may never. I may never feel ok! I miss feeling like I have purpose. I still have ambition but it’s undirected because honestly I don’t think I have the energy to do any of the stuff I used to picture myself doing. So I don’t know what I want to happen here. Honestly this virus and my quarantine could go on for years and I would feel the same as I do now. I felt stuck long before the quarantine, because I’m not stuck in this house, I’m stuck in my own weak body.

And I’m sure this is disturbing to read because I’m kinda mildly fine most of the time and optimistic and positive and all that, and I know I blow up probably once a week at this point so maybe it doesn’t even seem that way anymore??? At least I still act that way in person, lucky you guys get to read my terrible rants. But I just want someone to see this, you know? I want someone to know that me being positive isn’t an accident, that it’s hard work against the mountain of garbage being thrown at me mostly by MY OWN BODY. It’s terrible in concept. I’m actually feeling fine right now mentally but I need someone to know the concepts I’m wrestling with: the fact that my worst enemy is me and it’s by no fault of my own. I was dealt a bad hand. Even in the very best of circumstances, without Covid, I’m living a pretty unfulfilling life. Sickness makes it hard enough- to be at higher risk of death or permanent damage in addition to that is just cruel. I just wish I could project this into everyone’s brain so they could understand why it matters so much that people freaking care about each other enough to protect each other from having even more difficult lives- or even deaths. I want to survive!!!! I’m clawing at the walls of suffering until my fingernails bleed!!! I keep it in my head that I’m gonna get out of this pain someday even if that’s not necessarily true!!! All I want is to live and to live well. I just want to live well. I’m happy to live and to survive so it’s gotta get better someday. I just wish the world cared a little bit more. I wish I had something tangible and fulfilling to look forward to. In this moment, I can be happy and read a book or watch TV, but I wish the other type of happiness was a factor in my life again, the sense of fulfillment and accomplishment. Sickness has taken so much from me.

[hertestimony]

My first 1.5 months as a school counselor

Wow, what an amazing first several weeks it's been.

But before I get into it…

I received my NYS school counselor certification in May 2017. In March, I compiled an extensive list of over a hundred schools. I started to cold call them, briefly introducing myself, and asking if they had or were expecting any vacancies for a school counseling position. I knew that the NYC DOE (Department of Education) was not hiring school counselors due to a hiring freeze, but I still went for it. And as expected, I heard barely anything back except from a couple principals who let me know they would keep my resumé on file.

I continued this for the next couple years. I cold called, I found out which DOE schools had vacancies from current employees, emailed schools my resumé and cover letters, which, by the way, took a long time to tailor to each school's job requirements and mission/vision, and applied to all charter, private, and independent schools as vacancies opened up (which were not many). During this time, I worked on and off as a private tutor, Registered Behavior Technician (RBT), after school teacher, and a HR/CSR Representative at a homecare agency.

In August of 2019, I interviewed with an insurance company. I went through three 1-hour interviews that all went well, and I had a feeling that I would be offered a position.

At the same time, I had an interview with a public specialized high school in the city for a school counselor position. At the interview, the assistant principal repeatedly told me how much their school needed someone like me, and how despite the hiring freeze, she will try to figure out how to find a spot for me there. Wait. Did I just get an informal offer??

I received a call from the insurance company, and was offered a job, and about 15k more than my position at the homecare agency (my latest salary position). It was a big improvement in salary, the work would teach me some "real world" professional business things, and the team supervisor seemed to be an understanding and kind person. But, I wanted the school counselor position. It had been two weeks, however, and I had not heard back from the school. The insurance company gave me a couple days as a deadline to accept or decline, and I felt extremely stressed out.

Do I accept the insurance job, tell them I can start in two weeks, and wait for the school's response? Will the insurance company give me two weeks before I start? What if I start, and the school asks me to come in again for a 2nd round interview? How can I take time off when I've just started working? Do I decline the offer, and risk not getting the school position either?

So many thoughts and options flooded my mind, and I felt overwhelmed.

As I knelt down and prayed, I simply kept telling God I wanted to fully trust in Him and believe that He will provide the perfect job for me. I admitted that I had no idea what to do. During these few hard days, a good friend reminded me not to settle for less when God is capable of giving me the best.

On the day of the deadline, as I prayed about what I should do, I felt strongly that God was telling me to decline the offer, and I sobbed because I was afraid. But, at the same time, I felt peace in my heart. I emailed a declination letter, thanking them for offering such an amazing opportunity.

The next day, I received an email from the high school.

She wrote that I interviewed well, but would not be offering a second interview.

