#I recognize how deeply fortunate I am to live the life I live and how good I have it relative to so much of the country

[anarchywoofwoof]

i told my dad about how i hate rich people (i'm an anarchist) and he told me that we are, in fact, quite rich. advice? i can't manage my family's finances, outside of my allowance.

hey there young comrade.

first off, thank you for reaching out and being so open about your feelings and beliefs. it's evident that you're in a phase of self-discovery and grappling with the complexities of the world around you, and that's commendable. keep doing that. don't ever stop. no matter the resistance you get from those in your network. keep learning, keep asking questions, keep pushing the envelope.

that being said, it's clear that you're currently dependent on your parents for survival, which inherently ties you to a certain standard of living. and that's okay. as you grow and become independent, you'll have the autonomy to shape your life in a way that aligns with your values. while coming from wealth does provide certain privileges, it's essential to remember that having money doesn't equate to being "rich" in the way you're thinking.

billionaires, to use a somewhat common example, who hoard wealth while others suffer, represent a particular kind of "rich" that's inherently problematic. but there are those with wealth who choose to use it responsibly, spreading it, and giving back to a world that's been exploited for many fortunes. they should be recognized for their efforts to make a positive impact, even if there aren't a tremendous number of them. they do exist.

i myself am what many would consider "wealthy" based on where i live and my earnings. i recognize my privilege and am deeply grateful for it. but i've also chosen not to chase after more and more. i'm content with what i have, and as my resources grow, i actively seek ways to redistribute and support those in need. i don't desire to climb any higher on the corporate ladder or hoard every dollar. instead, i prioritize giving back and supporting those less fortunate. i give to mutual aid, i donate to ethical and responsible charities, etc.

in our capitalist society, disparities in wealth are a reality. but it's not just about what you have; it's about what you do with it. it's about your principles, your morals, and how you engage with the world around you.

so, my advice? continue to educate yourself, reflect on your beliefs, and as you grow, find ways to align your actions with your values. wealth can be a tool, and it's up to you to decide how you'll wield it. remember, it's not about condemning wealth but about condemning the systems and behaviors that exploit and oppress.

stay strong and keep questioning. the journey is as important as the destination.

[piratesofhyrule]

The Story That Will Never Be Told 2: Midzel (For Realsies)

Don't worry, this is legit XD

This was planned from the start, simply a matter of getting to that point was always the REAL question. I saw the concept of "BOTW Midzel, but it's the same Midna from TP that's lived to this day and age due to time-shenanigans" kicking around, it springboarded what I devised.

Midna was rather easy to write concerning her heart as the core of this matter is she has had to live so long without the one she loved most, an agony I am most familiar with. The Zelda she knew may have been cut from the same cloth as the current one, but there's marked differences between the two. Twilight Zelda's stoic and outwardly cold to hide her softness, my Barbarian Zelda meanwhile is a carnivorous and brutish wastelander with the biggest heart you've ever seen. This is then juxtaposed further with how she's also a closeted nerd, the savagery of her upbringing stifling that part of her, but it's something Midna recognizes from the Zelda she originally knew. She wanted to befriend Zelda again, to truly learn of her without any sort of preconceptions or romantic expectations because while Zelda is clearly enamoured with her, Midna would never take the freedom of choice from her. She wanted Zelda to learn the sad truth of their shared past because the secrets and loss of choice that Midna suffered thanks to her curse were deeply engraved into her soul. She would never inflict that on her Zelda and that's why she strove to let Zelda initiate it all.

Although Zelda's initial attraction was rooted in "tall lady sexy lemme smash", I did want her to grow beyond base horniness into something much more profound and deeper. Choosing the whole "she has no clue about her royal heritage" was made quite early in pre-production, but it indirectly played into this as it's Midna that guides her along this learning curve. Thus Zelda's attraction stalls a bit in the face of their shared pasts, but such sudden curveballs in life can be the greatest of teaching moments and this helped develop Zelda more. When the two finially get together, she makes that decision with both eyes on Midna as she walks towards her, not falling in love but purposefully seeking her out.

Was thinking of posting the Midzel smuttery, but I'm not so certain about that these days.

