#And slowly crumbled the perceived version of themselves.

[berri-hopefulspouse]

Okokokay, I’m awake, lemme explain this particular post because uh. It was like 2 AM when I posted it and I was hardly awake to explain it properly. I might write about the event itself in the future, but I have a LOT of projects going on rn so I need to uh. NOT SUBJECT MYSELF TO TEMPTATION. Lmao. ANYWAY. If you want the full explanation behind this post- it’ll be under the RM for the sake of not angering all of my followers :’)

TW: Internalized Manipulation, Internalized High-Expectative behavior, Suicide, also for uh. A generally Long ass fucking post. 

Basically...Ren has a secret. One they had completely forgotten about until their memory was retrieved post TTH- or rather...a few weeks following the memory retrieval. One secret that...as far as they know- they’re taking with them to their own fucking grave, rather than tell anyone what happened. 

Sure, they had a crush on Makoto. Sure, they were always too afraid to tell him how they felt- both out of fear of rejection, but for another...much more guilty reason.

See, when they ran away from home- ran away from their family...it was because they were controlling, yet neglectful. The family they “loved” never really gave them the emotional support they needed at a time when they were suffering- and in some people’s cases, only added onto it. They ran away because they were tired of being bound by their family’s stubborn expectations, and were tired of feeling like they weren’t good enough to do what everyone else was doing.

The problem was... They never truly resolved that trauma by running away. They had NO idea at the time how to do what they needed to give themselves that emotional support that they needed desperately growing up. Which of course, resulted in them taking that same sort’ve controlling, high-expectative behavior...and turning it on themselves.

Joining as many clubs as they wanted, studying late at night, getting double shifts to pay the rent of their apartment...They did everything they could to stay on top. It was a habit they didn’t know they were doing to themselves- they just saw it as being hardworking to maintain the idea that they were doing alright on their own. And of course, she- Junko- was no help to this. Manipulating them to work even harder- and that if they fall from the throne they were building for themselves, that they’ll be left alone. After all- for the first time in years, as a result...they were relatively popular. But not because of economical status, or because of beauty- or anything relatively of the sort. Because of their intelect. Their talents. Their ultimate...they were appreciated for something they could DO for others. And it was that, that gave them what they thought was the emotional support they craved since growing up- and they would be damned to let go of that now.

Ontop of this, they never really told anyone about being transmasc. They never told anyone they were AFAB. Everyone just assumed they were AMAB and nonbinary- which they agreed was fine with them. 

They were elected student council president, due to their uncanny ultimate to figure out that something was wrong with their class- and have the compassion to sit down and talk with others about it. When a student was struggling in a class, they’d either personally tutor the student or have someone they know who excels in that class tutor them. They were advocating for the luck students classes to be more personalized and catered to their talent, much like how all the other students had their classes personalized and catered to theirs. They did everything in their power to make a difference, to make an impression that they knew would never leave the class- unknowing that them just...being themselves, would’ve been more than enough. 

However...it was all too much for them. It was draining, it was exhausting, it was driving them crazy. They hardly got any sleep, they hardly had time to take care of themselves due to their various after-school activities and jobs they maintained. It was at this point they realized something was horribly, horribly wrong with the way they were living, but...that seed of internal expectations had burrowed itself too deep. Basically threatening themselves that if they couldn’t manage this- what they perceived to be a “normal” school life, albeit with some disadvantages- then they were just...weak. They HAD to keep themselves busy, because that’s how they make a difference in this world!

For being an empath...they’re terrible at taking care of themselves.

Despite themselves, they felt that sinking emptiness that they felt back home starting to return to their heart. So what do they do? Pour themselves further into their classes, their work, their social life- what little of it they maintained after class- their clubs, their student-council presidency. 

Even then, that wasn’t enough. They tried on their life. They broke under that pressure, and they have the scars to prove that. It was the first time anyone in their class knew that something much deeper resided within their class president. 

...Yet, at the time, Makoto was the only one who yelled at them for it- both out of his own naivety and his own sense of guilt.

Skip to a few months in the future- a good 2 weeks before Junko’s perceived plan would go into full effect, and a few days before the supposed fuzzy memory they’ve had in the past came into fruition. 

Makoto and Ren had been getting closer, yes. Ren wanting to learn and, as a result, be better to themselves- so they could in turn be better for their class. Makoto just wanting to help, seeing as he looked up to them.

Still, they didn’t hang out that often- both due to their own class schedules being all over the place, and Ren never having much time out of school. Sure, Kyoko would be helping pay their rent- which let them have the option to quit one of their jobs...but they still had to afford food each month, so they still kept one job- both for the experience and because they felt they had to. They didn’t want to ask the school for more help than they “needed” to.

So, when Makoto was hosting a small sleepover with several of the boys from his class- including them- they were a bit excited. Due to their business, they never really had the time to really...hang out with other people. Develop an actual social life. They never had the chance to hang out with friends outside of class, and never had the chance to do normal teen things- like sleepovers and school drama and shit. 

Naturally, of course they went. 

They had...such a fun time that night. Goofing off with the boys- even some of the more reclusive and uptight boys would eventually loosen up around Makoto. Of course- it wasn’t like usual more “Feminine” sleepovers- the boys would mostly be playing a lot of video games, eat snacks, what-have you. Makoto would try to get them to watch anime, only to be teased for it. Ren had to break up that little spat before it got out of hand- wanting just as much to protect Makoto. 