My heart sank.

I sat in the car with the same friend who had encouraged me not to settle. As I told him the news, I cried. I went home that night, and cried some more as I prayed.

The next day, my heart was filled with peace. I knew that I had made the right choice.

10 days later, I had a phone interview with an elementary school in the South Bronx. The interview went really well, but I didn’t think much of it because of all the past rejections and also because I wasn’t all that excited to work in the Bronx.

Soon after, I was invited to an on-site interview where I would have to deliver a demo lesson. I adapted a lesson plan I had already created for a prior interview, and didn’t even take time to test out my demo.

On the morning of the interview, I complained to my mom that I didn’t want to go, and debated whether I should turn down the interview last minute.

On the train, I realized I hadn’t prepared one of the materials for the lesson plan. I took out a big pair of scissors and started to cut away, shoving paper scraps into my bag.

After I got off the train, I rushed because I was going to make it just on time, and not the recommended 15 minutes earlier. When I made it to the door, the security guard asked me to wait because they were having a fire drill. As I waited for about five minutes, I was able to catch my breath and observe the school students and staff as they filed past me.

As I sat inside, waiting for my interviewers, I realized I had not prepared any end of the interview questions. Wow, I was not prepared for this interview - my heart wasn’t fully in it.

Perhaps because I wasn’t so nervous, I was able to be myself during the demo lesson despite there being a student on the spectrum who refused to follow directions and do my lesson plan activity. I handled the situation as best as I can (good thing I have experience as an RBT!). I passed the demo lesson with flying colors. The three interviewers took turns praising me for what I did well, and not one said anything negative. I was smiling from ear to ear, and just kept saying “Aww, thank you so much.” After answering a bunch of questions, I was given papers to fill out. Then, the HR director told me that the principal wanted to meet me. I was taken aback at how quickly this seemed to be progressing.

As I left the principal’s office, she suddenly stopped me and asked me to go with her to another office, where she introduced me to a few people.

I left thinking that I might have a really good shot this time.

Two days later, after two and a half years of rejections and tears (and a lot of growth, too!), I finally heard the words I’d been dreaming of.

I texted every family member and friend who had supported, encouraged, and motivated me during this time. How grateful I was to God not only for the job, but also because I had so many people to share my joy with.

The job that I have right now was prepared for me well in advance, before I even got certified. God spent more than two and a half years molding me and disciplining me to fit right in and serve where God has been working. After six full weeks. I have not a single negative thing to say about my job. I love my students. I love the staff members I work with. I love the 4 hour round trip commute. I am also great at what I do not because of anything I can do or who I am, but because God has been preparing me all these years to know what words to use, how to react to certain things, how to work with certain students and parents, how to deal with students with disabilities, etc. (I worked as a private tutor, Sunday School teacher, summer school teacher, after school teacher, day care teacher, RBT, etc. for 10 plus years.)

There is simply so much grace poured upon me in every single counseling session, every situation that I’m involved in at work, and meetings with parents. For example, one student who has not opened up to any adult in the building can’t stop talking when he’s with me, and he even frolics into my office to say hi. Another example is that the students who staff members have much difficulty handling (and have to call in the parents) do an exceptional job when they’re in my counseling groups. Every single parent who I have called so far in order to get consent for me to see their child (due to at-risk behaviors or simply needing a little extra support) has given me permission despite some of them not having given permission in the past to other counselors.

This is amazing grace.

This is my faithful and good good God pouring His love onto me.

Thank you, thank you, thank you, God!!!

And this is just the beginning. I’m so excited for the things to come - to continue to see what God is doing in my life, and in the lives of those around me.

[heysawbones]

Congratulations, Me; You’re Slow

Surprise, me! You’re literally slow. As in, your processing speed - the rate at which your brain takes in stimuli and makes sense of it - is below average. Quantitatively. The average is 100. Yours is 94. 

Three years ago, I was given a cognitive battery. I’ve had an unusually high number of these in my life. Most people will never have even one. I’ve had four; one to assess for the Gifted and Talented program in kindergarten, one to reassess for the same when I changed school districts, one to assess for ADHD, and yet another, the latest, to assess for the same, as the prior records were lost. ADHD runs in my family, but I seem to have been one of those kids who compensated really, really well. Was I organized? Not even a little. Lose things? Constantly. I procrastinated like a motherfucker, too, but it was usually easy to make up the work in class before it was due. I would drive hard to complete the GT project-based assignments at the last minute, and always did fine. Better than fine, even. Sure, I used to obsessively braid yarn or draw in class, but nobody had any reason to suspect I would have issues with things like maintaining attention or executive function later on. If they did, I never heard about it. Even today, it’s not obvious; people associate a certain flightiness with ADHD and that isn’t me. People associate a lot of things with ADHD that aren’t me. This has been so much of an issue, in fact, that despite meeting diagnostic criteria over and over, as admitted by clinicians, people have been hesitant to give me the diagnosis. The argument deployed tends to be: you have all the symptoms, but you also have chronic depression, which has the same symptoms, so we’ll just go with that one. The underlying rationale, the unspoken answer to “why can’t it be both? they often co-occur” seems to be: you are too articulate and self-aware to have ADHD. It boils down to you’re too smart to be slow. 