The Gerudo Arc was meant to deepen their relationship, assorted terrors and battles only further entwining them. Deeper their love grows, it's tempered by the two low-key panicking about the other in any degree of mortal peril, which only worsens during Zelda's pilgrimmage up Mt Lanayru where she awakens the Queen's Ghost as she nearly freezes to death along the way. Midna meanwhile takes a serious hit from King Dedede during the Colossium Battle, Zelda entering a raging berserker state that allows her to take on Dedede on equal terms.

This has both of them conflicted over the same matter "I'm not the boss of her but I cannot stand seeing her get hurt." Some tension between the two over this, but they resolve it and that's when Midna proposes to Zelda during the Last Voyage (she wanted to earlier, but Zelda reuniting the wayward provinces and Fortunate Gents under her flag along with Kade's death took precedence). Given that everyone's sailing to the apocalypse, the wedding is pretty improvised and takes place on the deck of Wolf of the Seas. Linkle officiates as she's now captain of the ship, Ganondorf's on the organ for the Bridal March, Link and Sheik are the best men, Skull Kid's the ringbearer and Saria called dibs on being the flower girl. During the kiss, that's when Zelda takes the spark of the Night Father's divinity into herself, thus preserving the cosmic balance between both worlds.

This is a momentous occasion in the whole book because first, it's the formal union of Hyrule and the Twilight Realm. But more importantly, the chapter right after this is when the final battle begins and the fate of the world is determined not by gods, but by the mortals who make up the entireity of the world. During the climax when Link dies, Zelda sees the gamble she must make in his stead, Midna tearfully begs her to reconsider, even reciting their wedding vows. Much as Zelda doesn't want to, she knows and accepts that she must make this choice as that is the price of the Triforce.

And so Zelda becomes something more then human, beyond anything on the mortal plane in a last ditch effort to stop the Blood Moon's cataclsymic descent from the sky and Midna can only watch in horror, hoping that she has not lost her beloved again.

[cto10121]

Twilight Clown Takes—Part 8

Featuring “Twilight is badly written,” “Meyer did not intend to write X thing she definitely wrote,” “The series is über Mormon,” and other chestnuts. Fortunately, I do love nuts of all kinds, so om nom nom

The writing was so gibberish it was a bestselling phenomenon on par with Harry Potter.

The only thing bad about the writing in Twilight is that Meyer got a very bad editor. There are stray typos and errors in my original copies. Sadly, book editing has gotten worse since then, and I have found many modern books with similar errors.

Bella is not like other girls, all right. So much so that she constantly claims she is. Like here:

“Well, look at me,” I said, unnecessarily, because he was looking at me. “I’m completely ordinary.”

IF the dialogue in the books is like the movie dialogue…IF

“This main character is such a main character!!1!1” 😡 “Also big words make my wee lil brain hurt!!1!1”

Bella is literally so expressive around Edward and the Cullens, to the point where Alics mentions sourly she had “forgotten how exuberant” she was. Emmett and Jasper have a bet over how many people Bella could kill in her first year just on her temper alone. And re: Edward, Bella has no problem arguing and pleading and crying and ranting to him.

Also, Jacob is a different, much more immature character than Bella, so of course his POV would be different.

“Deeply desperate for sexuality” 🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣And these clowns claim Meyer is a bad writer. Don’t go throwing stones with your glass house, hon.

Anyhoo, Edward is the one who pushes for marriage, not Bella. Rosalie and Emmett get married every decade or so, but that’s only because Rosalie loves weddings—as in, being the center of attention. Do Alice and Jasper even have a wedding ceremony??? I don’t even think they got married in the traditional sense even once. No doubt they did, but they aren’t portrayed as a conventional married couple at all.

Other vampires that are not the Cullens do not marry at all—they are mated, which is an actually a greater and more permanent commitment than marriage in the Twilight world.

Also. The Twilight series, fearing sexuality? The Denali sisters literally went vegetarian because they loved fucking human men too much. And they are considered not only good vampires, but the Cullens’ extended family. And Renesmee nor Claire are child brides.

Twilight isn’t explicit about sex purely because Meyer realized her first book would be targeted to a YA crowd. But it is a romance through and through.