Soon enough, everyone was falling asleep. Most of the others didn’t want to sleep in Makoto’s room themselves- saying that was too “gay” for them-- Only to get ribbed at by Ren as a result, despite what they tell themselves about being a straight enby (a contradictory statement in and of itself). So, Ren, wanting to prove a point to them, decided they’d stay with Makoto. Unaware of how flustered they were at the thought, Makoto headed back to his room with them in tow- ignoring how the boys were calling out various...unsavory one-liners. (Much to his dismay, seeing as Makoto would eventually have to drag Ren by the arm- lest they start an actual fight in his house, his parent’s would fucking END him, Ren stop it--)

At the very least, it was calmer. The two sat, talked for hours, goofing off and watching anime until close to 1 AM. By then, they’re still watching anime through his laptop- Makoto braiding their hair out of their eyes so its easier for them to see. 

This entire night, they’ve just been feeling so...so flustered around him. So flustered, so confused. They just want to do something about the feeling, they want to understand what it is they’re feeling...this feeling that they’ve felt since they first met him- and has only intensified over time...has intensified over the course of the night. 

So, they do something impulsive. They do something they didn’t think they KNEW they were doing until they did so. They kiss him- genuinely and caringly. Its then they did realize how they felt- someone not so straight, not so ‘perfect’...and for that brief moment it was okay. For that brief moment, being perceived as who they actually are...was okay. 

And then that moment was broken, hearing a knock on their window- one of the boys had gone to investigate what was going on, and was peering through the window. 

And that sudden panic, that fear of losing what they have- of losing the respect of their class...it held its grip on their heart. They start freaking out, mumbling to themselves about how they were going to be made fun of. Makoto tries to calm them down, tell them its okay- that it’s fine- trying to insinuate that he kinda felt the same way.

But, they leave. They flee with one last final word to him; 

“...You don’t even know.”

A message to themselves- about what they know about love- and to him...that he doesn’t know what would happen if they loose that social status. 

...The following day, they pour their heart out to Junko. They explain everything that happened- and they’re told of the device that can wipe memories. That can, essentially, erase the past. Of course they’re reluctant- their good morals and goody-two-shoes nature makes them hesitant. But, when she reminds them of what would happen once rumors starts to spread... They agree its for the best. That no one else should remember what happened that night. But to ONLY erase that night. 

...Little did they know, that a few weeks down the line, there would be so, so much more erased than a single night. 

So, by Monday, everyone has seemingly forgotten the whole event. They swore to themselves that day to never tell anyone- especially him- about what happened...both because of the event itself...but because of if he found out what they did following it- they didn’t know if he’d ever forgive them.

Losing their social status...losing that emotional support from their class...at the time; nothing else was worth it. Nothing else; even love. 

After all, they’re expected to be little mx. perfect. 

When their memories are finally retrieved... Or rather- the weeks following it, as an after-effect- they remember the whole event. That guilt they carried with them about what Junko did to them only multiplies when they remember their other massive, massive mistake. Sure, things turned out well in the end- they’re with Makoto, everything is getting better... He’s shown that even through their past- he’d be there for them...but even so, they can’t tell him.

It’s a secret they’re taking with them to their grave. And with any hope, that’s exactly how they hope it’ll stay.

...And they forget, that just as well for everyone else, the procedure had brought back all their school memories, as well.

Makoto won’t...say anything on the matter- knowing how their anxious self might react. If they want to tell him, they will. But if not...it’s a secret for their past self to keep, forever. 

...It definitely does explain some of their behaviors though, now that he does think about it. 

[astreamofemotions]

Emotional & Physical Abuse In All Its Wretched Romanticism

“It’s funny how you just break down, waiting on some sign.”

-    Read My Mind, The Killers

There are certain things you do for love that end up making zero sense in the aftermath. You question how your mental stability collapsed to the point where you couldn’t identify the destruction you were churning in your own life. You couldn’t recognize the chaos for what it was.

Love makes you dumb. The influx of oxytocin and dopamine and serotonin render your prefrontal cortex silent and then out of nowhere you are completely devoid of all rationale. Gone are the good choices, the self-preservation and the need to be independent. You start thinking that this version of yourself is the true you. That this is what you’ve always been, instead of the shell of the person you’ve become due to your lack of logical thinking.

Emotional abuse happens over time. You may not see it at first glance, but dig a little deeper, remove a few layers of the precious exterior of a superficially perfect relationship, and it’s plain as day. You see it in the way they grip your arm just a little tighter every time you fight, you see it in the way they belittle you and patronize you about the smallest things, you feel it in the hatred behind their eyes when you’re in the middle of an argument. It starts small, negligible to the one who sees good in everyone else. They express their feelings about your friends, tell you how no one would ever have the mind to have your best interests at heart except them, that all your friends envy you and that all the guys in your life want to fuck you so you should cut them off without any explanation. You trust them, believe that they want the best for you and you think there’s logic behind their words. You think they would never want you to come to harm’s way, that everything they’re asking of you is purely borne out of selfless reasons and only driven by their urge to protect you.

You refuse to see the manipulation, their need to control every aspect of your life, every interaction, every syllable that comes out of your mouth.  

You start to feel the pressure at some point, the constant mind-numbing pressure of being played like a puppet. They’re so good at lying to you, at making you think you yourself are the root of all your pain, that you’re the one that caused all the upheaval inside your head. They never hold themselves accountable for the amount of chaos they contributed to that upheaval.