This is unfair to me, and demonstrably untrue, besides. I recognized this long ago. I am the one who has to figure out some way to compensate for the symptoms. Yes, the symptoms of depression and ADHD overlap (especially if you are depressed for a long time), but the treatment of those symptoms is not the same. I have been in treatment for depression for over ten years. Am I better than I was? Unquestionably so. 

Do I function at a level sustainable for an adult not on disability? Can I get places on time? Can I catch a plane without showing up 14 hours early, lest I show up 14 hours late, or at the wrong airport entirely, instead? Do I remember things people told me yesterday? Can I go to Target without the possibility of getting caught up in a weird cognitive trap where I want bananas, but am too guilty to buy them unless I do the rest of my grocery shopping, which I don’t have the mental energy for? Do I remember enough of my meds when I go on trips? Can I stop persistently putting things in places that make no sense, and then having no idea that I’ve done it 15 seconds later? Can I manage an adult’s schedule? Can I remember to pay bills on time? Can I remember what I’ve spent money on in the last week? Can I remember what I ate this morning? Can I hold down a job that is, honestly, below my abilities in many ways?

The answer is, of course, sometimes yes. Distressingly frequently, it is no. Where travel is concerned, it is always no, and somehow, I have managed to show up at the wrong airport entirely more than once. 

Yes, I recognize that these are problems all people have, to some degree, at some time in their lives. If people are willing to act on the belief that I am too smart to be slow, why is it that when I account for my concerns and attempt to articulate the impact they have on my life, I am suddenly not self-aware anymore, and am only overreacting to what obviously MUST be the same degree of these problems that other reasonable adults experience? Why am I credible in other areas, but not this one? If I am so smart, why is it assumed that I’ve failed to account for my own emotional bias when gauging the difficulty I am experiencing? Why is it more satisfying to assume that I am not trying hard enough, then it is to accept that a smart, self-aware person may, in fact, have some kind of Brain Problem that, really, there is no logical contraindication to, and much evidence, for? When I do the responsible thing and insistently pursue all reasonable options to address my mental and neurological health, with the goal of being a functional contributor to society, why is this so persistently reduced to a fetish specifically for an ADHD diagnosis? I’m smart when it’s convenient for others, but not when it comes to the ability to draw cause and effect relationships from my own behavior, and make comparisons between those and the behavior of others? If I got treatment that worked, I wouldn’t care what the diagnosis was. Come the fuck on. I’m tired of this.

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Anyway. I sat down with the results of that three-year-old cognitive battery. I’ve read the summary before; it’s peppered with lines like

“There is also considerable other evidence in this testing consistent with a diagnosis of ADHD”

“In my experience, some individuals who are very bright are able to compensate for some of their disability”

“this distribution of index scores is very typical of individuals with ADHD”

“Many of the behaviors she describes are certainly typical of individuals who suffer from ADHD. Unfortunately, the coexisting history of chronic major depression and PTSD make that differential diagnosis based on history alone difficult” 

When I first read that last year, I was shocked because the therapist who requested the cognitive battery, only expressed surprise that I was “very smart” and said that my “scores were fine.” When I later confronted him after having read the summary myself, he merely admitted that some of my scores were “lower than others”. He never entertained the possibility that I had ADHD, which in an of itself, wouldn’t have been a problem if he’d been willing to just try the treatments for it, since clearly the two industrial-strength doses of antidepressants I was already on, were not cutting it. Alas, he was not, and it wasn’t until after he retired that the issue was addressed again.

Surprisingly, I was not the person who addressed it. When my therapist-MD retired, I needed at least a primary care provider to manage my medications. Since the appointment was for psych med management, I had to fill out a bunch of related intake forms - you likely know the kind. While looking them over, my new doctor peered up at me and asked, “Has anybody ever suggested that you might have ADHD?” I was taken aback by the question and wasn’t sure where to start. Them? Asking me? if I have ADHD? She asked me? 