Ho boy, where to begin?

“Edward is supposed to be creepy, he is a vampire after all—” Would you like a cookie for this very obvious reading, Clown OP? That is some elementary school-level reading comprehension there.

“Failed to write an arc where the character recognize the problems, learn, and then overcome them—” Edward literally went from “She is my prey” to “I have her blood on my lips, and I am laughing at a joke she just made” in the first book alone. In New Moon, Edward made the disastrous decision to leave Bella, ramifications of which he was still dealing with in Eclipse (and he explicitly said it was the worst mistake he ever made). In Eclipse, Edward finally learns to trust Bella, fight for her love, and even decides to give her what she wants (i.e., sex) because he felt that he had been fucking it up the whole time. By Breaking Dawn, we have an Edward who finally accepts himself for who he is and learns to be happy in his vampire life.

As for Bella, she went from an introverted parentified teen so neglected she felt she had to cook and clean for her parents in order to feel less of a burden…to the powerful member of a coven who loves and supports her, saving the lives of said coven and mate from the Volturi. By the end Bella finally learns that what she wants is important and to fight for it. She learns to accept gifts and attention. She even finally describes herself as beautiful…as a human. That’s so big! That is an arc.

It is glaringly obvious, that I must question whether Clown OP has read the series or not. Most clowns do not, of course.

“The story never digs deep enough into him being a real danger to Bella—” Bitch, that’s all of the story. It’s literally 80% of Edward’s personality right there! He is too bad for Bella, it would be better if he weren’t in Bella’s life, it’s literally never-ending. A whole chunk of Bella’s motivation for becoming a vampire is because his world is too dangerous for her as a human. The whole plot of each book is Bella being hunted by a vampire, who are consistently the villains and described as monsters.

“Trying to turn Stephenie into the new J.K. Rowling—” When I picked up Twilight in ‘06 it was labeled as “Romantic Suspense.” The whole series was explicitly marketed as a paranormal teen romance, which was and is a subgenre of fantasy, with the whole Team Edward and Team Jacob thing riding strong. Twilight never tried to be something it wasn’t, and Meyer has never tried to make it out to seem like some epic fantasy. On the contrary, it was the anti fans that preferred the lore to the actual romance.

Nowadays the series is shelved under YA Fantasy, but that was after the series was completed. Breaking Dawn was perhaps the deciding factor.

Sure, Meyer was not aware of something she absolutely 100% wrote.

Bella’s parentification was canon before Midnight Sun was a twinkle in Meyer’s eye. And sure enough, when that landed, Bella’s neglect became downright glaring. But go on espousing sexist biases about female writers “not intending” certain things, Clown OP. It’s not like that isn’t a page taken from the Suppressing Women Writers handbook. When you know, you know.

Sigh. *schedules Movie Bella vs. Book Bella post*

[lanternagainstthedark]

The Feast of Farore

Good [insert current time of day/night],

Let me tell you about the Feast of Farore.

So, the way my personal calendar works is festivals are a single day, feasts last for 3 days and any holiday with the word “day” in it is more than that.

So, the Feast of Farore is a 3 day holiday/holy period dedicated to Lady Farore, Keeper of Courage, Bringer of Life, Protector of Children, Sister of Din, Sister of Nayru, Gifter of the Triforce.

It takes place from March 20-22.

Now, before I continue about the holiday, I am going to recognize my bias. NOTE,

TW Mention of past lives/kin-type implications

BEGINNING OF TRIGGER WARNING

I am a dedicated worshiper of Lady Farore. I have memories of worshipping her in multiple past lives, of even once being part of a spirit(s)(?) called Farore's Wind. I have had several tarot readings that referenced this, so I know I'm not just imagining it.

HOWEVER. My memories take place in a Hyrule that looks fairly different from the one seen in the Legend of Zelda franchise, primarily, one where worship of the Golden Goddesses is still an honored part of Hyrule's culture. It still deeply effects me to see a statue of the Lady of Light in my goddess's Spring.

I will attempt to keep this from coloring this post, but I cannot guarantee anything. I am not trying to bash anyone/thing, but it may come across that way. Just a note.