It turns really nasty really fast after you realize that they don’t really care for your feelings, that they merely want to make sure you don’t have anyone in your life left so you have no one else to turn to except for them. It’s a really shitty realization to have, but you need to do it. You need to face the facts.

They revel in your detached friendships and fuel the fire behind your hate. The hate they slowly cultivated in your heart and grew it like it was their own little greenhouse. They let you give in to your worst, they egg you on when you’re being a shitty person just because it serves their ulterior motives of completely isolating you from anyone who could have told you that what you were going through wasn’t normal, wasn’t in any way, the perfect picture you had inside your head.

Soon, their lies start to reveal themselves to you. People who covered for them are exposed and you start to realize that he was making a fool out of you with the rest of the world by his side. It’s yet another shitty realization, but it’s one you need to have in order to move on.

As months pass, you start to see this new violent streak in them. They use you as their punching bag when the rest of the world lets them down. You’re subjected to streams of verbal abuse at a time, enough to make you question everything you believed about them ever being a good person. You detach, isolate and slick back inside your shell once again. Then they crawl to you crying, saying they’re sorry and they regret all that they’ve said and it won’t happen ever again. You think it’ll be okay, it’ll get better, things take time to heal and people need time to change. You forgive them. And then it happens all over again next month. It’s the beginning of the end.

It starts getting real old real fast. The same vicious cycle repeats itself in an infinite loop. You try to escape, you try and try and try. And each time they come at you with a fresh set of tears, hitting all the emotional buttons that they know will convince you to stay. They’ll victimize themselves and paint you as the bad guy time and again just so you feel shitty enough about yourself to not go. To not make the choice to protect yourself and end the cycle of hateful words and endless tears, because you believe you don’t deserve it. You think staying will fix your problems, that maybe you can fix them. You ignore all the red flags screaming at you, ignore the logical part of your brain and give in to the weak-willed pathetic shell of the person you’ve become.

You subconsciously start expecting a huge red neon sign flashing on your forehead telling you to get the fuck away. But it never comes, so you never find the strength to do this for yourself. You weigh the pros and cons almost guiltily. You think a breakup will result in your entire world collapsing. Your lives are so intertwined you believe you can’t stand alone on your own two feet anymore because you’ve been relying on someone else for so long. You don’t believe you have what it takes, you think you won't survive the aftermath of the destruction.

-

The sign you were looking for? The one you hoped would finally push you off the precipice and force you to make the decision? It finally comes. It comes in the form of violent shoves on your shoulders and a punch to the head and a kick to your legs. It comes in the form of them throwing your phone into the ground, of eyes brimming with hate and allegations of things you didn’t do. It comes in roiling waves of rage and helplessness and fear. Your safety has been compromised and you push yourself to get up and face the music only to realize that you can’t breathe past the cries that wrack your lungs and bile that rises to your throat and tears that fall and fall and fall. You let the world wash over you and feel the seas churning inside your veins. Waves crash and mountains crumble and when the dust finally settles on whatever remains of your catastrophic world, the truth shines and blinds you to your knees.

-

You start coming into focus again, slow but steady. You’re doing it. You’re reconstructing your world out of the ashes on the asphalt and you’re doing a great job. You rebuild your broken friendships and smile a little easier. You feel the iron clad shackles on your wrists and ankles fall apart. And although there are nights where you feel the clutches of loneliness grasping at your soul, you get through them. You let your friends take care of you. You allow yourself the comfort of trusting others after being taught to do otherwise for so long. For the first time in years, you feel free. Alive. Electric. You think you’re capable again. You can appreciate beauty when you see it and let go of the ugly. You learn to love yourself for who you are instead of what others think of you. You learn to breathe and feel the air expand inside your chest. The memories come to haunt you at random moments of your day. You’ll sit and read a book and it hits you how you used to let someone torture and belittle you. How little they truly must have been to feel joy from an act like that. You shake and cringe away and will the memories to go away. You want to pretend it never happened because it’s easier to cope that way. You want to pretend you didn’t allow yourself to reach rock bottom. But that’s the thing with reaching your lowest, you learn to climb back up and the journey that guides you in this turbulent mountain shapes the way you perceive the world. You learn and relearn and rise until the wind against your skin feels like home. There’s nothing to do except to keep climbing. Once you reach the peak of the mountain, you’ll see the meadows and forests and rivers in all their glory and grandiosity. The world that was in shades of grey will look like an explosion of kaleidoscopic colours that will take your breath away. There will be nothing more beautiful. I promise you that day will come. My journey is filled with rocks and rubble but I march on. I hope one day, you can too.

[toschestation-archive]

hello babey!! 18, 35, and 98💕💕

HIIII ♥

18. last movie you watched?

ghost (1990) with my mom

35. what is the best decision you’ve made in your life so far?

DROPPING OUT OF HIGH SCHOOL TO TAKE THE MEXICAN EQUIVALENT OF A GED AND GET MY CERTIFICATE ANYWAY SDFJKSDH!!! did wonders for my mental health and life in general and i don’t regret it one bit :’)

98. what is love to you?