I told her that I’d had two full cognitive batteries done, and that both of them concluded roughly the same thing: yes, all the symptoms are there, no, we do not know if it’s ADHD because there’s too much background noise from other psych issues. Without skipping a beat, she said the most amazing thing to me: 

Well, whatever it is, you have the symptoms, so let’s treat them.

God. Why didn’t someone say that years ago? Diagnoses are human constructs; we use them to group symptoms that tend to occur together, when they’re thought to have the same causes. Depression and ADHD have many (but not all) of the same symptoms, but the overlap doesn’t qualify as a diagnosis because the causes are assumed to be different. I think we often forget that diagnoses are containers for commonalities that we use to make talking about medicine easier, not necessarily biological phenomena unto themselves. If you remember that they are containers - a sort of conceptual shorthand - then it follows that if one treatment for a set of symptoms isn’t solving the problem, you ought to try a different treatment often used for the same symptoms, even if the minutiae of diagnosis means you aren’t sure you can apply the diagnosis typically associated with that second treatment*.

I am now on Vyvanse. Does it magically solve my problems? No. Does it help? Yes. I am in a much better position to actually address the bad habits and coping mechanisms someone like me builds up over the years. The notable insomnia should wear off over time, and besides, as a person with an existing sleep disorder, having fucked up sleep isn’t new. It’s a price I’m willing to pay.

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Anyway. So I sat down with the results of that three-year-old cognitive battery, because I had to dig them up for my new therapist. Instead of reading the summary, I dug into the raw numbers: the related tests are the Weschler Adult Intelligence Scale IV (WAIS-IV), and the Weschler Memory Scale III (WMS-III). I couldn’t find sufficient guidance on interpreting the WMS-III, so I’ll stick with the WAIS-IV scores:

At first inspection, these scores do look “fine”. Anything within 10 points of 100 in either direction qualifies as “average”, even if 100 is “the average”. But on further reading, both in the summary and out: 

-Examination of these results reveals considerable significant variability between various functional capacities, with VCI of 141 a full 3 standard deviations above PSI of 94.** Problems with both working memory and processing speed impacted her overall IQ considerably, bringing her Full Scale IQ down to 120 (from 133). 

-A significant difference among subtest scores can suggest a problem in the particular skill being tested; this might underlie a learning disability. A significant difference among standard Index Scores might also indicate a learning disability, ADHD

-when I see a difference in IQ scores such that the verbal and nonverbal scores are far superior to the processing speed score, I try to discern what could be causing the discrepancy.

-LD diagnoses are also reliant on score discrepancies. On the WAIS, a gifted individual with ADHD may look like this.

Verbal comprehension - 132

Perceptual Reasoning - 129

Processing Speed - 97

Working memory - 101

Absolute scores aren’t the only diagnostic tool. Relative scores are also important. For example, average scores across the board wouldn’t be indicative of a working memory or processing speed issue, whereas great discrepancies between those parameters and others, is - even if the working memory and processing speed scores themselves are the same in both examples. What I’m saying is, it’s right there. It’s in the numbers. There’s no wiggle room. My old therapist saw these numbers, and not only did he choose not to act on the information, he pointedly refused to do so. If he hadn’t retired, I’d look into suing for malpractice. It’s in the god damn numbers, my dude. I don’t care what you want to call it, the deficit is right. there.

What did I ever do to him? Did he just... not believe ADHD is real? More to the point, did he think I somehow, without knowing the ins and outs of the WAIS-IV, faked the deficits or something? Really, guy, what the hell?

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Do I feel bad about being slow? Honestly, no. I might have if I found this out 10 years ago, or in circumstances wherein that reality didn’t perfectly explain aspects of my experience that other people have been prone to downplay, or dismiss entirely. Instead, it’s the closest I can get to scientific verification that I’m not just losing my shit over nothing over here; that something has, in fact, gone awry, and may always have been awry. I couldn’t compensate forever (though the ways I’ve done it are many, and in retrospect, interesting) and now I’m on the other end of it, trying to rebuild. I am, as I like to say, building an exoskeleton - something that will hold me up when my brain insists on faceplanting. I’m just grateful there’s someone out there who isn’t too caught up in the semantic navel-gazing of diagnosis, to help.

*There are obvious exceptions here, such as when the two diagnoses have causes whose treatment is contraindicated in the other diagnosis. This is not the case with depression and ADHD.

** You see that Percentile Rank of 34? That means I performed better than 34 percent of people my age, at least according to the test sample. That’s. Not great.