END of TRIGGER WARNING

March 20-Celebration of the Bringer of Life

Lady Farore is well know throughout Hyrule for her actions bringing life to the land of Hyrule. She blew over the hills and rocks that Lady Din crafted, and filled the world with Color. So on this day, we honor that, reminding ourselves of her joyful gift to our world.

I always honor her through spring cleaning. It is a fresh start, a new life/chapter of life beginning. I will also make sure to cook a hearty and delicious dinner, with bread served too. In the case of this year, I will be making Leek and Potato Soup(I will share that recipe tomorrow).

(I am especially fortunate this year, as my school district that I teach in has a district holiday. I could have cried when I found out.

I personally, will be beginning my yearly re-dedication ritual. I will NOT be sharing that.

March 21- Celebration of the Keeper of Courage, Protector of Children

Lady Farore is often seen as a joyful and caring person. Sometimes, she is known as Mother of the Kokiri/Koroks/Kikwi or even, on occasion, the Skull Children. She has walked and watched the Hero's Spirit since the very beginning, and his actions to continue to fight even in the face of great fear is what earned her favor.

On this day, I spend time in reflection. How can I embody this in my life? How can I act with courage and kindness and care even when frustrated to anger? I will be trying to write 3 prayers that I can use to remind myself of any ideas I come up with. (I also will make korok masks again and leave them as gifts to the Koroks/Kokiri/Kikwi.

March 22-Celebration of the Sisters, Gifters of the Triforce

The Sister of Power and Wisdom, the Lady of Courage is sometimes misunderstood(though likely not to the same degree as Honored Din, whose aspect is so often misappropriated). Today is spent reminding ourselves that it takes wisdom to have courage, not recklessness. It takes power to stand up against our fear. Today is spent reflecting on this connection.

I will be spending this day cooking, trying something new, or even just working the earth. I encourage all to connect not just to our Lady of Courage, but the Lady of Wisdom and Lady of Power as well.

I hope this was helpful to everyone! Colors associated with these days are browns, golds, and greens. Grow both yourself and prepare to help others grow too!

[sandpaperdaisy]

Autism Masking and (Unintended) Parasocial Relationships

CW: masking, tangential mention of adult themes (incest, drugs) without either being a topic of this essay

By “masking” I mean the ways in which an autistic person tries to navigate the neurotypical world, generally by putting on a persona or using a different social language in order to communicate with non-autistic folks more effectively.

By “parasocial” I mean a relationship that is real to the person who experiences it, but which does not exist outside their head and therefore is not an actual back-and-forth interaction between them and the other party with equal participation.

ONWARD TO THE BLATHERING:

So yesterday, I realized something. The way in which I mask causes me to experience parasocial relationships, or lend a parasocial aspect to real life relationships, even solid ones.

Keep in mind, everything I describe below may just be me. But if you recognize yourself anywhere in there, here's proof that you're not alone!

I mask by internally imagining every single interaction I am likely to experience with any person, ever. This allows me to test out several scenarios that may result from the various things I say and do, and select what I think will be the most successful one.

I do this because otherwise, I run the risk of seeming “cold” or inconsiderate to the other person, and I would much prefer to be a good friend or associate to them. So I try very much to do the prep-work of thinking about their needs and motives BEFORE the interaction, so I won’t freeze up and ignore the other person’s needs and feelings DURING the interaction.

Generally, this has worked out satisfactorily for me and my associates, but it has its problems.

Problem 1: Friends feel analyzed.

First off, while most of my close friends and family are cool with it, at least one of them spent years chafing under the feeling of being analyzed relentlessly by me. She expressed her frustration with me “thinking so much” and looking at her like “a bug under a glass.” She also felt very judged by me. It truly hurt her to be studied so much, and that is valid and unfortunate.

Problem 2: Strangers feel uncomfortable!

Secondly, all of this pre-gaming on my part results in me living hundreds of years’ worth of lives and interactions in my head before they even occur, and frequently these interactions never occur. So if I carefully considered what to say to an artist I admire on the internet, who is not my friend or personal acquaintance, in the course of practicing how best to potentially converse with them I may have a parasocial relationship with them of several years’ standing. This is definitely the case with a couple of talented artists I admire.