THIS WILL BE REALLY LONG SO APOLOGIES IN ADVANCE BUT I AM A VERY CORNY PERSON AND I EXPERIENCED TRUE LOVE AT A VERY YOUNG AGE AND IT’S...BEAUTIFUL

there’s a big difference between being in love with someone and actually loving someone.

being in love with someone is like Infatutation™ reloaded. we end up thinking we love this...idealized version of  the person we create in our heads, which most of the times differs from who they are irl. and that usually crumbles and leads to a lot of disappointment and ugly stuff. 

true love goes past infatuation and idealization. when you really love someone you dont give a fuck about what ur brain perceives as their flaws, or the idealized version of themselves ur brain might craft. u love Them. 

when u really love someone and if the person u love loves u back something amazing happens; you help each other out, this is what it should be like. it shouldn’t feel forced, you help each other grow and slowly get rid of negative/toxic behaviors, while embracing all the positive traits and habits u have.

two people who love each other will not hesitate to talk about matters that make them uncomfortable, about their issues and troubles. love is feeling comfortable enough to talk about literally anything without feeling guilty or in the need to fight or act defensively. 

there’s a lot of effortlessness in love. it flows with great ease. it doesn’t hurt. it’s warm and cozy. love also involves a lot of balance...there’s feelings and thoughts but there’s also ur brain’s logical side and subconscious telling u things feel right. 

i think that’s the most pleasurable thing about love. how you just Know. you look at them and think God. This is it. And you see them at their lowest and when they think they’re nothing but a pile of heap and you feel the need to remind them they’re not a pile of heap but an amazing person who you love. and they do the same for you. and if you get the chance to be with them when they’re on top of the world u get to share that with them and the pride u feel is beyond amazing.

but love is not just romantic. love transcends labels. it goes past distance and when it’s true, it changes alongside you. when you really love someone, the love you have for them will never end, you might drift apart from them and you both might be in a bad place at some point in your relationship but love will always manage to find a way to show up and cut through any bullshit.

this is something that took me a while to understand. i had to be separated from my hometown to know what home truly means. i had to be separated from my most beloved friends to know that love never really goes away. and as sad as that might be, it’s great to know i will keep my love for the things and people i love with me until i die. 

[lighthouseofthewanderess]

Shirkers

Yesterday night, I watched a Netflix Original Documentary called Shirkers, set in Singapore. It was a story about enthusiastic teens filming a movie in the early days when there were only reels and cans of film. Their director, ‘a man of untraceable age and origin’, absconded thereafter with the tape and they <spoiler alert> never heard about the footage until he died. As I went to sleep after it, I mulled about what I had seen. The way a 2-hour piece left me registering just a few shots -- the close-ups of mosquitoes taped onto notebooks, the cigarettes that every woman smoked, and Catcher in the Rye. The movie’s overarching theme was that in the world there were the shakers and the movers, and then there were shirkers. The ones who got up and ran away, broke free and did whatever they wanted to do. Zero responsibility. Here’s a new word for myself, I thought as the concepts was unraveled. I was a wanderess, a Benjamin Button, and now I was a shirker in my own sense.

My teenage years were a breeze for my mom. It was almost as though she braced herself for it but I never got in to any trouble. I was being a responsible adult like I had always been. The more I grew up, the more that word started to feel heavy on my shoulders. Choke me and mock me. So what did I do when I couldn’t keep it calm around me anymore? I ran away and avoided it. This was the mind state with which I moved to Pune. Unleash the freedom, let me taste what everyone’s going gaga about I thought as I got off the bus with my mom in tow on a rainy, gloomy day. I was left with some staff of the college first as we didn’t have any vacancy at PGs. It was both a good thing and a bad thing. Bad part was my mom paid a bomb for them to just let me occupy some space. The good part was that I dived into a new world and tried to take it all in. The red-eared turtles that had super soft necks. The Sundays spent watching them wax each other. The smell of tadka in the air as they all rushed in the morning to work. Every day I learned something new. And I processed it with all too much time in my life. I lazed around, spoke to the turtles, took them on a walk and sometimes I just sat in a bakery nearby and watched the people. In the rain, they all looked like huge ants scattering about.

When college started, I still had a lot of time. There was always one movie project in production, mostly with one of the seniors. I hung around them and helped wherever I could. We sneaked into parks were permission was denied, and shot in the blind spots where there were no cameras. And when we wrapped up and left, everyone looked like this was the only way to do it. We asked them nicely, but they denied. What else to do? Don’t worry so much about it. I on the other hand, was filled with euphoria that I got away with some trouble. So it was possible -- to do whatever you wanted and not fall prey to the normalcy with which others struggled. It was as though a very limited world, with rules set in stone, all vanished to leave a blank canvas. The real question was how was I going to fill it in and make it mine? Around this same time came the thought that changed me as a person. It divided my space and time into two halves -- the goody-two shoes girl who listened to everyone, had a plan for everything and always stayed two steps ahead of the rest, and the new procrastinator who went against her one-member family, stumbling and learning, but all the while loving and growing. I believed, in many ways, what Shirkers was trying to say: “In order to move forwards, you have to move backwards.” I had to unlearn the things that I thought were right so that I can look at the world with an objective eye. I had to let go of trying to earn praises from people so that I can find myself and give this new me to the world. And for Benjamin Buttons, this is a very hard thing to do. I started experimenting again, but this time not with hobbies or food. I was trying to stay true to myself and act in a way I wanted to be perceived instead of what others wanted to see me as. I forced myself to take breaks, slow down and try not to hold everything other. When I started doing that, things crumbled to ashes. I watched some ambitions burn down, some expectations lurking in the corner, waiting to be picked up and met. I felt I had made a wrong decision to be a Shirker and run away from my responsibilities. But once I had my pile of ashes, it was easy for me to be reborn. With everything shed, I could now choose a new identity. When I visited Bangalore every few months, my friends had started seeing the change. Some even stopped talking to me because they felt I had strayed too far. My mom was annoyed I wasn’t keeping my room clean. That I was up all night and sleeping in late. And me? I was beaming inside-out. This is the new me; and I’m a Phoenix. When I am bored of myself, I will burn every trace of my identity down and build myself up again. How cool yet powerful was that possibility? I could do it at will and don any hat I want. And to mark this rebellious phase and make it absolutely clear that I care only about myself, I went and got a tattoo on the back of my neck. It was a Phoenix.