When I have spent that much time observing them and approving of them in my head, if I DO eventually meet them or speak with them online I already have an extremely familiar manner with them. I am much too informal and intimate for someone who hasn't done anything to earn their trust in the real world, and who incidentally has no reason to trust them either.

This results in very understandable annoyance or discomfort for the person! It is also worth noting, that I am somewhat fortunate to be a female with this trait. Generally speaking, the recipients of my esteem feel no MORE than annoyance, because they have the sense (justified in my case) that I cannot physically harm them. If I were male, strangers I am overly friendly with might perceive more danger from my attention and feel genuine fear.

Problem 3: Emotional impact of fast-tracked friendships

There have been many times when people rejoiced from my putting in all that mental "work" ahead of time and immediately met me where I was in our parasocial relationship, instantly becoming my close friends. When this stuck, it resulted in deeply enriching and lifelong friendships (and a marriage) that persist to this day.

But it does not always stick.

From my end, this is because I can't anticipate everything. Many years ago, I had one very close friendship that began in this instantaneous (for them) manner and lasted for many blissful months. Then, one day, I discovered they enjoyed writing fiction that dealt with incest and serious psychological conflicts and suffering resulting from incestuous desires. They had a very large body of work dedicated to these themes and the incest was frequently treated in an approving manner. I did my best to approach their interests with an open mind, but I ended up failing to get past it.

Back then, I didn't see a good path forward other than to end our friendship since it was causing me to have nightmares and experience significant emotional distress. But you can imagine the pain and shock felt by my friend, whose real world experience was that I had instantly loved and befriended them and become a confidante, and now I was instantly withdrawing all love. Terrible, right?

This is the kind of thing that presumably could have been avoided if I had taken as many weeks and months to get to know them *with their participation* as I had already spent with them in my head.

Problem 4: Boys

This problem will likely apply to whomever would consider you to be a possible romantic partner. For me, it's usually been males. And considering the rigid constraints frequently placed on male emotional intimacy, it might lend itself most heavily to relationships with men.

When I've made one of these instantly emotionally intimate close friendships with a MALE, he has very often then experienced significant confusion and distress because generally, in his life experiences that would indicate I'm romantically interested in him.

This can lead to some real disappointment, and in one case possibly contributed to a close male friend's depression. To him, my freely given emotional intimacy and friendship indicated romantic love, so when I began dating, he was extremely surprised, confused, and deeply disappointed. That is not a pain I ever wished on him and it remains one of the deepest regrets of my life.

With all these pitfalls, why would you ever keep masking???

I do it because I've been doing it for over 4 decades and it's simply a part of me. If I were born without hearing, sight, or another sense there are many techniques and skills I would develop in order to still experience the life I want. As a gal who was born without a social sense, I mask! It's kind of like learning a second language on steroids (and meth and perhaps adderall).

This doesn't mean I don't believe in patience and accommodation, though. The ideal circumstance is when you've developed healthy skills to navigate the wide world AND folks are patient and open-minded when you need more help. And then you turn around and show people patience too!

Some of my masking is maladaptive and causes problems, as I've said above. For me the way forward is to know myself and know what I'm facing, and then just to keep trying my best to be a considerate mom, partner, friend, employee, and associate.

But if I've ever done any of this stuff to you, or if I ever do...know I'm genuinely sorry if you were hurt, I'd prefer to find a way that works better for us both, and you can always talk to me about it.

~Heather

[sab3rto0thed]

everyone has something in common―the case of humanity is, of course, to never be entirely unique. fortunately for humanity, it is also doomed to never be entirely understood. there is at least one thing that we think no one else will ever possess, the kind of manifesto trait that you throw together to identify yourself.

for me, it was spilling my guts.

what else could it be? i have always been a writer along with one billion other human beings. i used the same words and synonyms and whatever else that people say makes writing special. i have the same jokes as at least twenty others. in the grand scheme of things, humans don't inherently matter to anyone but each other, and even then, making yourself matter to as many people as possible is an entire fucking conquest.

but i am so good at spilling my guts. i had never met anyone else who did it like me, with the sharp end of the knife, so blunt about it that it makes my teeth ache sometimes. i give them everything and also give them nothing, so i am always on the right side of the coin flip, because being on the wrong side is hell.

and then, suddenly, that wasn't just mine anymore.

i dated this boy last year, a complete shell of a person, which i cried frequently about after we broke up. i am also a shell, you see, albeit a different one, and i felt so terrible for him and his hollowness. it is the kind of pain you can only feel because you relate so deeply to. there is nothing inside of me except bones. there was nothing inside of him except blood.

we hated each other throughout the whole relationship, just in a way that was hard to recognize until it was over. i have no respect for him as a person and i think he's ugly. he never liked me at all and thinks i don't brush my teeth.

he's not the point.

he dated this girl after he dated me. and oh, how i wanted so badly to be like her―between her and his other ex, i was literally just the in-between sack of bones that he used to entertain himself for three weeks. i hate being a rebound, but i fear i will die clutching someone else's leftovers. that's okay. i am good at accepting things.

but i liked this girl, his new girl. i liked her because she was everything i could never be but saw in every girl ever―she was easy. she was easy to love and to like and to look at, easy to touch and laugh with and take places. she probably was less angry than me, her edges blunt, and she always knew what to do with her hands.

he treated her like crap. and i was getting over everything he did to me. i am good at accepting things, and i would have given him the benefit of the doubt. i defended him to all of my friends just because no one ever defends me, and hollow recognizes hollow, no matter how badly we ended.

but then i learned what he did to her. and oh, i was fucking mad again. i am convinced i will never not be angry―it just lives in me, hovering beneath the surface, ready to spit on anything that pisses me off. i go through friends like they're wet paper. i can't stick to anything. it takes a million years of effort to fall in love with me in any way.

and then there was this girl. and as soon as we talked, she took the knife and spilled her guts like it didn't hurt her a bit. and i remember sitting there and staring in the same way that a million people have done before to me. like: no way.

it was like looking in a mirror. she had the same brusque approach, the same take-it-or-leave-it manifesto, the same horrific resume, the same easy smile while she told it. i knew these things didn't bother her at all because she couldn't let them bother her. i knew that i might never actually know what kept her up at night.

i have never met someone who so willingly spills her guts like that. i have met a lot of people like me―this one is a writer, this one is a really good analyst, this one cries whenever they have to say goodbye, this one hates hugs except for these specific three people. but i have never, ever met someone who sketches their life out for me to judge and waits for me to walk away. usually, i am the one sitting trial.

but i recognized her like i had known her all of my life. i recognized the careless way she was with her body, like she didn't care if she got into a car accident in the rain. i recognized the way she spoke, her words just sharp enough to be angry if you were paying attention. i recognized all of the little lies because they are the exact same words i say on a daily basis. i recognized her refusal to cry in front of anyone and anything. i recognized her fierce defensiveness of the people she loves, because no one has ever been defensive of her. and i recognized her inability to accept someone else's defense most of all, because whenever someone tries to hold me in their arms or give me a gift, i feel like i'm going to choke.

it was crazy. i had never felt so stripped bare, so seen. i present different parts of myself to different people and appreciate the way they process me; but this was me, unprocessed. it wasn't that anyone was looking at me. it was just that looking at her was like seeing my hurt in her face.

i don't know what to do with that now. i feel like i have somehow both sloughed off half of the weight of the world and simultaneously accepted that i will be holding the other half for the rest of my life. i need to hold my shoulders straighter. i need to be more comfortable with things that change. i need to not be so protective―it's okay to let others learn. i just sometimes i wish i didn't have to learn.

everyone has something in common. i am sure there is still something unique about me. it was just this―i knew i was going to be terrible to everyone until i met her. then i forgot how to be terrible.