There was a pack of wolves that I ran with in Pune. Prerna’s family, the Mahtanis Each one of them -- her, her sister, and her mother -- were all shirkers. They had some basic responsibilities in place but other than that they had their own version of UBE going on. From painting backdrops for birthday parties to choreographing sangeets at weddings, the two sisters did it all. And that energy, for me, was infectious. It was what I thrived on, no matter how less we slept or how unproductive an off day seemed. I left my flatmates behind and started living with them. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, Archana would take out the car and we’ll just ride off into the dark. Buy ice cream (buy some meds as well), and head back. The house saw us play board games, do havans, party till morning, as well as work our assess off. This is life I told myself, but like always I would be wrong.

I got bored of that routine too. I wanted more than dhoklas for breakfast, and long rides from college to home. More importantly, I needed a change of scene. It’s time to burn down this chapter of my life. So I made the move back to Bangalore. Since I had freelanced a bit in Pune, I got into an ad agency and slowly worked on what adults do. A career. As I stepped back into goals and dreams I found myself sorely disappointed. I had it in my head that come what may, I will publish a book when I turn19. This later turned to 21. What was I doing when I was 21? That’s right, editing my film with a horrible hangover. Then I sifted through all my years in Pune -- it felt like I had done absolutely nothing in life while others were carefully building themselves for the world! The lesson was learnt; shirkers cannot be shirkers forever. For me to splurge and do what I wanted, I need a career that will get me the means too. And if I wanted to grow super fast, I needed to work super hard and forget the fun a little. Goodbye scrapbooking. Goodbye long nights nursing a bottle. Goodbye Shirker.

4 years into that change, the familiar and unsettling feeling crept in again. I knew I had to unwind a bit more, air out my mind a bit more, and simply let go of the world for a while. Bitterness had set in and was festering in my work. I couldn’t love what I did for a living, and because of that I didn’t love myself too. Walking in to work, I would just stop on the first flight of stairs and breakdown. Then it turned into waking up and breaking down. The idea of not being happy and yet confining to something I decided to do was tearing me in two. What was I doing with my goddamn life? My health was too messed up -- internal hemorrhaging, abnormally high thyroid, eye infections and a slew mental illnesses. I knew what the problem was, but I was afraid to risk what I had going on for me at work.The Shirker in me wanted to forget it all and disappear. And that’s exactly what I did.

I took a 2-week break and traveled alone; it worked like magic. I went back to running up some stairs to catch the sunrise on top of a lighthouse. I stood rooted in the storm and snuck in to the warmth of my room, drenched and satisfied. I stuck my tongue out and tasted morning air as I waited for my coffee. But most of all, I felt lighter. I used my phone only to take pictures, which I would compile into an Insta story at the end of the day. For the larger part, I would carry my faithful doodle knapsack which contained: a book, a notebook, my Instax, a water bottle, some money all rolled up and hidden. When I came back home, I came back with the idea that I didn’t have to choose between a Shirker and a shaker. And folks, is how I ended up writing this book. I asked Shivangi what she’s up to and she introduced NaNoWriMo to me. A whole month to dish out whatever you want to write from your heart. Why not, I thought. I shall take three steps back with my ‘must-publish-before-21’ dream so that I can propel myself forward with greater speed. Hello forever shirker.

[janethamer]

Smudges on the Horizon

They began as smudges on the horizon; then they grew. People talked about blots on the landscape waved a few banners and considered fracking a viable alternative. Nevertheless the project continued and the blades were gradually put in place; on clear days they looked like extra-terrestrial armies on the move. Depending on the weather conditions they would disappear into the mist or look as though they were moving closer. She watched them grow from her window and marvelled at their simple complexity. They looked like larger versions of the seaside windmills that were clustered in the doorways of every shop along the front and responded to the same breath as the blowing out of birthday candles. The technology however told a different story, a much more powerful development in the research to save the planet. The blades once you were close to them made a fierce noise apparently. She resolved to take the trip once the season started and the boats were running again from the Marina. Three hours it took to the windmill field and back, even though looking across the water it seemed that you could almost swim there in no time at all. 

Living at the seaside, particularly in view of the sea was a strange experience. A seascape whatever the season was so full of poetry and fierce art. The summer season was always something to look forward to even though the visitors came in droves. She could never begrudge anyone the delight of a day by the seaside. However year after year watching the hordes of people, considering their needs and their capacity to consume, she worried for the planet. The debris on the beaches, the fumes from the motorbikes and cars that transported the trippers and sustained the lifestyles of the locals were adding constantly to the problem of pollution. She supported the green lobby and was horrified at the way the prospects of a barren future were being ignored. The debates raged and climate change vacillated up and down the political agenda. The timescale, maybe fifty years, was far too distant for some and much too close for others. The planet was burning its way to extinction but the economic lobby was proving too strong in its wilful blindness. Carbon footprints were necessary to maintain the exploiters and enable those that they were exploiting. Can’t stop flying, driving, laying waste to the forests, the economy would crash. And then came the virus. 