[sitinursaheera-20]

✨ Navigating Life's Tapestry: A Journey of Digital Discovery and Personal Growth ✨

When I get some quiet time during the day, I frequently think back on how much digital media has shaped my experiences and identity, influencing my ideals of empathy and genuineness. I have experienced joy, adversity, and self-discovery along the way, all of which have added to the unique tapestry that makes up who I am. Authenticity and empathy are important to me, and I constantly try to approach life with kindness and honesty. Creating art in any form—visual, audio, or written—is something I'm extremely enthusiastic about. My capacity to empathize with people and comprehend their viewpoints is one of my strongest qualities. 🎨

I've had the good fortune to encounter a variety of situations that have profoundly impacted me throughout my life, such as working with kindergarteners, orphans, refugees, and children with autism, as well as conquering obstacles and disappointments. My principles of authenticity and empathy have been woven with lessons about tenacity, resilience, and the value of adaptation that I have learned from these events in a very special and meaningful way. Sulking in the enthralling world of the Turkish series is one of my favorite things to do. I may briefly escape the everyday grind of existence with these stories of love, betrayal, and forgiveness; they take me to faraway places with engrossing plots. I can totally immerse oneself in the characters' travels thanks to the beautiful tunes and fascinating narratives, which provide an enjoyable distraction. 📺

Time spent with my pet cat brings me comfort, even when it doesn't involve drama. I am reminded to appreciate the beauty in the ordinary times by her playful silly acts and loving purrs, which add warmth and comfort to my life. But Instagram is the one that really takes up a lot of space on my digital landscape. Instagram provides a glimpse into the diverse content of human experience with its never-ending flood of information, which ranges from funny kitten memes to thought-provoking religious insights. Because of the ingenuity and sincerity of the content makers that make up my feed, I frequently find myself scrolling through reels. 🐱

However, in the midst of the seemingly never-ending flood of content, I have had a fair amount of troubles. I can very clearly remember the moment when one SIM card started to cause me problems—I kept getting calls and texts from random numbers. I was forced to take precautions to safeguard my wellbeing and privacy as a result of this sobering reminder of the negative aspects of internet connectivity. Notwithstanding these obstacles, I don't want to waver in my conviction that the media has the ability to influence lives. It acts as a link between ourselves and the outside world, providing a forum for communication, education, and expressing ourselves. 🔒

I've been exposed to a variety of viewpoints and ideas through the media, which has expanded my perspective on the world. But it's critical to recognize the difficulties and dangers that come with being in a digital world. The media can inspire and educate people, but it can also reinforce delusional beliefs and feelings of inferiority. It's a two-edged sword that needs to be handled carefully and with wisdom. I'm enthusiastic about the chances I have to keep developing and learning in the future, on a personal and professional level. I'm dedicated to following my passions to the fullest and changing the world, whether it is via my artistic endeavors or by lending my support to people that I care about. 💡

I find consoling comfort in the visual media's embrace at times of overwhelm. I find that watching Turkish dramas with complex plots or browsing through Instagram memes featuring cats is a great way to decompress from the stresses and strains of daily life. In general, I think that our perceptions are shaped by our digital experiences, which are deeply entwined with our journey of discovering oneself and personal progress. Additionally, knowing that my story is continuously being written, I look back on my journey through this constantly changing terrain with curiosity, resiliency, and hope. 🌟 #DigitalJourney #AuthenticityAndEmpathy #MediaReflections

[bipolarisnotmyname]