Countries responded to the pandemic with varying degrees of efficiency. Those who grasped the extent of the danger first sent their messages to the rest of the world. 

The world began to close down but the windmills stoically kept on turning. At night when the sky was clear the red warning lights would orchestrate their dance even after there were barely any planes in the sky to read the signals. The seas emptied and the odd vessel in the channel excited her interest as she marched up and down her hallway attempting to maintain some vestige of the fitness that echoed a lost era. The view from the window, of the changing horizon, offered some possibility of a return to a better time. A much better time it would need to be if the destruction of the virus was not going to be followed by the destruction of the planet. As the disease took hold and the vehicles retreated the birdsong was louder the air quality much improved. The world progressed slowly but inexorably through the shutdown. People realised that they could work from home in many capacities, freeing the roads and emptying the trains. There were those who couldn’t maintain their employment in their kitchens or front rooms and they were left vulnerable. Then people long scorned by the neo liberal status quo were suddenly deemed crucial to the running of daily lives. Key workers became the designated label. A little bit of kudos in a name designed to hide the hitherto patronising way in which they had been regarded by the elite. Unskilled, unworthy of a living wage had been the view of those who relied upon them without comprehending their value. All of a sudden immigrants who really should have ‘gone back to where they came from’ were tolerated and even applauded, for the time being at least. They were described as working on the front line in some jingoistic positioning of people previously vilified as ‘not like us.’ Anachronistically a country that had voted to close itself off from the rest of the world to maintain some kind of spurious sovereignty was suddenly forced to rely on ‘the kindness of strangers’ while staunchly not prepared to recognise the irony. The hostile environment created to distance ourselves from the rest of the world would it appeared be diluted as long as cannon fodder was required. The rhetoric suggesting a war footing became more and more sickening. The virus positioned as the enemy by a hapless government provided a smoke screen for the awful reality that they themselves were the enemy. Years of ideological austerity had left the country unprepared for the pandemic and the Dunkirk spirit was really the only flag that the murderers in power could wave. 

Unscrupulous politicians thought in their arrogance that they were not the target of the dreaded disease. They maintained their position. Herd immunity was the initial buzzword. The garden of their glorious country was in need of work; pruning and weeding in order to return it to its former glory whatever that might have been. They saw in it an opportunity to relieve themselves of the burden of their responsibilities particularly to the aged and the poor, those drains on their profits. Culling them would be the kindest thing all round, their lives had no purpose or value after all. One or two of the powers that be had, with the best of care, survived their mild versions of the illness. Positioned of course as near death experiences they imagined that this would bring people on side and help their plan to work. Heavily disguised they put in place supposedly emergency measures which were risible in mitigating the impact of their cavalier attitude. Meanwhile they maintained their plan to lop the branches, get rid of the weeds. Having used examples of their own brethren to bolster their empty rhetoric about all in it together and the virus being no respecter of person they were too blind to see that in destroying the weeds they were destroying the whole garden. 

The smug assumption about herd immunity was soon smashed by a resurgence and reinfection of those who had thought they had come through. Billionaires and big businesses anxious to get the money flowing again were soon confronted by the truth of their platitudes; the virus really was no respecter of person. Near death experiences were now becoming increasingly the final experience for those who had thought themselves above contagion. Once again the lockdown was ramped up and once again it proved far too little far too late. The streets which had momentarily buzzed were again emptied and the supply chains were reduced. As she sat in the window watching the sea she thought of the Neville Shute novel On the Beach with the submarine setting off in an empty world to follow a Morse message across the oceans. Supposedly a sign of life it was in reality the tangled chord of a curtain blind moving in the breeze across an abandoned Morse transmitter. 

As life deteriorated the few outlets that retained limited stocks of food and other supplies became sights of riot and pillage before being wiped out. Supplies finally cut off, the people in their bolt holes became weaker and weaker. Clutching at remaining interactions on facetime and messaging people clung to each other in virtual reality. Then the networks went down. No more interaction no more cries for help just the gradual decline of all but the very wealthy. Squirrelled away in their bunkers where they had been surreptitiously stockpiling they sat down to watch their diminishing rations. They assumed that they would soon be back out to reclaim the world for their own selfishness and greed but the selfishness and greed wasn’t waiting outside it was in their cloistered hearts. Soon the arguments began. Rations squandered and injustices perceived they set about destroying themselves from the inside out. Factional disagreements raged and while they each plundered the stored provisions bewailing unfairness and theft on the part of anyone but themselves they failed to notice the generators stuttering. With no key workers to maintain the machinery their life support like mankind was gradually dying. Wrapped only in their sense of privilege and superiority they suffocated in their protective hives just as they would have done in the clutches of the virus. Outside the planet no longer belonged to them. Nature had come back into its own and life flourished in the pure air and swarmed under the clear oceans. Perhaps one day a creature would emerge to position itself at the top of the hierarchy again but in the meantime, watched only by the hollow eyes of crumbling humanity, the windmills continued to turn and the red lights continued to flash.

[benrussack-blog]

So why, exactly, do I need therapy?

“There are two types of people: those who need therapy and those who can benefit from it.”

Topping out at six foot five, the old man stared down at me from his tall chair with the gravity of a king from some ancient world. In 1989, at the age of fifteen, I became the patient of Seymour Radin MCFF, a Jungian analyst from Petaluma, California. As a man who had come of age during the Great Depression, Seymour had more than a few good stories, as well as good ideas, to pass down to me. Over two decades later, I still went to see him once a week.

“Can you expand on that, please?” I asked, knowing full well that he would not.

Throughout my adult years, I have spent an inordinate amount of time breaking the encryption of Seymour’s aphorisms. Only two types, really? If so, which type am I? The more I deconstructed the old man’s sentiments, the more I believe really no one should go: A person who needs therapy but clearly isn’t benefitting from it, has no business remaining in treatment. Furthermore, those who benefit but don’t actually need it have little cause to even bother going in the first place. Sadly, when further pressed, Seymour did little else but wait stoically with ancient, folded hands as I talked my way (stammered, really) through my own exasperated thoughts. Nevertheless, from this confounding chunk of so-called wisdom I now extrapolate the following:

The benefits of therapy, or perhaps the needs therapy serves are multifaceted. On a basic, day-to-day level, therapy opens us up to new ways of thinking and feeling about life’s challenges, ultimately assisting us to make better choices in the moment. That is, we learn to ask ourselves better questions, such as, “Should I go with my anger, which I know is a big issue of mine, and lay into my sister for failing to mind her own business, or should I express my dissatisfaction with her behavior honestly and authentically and without using hurtful language?” Normally, an individual holding on to a lot of anger would not even consider the second option. The same applies for someone managing difficulties such as depression, anxiety, or a lack of adequate communication skills. This is where therapy can help. Therapy can help us make the better choice.

Another way to improve our ability to make better choices is to figure out what we actually want. Towards this end, I often challenge patients to imagine the life they desire and work with them to remove the perceived barriers between themselves and what they want, or at least a realistic version of what they want. That means learning to replace “I want to sing like Selena Gomez” with a more realistic goals such as “I want to one day sing competently before a large and appreciative audience.” Fortunately, the barriers around us are largely self-created and, with a bit of focus and insight, they may be broken down or at the very least hopped over.

Again, do we need to make better choices, or are better choices available only to those who are simply able to benefit from them? Seymour once said to me, “I would stand on my head if I thought it would make you feel better.” That one, at least, made some sense: While therapy can’t solve all of your problems, as your therapist, I sure wish it could. Also I related to this statement on a personal level. Like Seymour, and as a therapist myself, I simply want to help people any way I can.

On a more internal and decidedly less measurable level, therapy is also about growth. This may be exasperating to hear, but just stay with me, even if this kind of talk isn’t your jam.

On its face, growth is a non-quantifiable process. Consider, for example, the difference between a child falling down and scraping his knee and an adult doing the same: The injury may be identical, but the manner in which the pain is handled is entirely different. That is, as we grow, we tend to be less affected when things do not go our way. Edward Edinger, a Jungian philosopher, described growth as an “Expansion of Personality.” Think as a childh, whose world one day may have briefly fallen apart as you sailed over a pair of handlebars and painted the curb with your knee. That child was still you, but a different you. A lesser version of you. Another way to think of growth is the experience of an increase in consciousness. Though Edinger also said that consciousness is impossible to define, we usually know an increase—or decrease—in consciousness when we see it. Usually such a shift happens incrementally, slowly and nearly invisibly, over many years. But sometimes it comes all at once, usually in a cathartic, painful fashion.

Here is yet another Seymourism:

“If it doesn’t hurt, it isn’t true.”

Ouch.

This brings us to the next obvious question: How do I grow? Well, picking up the phone and getting yourself into therapy might be one way to go about doing that. There you may experience growth by vocalizing events or feelings you have never spoken of before. Think of how physical therapy works. During recovery from a significant injury, often a part of the body has atrophied or is failing to heal due to lack of use—that is, due to lack of blood and energy reaching that space. Once it does so, the body’s natural healing processes will finally be able to tend to the injury. The same applies to the mind. A childhood trauma, which is probably far more serious than a bicycle accident, may too atrophy aspects of our psyche. As an adult, it is as though certain memories and feelings are blocked up, penned in, unable to be released or processed. For example, I once knew a woman who refused, under any circumstances, to drive across the Golden Gate Bridge. This phobia was understandable, as she had been nearly killed several years prior during a head-on collision on the same bridge. It was as though the psychic wound left by the accident never fully healed—or never healed at all. The memories were too painful to relive and therefore remained unchanged, fragmented and stuck within her. In theory, talk therapy might be one way for her to process the accident and shepherd those horrific memories towards the light, thereby allowing the natural healing processes of her heart and soul to do their work.

On the other hand, I feel the term trauma to be somewhat limiting, as it may pathologize the patient. For while exposing buried and traumatized parts of ourselves is essential for deep change, I am less interested in how you were traumatized and more so in how you were Shaped.

Allow me to explain:

Shaping refers to any childhood, teen and early adulthood environmental pressures or events, traumatic and otherwise, that Shaped your personality. Your Shape is akin to a hillside tree whose trunk and branches reach out in strange angles due to the steep gradient and strong winds. Like yourself, and so many of us, though the tree may appear different or odd, it is perfectly functional. A Bonsai figures into this analogy as well: A fully mature, entirely healthy entity appears to us in miniature due to a lack of available earth in which to spread its roots.

My job as your therapist is to discern your Shape.

When we discover our Shape, we can know our Work.

When we know our Work then we can Grow.

Imagine a household which eschewed and repressed all discussion and expression of feeling, a household where crying was a form of weakness and anger a capital crime. A child reared in such an environment may be Shaped into someone with an oversized focus on intellect. Think of a Spock or the Trekian android, Commander Data. Think of a man who tries to solve every problem instead of addressing how his partner actually feels. Work with such a patient may involve simply helping him get out of his own head and accessing his feelings, his body, or his intuition. The Work of this patient is to explore, access and utilize the realms that thought does not touch. It is my belief that such a practice will initiate Growth.

Here is another example: A friend of mine is currently undergoing a long and protracted divorce. A self-described feeling type, this person leads with her emotions. Her decision tree is less influenced by cold reasoning and more so by her mood or inner temperature. As the divorce dragged on, visions of repairing the marriage kept cropping up for her. Every time her soon-to-be ex showed the remotest bit of decency, she would attempt to reconcile to give him another chance. Every time, of course, his old habits would swiftly resurface: belittling, dismissing, ignoring. (A real catch, no?) His intermittent kindness reminded her how much she actually loved him. In those moments, her thought process would go something like this: “Today I love my husband, therefore we should be together.” In this instance, my friend’s executive functioning—that is, the driving seat of our decision-making process—was being guided by her emotional world. Feeling was the rule.

I recommended my friend write herself a letter about what she should do and not do the next time one of these moments cropped up. In the letter, she could also describe in detail her husband’s true character, this shadow of a man who occasionally threw her his scraps of kindness. I asked her to write from her more grounded, thinking self to her less grounded, feeling Self, a Self that was clearly suffering from feelings of abandonment and hurt due to the steadily crumbling marriage. Postmarked from the realm of thought and addressed to the land of emotion, this measure of Work would hopefully allow my friend to access her thinking function during times of emotional turmoil.

(Note: I do not mean to imply that feeling is any worse or better than thought. Rather, in a well-balanced personality, the two work in concert to arrive at optimal solutions.)

So what happens when we discover our Work and begin to Grow? What changes, exactly? Here is a straightforward but woefully incomplete list: make better choices; attract healthier, kinder people; learn to better and deeply appreciate and experience our lives on a day-to-day level; increase our vulnerability; increase our capacity for intimacy; acquire a broader, stronger community; learn to ask for help; increase our productivity and therefore income; increase our well-being; gain a wholly unquantifiable sense of inner growth and increased consciousness; feel a sense that you have taken the red pill.

Let me bring all of this to a personal level: as a child, and well into my teens and twenties, I was deeply socially maladaptive and grossly overweight. As one may well imagine, such a platform proved to be the source of considerable strife in my adult life. Dating, friendships, income, self-image—nearly everything was affected. By age twenty-eight, I lacked self-confidence, had formed very few friendships and had had even fewer girlfriends. I feared conflict and in both public and private arenas I felt constantly unsafe and physically vulnerable. How I came to be this way, how I grew into this Shape, is not germane to this discussion. Needless to say, my Shape stood out in stark relief: to anyone with eyes, my pathology was obvious.

Then one day, some time after my twenty-ninth birthday, a friend (a real friend, the kind who cared enough not to listen to my BS) dragged me to an introductory class in Brazilian jujitsu. The next day, I quit my gym and never looked back. This extremely intense, full-contact grappling art afforded me several opportunities, all of which were connected to my Work. First of all, daily controlled conflict built my self-confidence. In addition, the high-contact sport allowed me to blow off a considerable amount of repressed anger, which I am sure was stunting my emotional and psychological development. Jujitsu also whipped me into the best physical shape of my life. Lastly, and probably most importantly, I benefited from the tight brotherhood that forms amongst Brazilian jujitsu players.

Let me paint a picture of the Growth I have experienced due to fifteen years of hard training and focus on my Work: Today I am one hundred pounds thinner; I am part of a vast community of truly fabulous men and women; I feel safe, confident and centered in just about any situation. After fifteen years, I can finally hold my head up and smile. I would call that progress. And am I saying that jujitsu is the answer to everyone’s prayers? Well, no (but really yes and hell yes), but let me add that during this fifteen-year stint I partook in a host of other activities related to my Work: I attended therapy, started dating and went back to school for an advanced degree in Counseling Psychology. I mean, who knows, maybe the jujitsu didn’t do a damn thing and my self-improvement came from digesting all those god-awful textbooks. Regardless, whether it is simply talking it through with a professional, analyzing our dreams or swimming the Strait of Gibraltar, like countless streams filling a vast reservoir, our growth may come to us from a thousand directions.

In the years before his passing, I would spend hours with Seymour on his vast, serene ranch. I can’t stop picturing his hands, stiff and crooked from his street fighting days during the Depression, and how he stared at me with a mixture of determination and compassion from beneath a set of white, overgrown eyebrows.

So folks, need or benefit?

Even now, I still can’t say which camp I belong to, and I have stayed awake nights wondering if there is truly a difference. Perhaps that’s what he meant, that there are no differences, that therapy is for everyone, that there is really only one type of person, and only one way this goes:

Shape. Work. Growth.

That’s everything I know.

Now give me a call.