I needed to decide and therefore divide. Divide my thoughts and recollections, so I could work. A switch button. Something to wake up what I had inside, my most cruel and yet successful to have my divine self. And so I did it. I got the symbol of yin yang. I divided and it was hidden. Yianngi was how I chose to call myself. My first interaction on internet, my first socialization. And it was beautiful. It had power (That I can’t conjure and control anymore) to create the most interesting and inspiring things. All that I could think off. I got recognized, somehow, it was the beginning of internet, yahoo, cadê and shit. It appeared to me Leticia (it’s the name of my grandmother’s favorite sister that I never met). Leticia helped me organize it and show it off. a college professor (I don’t remember her name, or where on the south she was from. Maybe Curitiba. She noticed me and added to the list of links to be followed by her students and whoever followed her work. It was a portugues literature professor. Ray of light appeared to me as a song while my father lost his mind, and I had to kill him inside my mind. First appeared “the power of goodbye”. It was my farewell, hurts me and was probably the most painful and brave thing I have done. The Ray if light was my second blog, while I transitioned into a thin and popular boy, in my life. More people than I expected took notice, also connections from leticia to a luck guy. Lucas something, it was like my enemy and it looked so much like me that his exes came to me for complaining. I didn’t understood and hated the boy that I fortunate never met. Once he went to visit my second (actually third) school. He told a friend that I was charming and the way I smoked was beautiful. I hated the guy already, and later found out he spread rumors of me doing cocaine on the school bathroom. I never did it. No drugs on school yet. But I did start cocaine with Leticia. It was weird. I think I felt well because I even used the money for a book from school to buy it. And stopped on my 17th birthday. I don’t know why I decided to make it my second transitioning point. “I am gonna became a man, legally 18 in one year. No more highs-cool crap”. I also started the most meaningful relationship of my life at 18, Mion. He makes me grounded. I quit anfetaminas for him. And also my newphew, Oliver, at 21. That’s when the story so far successfully dark cracked. It was my downfall meeting Pedro. I got so deeply addicted to him, I felt deeply depressed, I ended things (actually kept in point, my salvation) Mion. But he came back to found me. I got sober again, but now Pedro had got addicted to me, I needed to actually end things in exchange and experience my freedom. he reminded me of my father, my worst mistake and part of me). I kept it away from my affections. People think we had some kind of affair when in fact we never had physically. We kissed sometimes, I barely remember, always drunk. But he was a pretty little object. So I put on my collection and followed my life in a successful way. I worked everyday that I could to help people help themselves. I need to be ok. and I got ok. And it was so far the best part of my life. I had my patients. That was a part of me hidden showing up. Ray of light again. I lived. Somehow I felt again, discovering bipolar disorder. It killed me. I went so down. Almost cocaine down. But I kept my analysis and got grounded. By that point Pedro was gone, and it really was. I got back up. And Life pulled my feet. Brain trauma. Horrible but humbling. 4 years (did it ended yet?). I am trying to get back. But I’m afraid.

If I come back completely, I can fall again or have convulsions. That is it.

20.01.2024.

[shawnjacksonsbs]

About, why I feel I'm good for my. . .good for this . . .just good in particular for this particular "project".

&

Dynamics can change. 1-13-24

“With this faith, we will be able to hew out of the mountain of despair a stone of hope.” - Martin Luther King jr.

I know I've said it before, but I am one of the fortunate ones.

To date, my struggles don't cost me nearly as much peace as a lot of other people in this world.

The weather is costing me in other ways. Lol no lol

Me and some of my colleagues are all waiting on . . .clearer, warmer days to move forward on our job(s) log, until then I want to recognize and acknowledge that I am one of the fortunate ones.

I have access to app/gig jobs, my girl is currently working, and our bills aren't stacked or backed up.

I'm not at risk of losing much through this. It's just a little discomfort. It bothers me more that others that count on me are . . .uncomfortable too.

To keep me sane in the interim, in the very downness I was begging to get a day of not a week ago, is my bible project.

Reading through the Simple Faith of Mister Rogers by Amy Hollingsworth and the Age of Reason, the Complete Edition by Thomas Paine is how I start.

So, with gratitude in place, stress and frustration in check, and no resentments, no reservations or current regrets to hold me back, I read, a lot.

I imagine it's liken to how a "regular" person does stuff(s). That's a total guess though. Lol

It's early in the week. Reorganized my office work area, and strategized Pawpaw’s Storytime books, and schedule too.

And like I said it's early in the week, so this might be the entry or I might add a little later on, but for now . . .

~

I'm back. Looks like our dynamic is changing, again. The household member count is going up a little, for a while.

Might get tough 🤪 , but the gains will definitely outweigh it.

More info may come later, for now though . . .

We'll try love.

We're in the middle of an awfully painful type of weather entrance too, so stay safe, stay warm, and make good choices.

Be kind.

Be grateful.

Find your place and that will provide your peace.

Also, yeah . . . share your love and your laughter with the world around you!

Until next week;

"You wanna know the truth?

The truth is I care deeply, what other people think.

And then, I do what I think is right anyway.

But I learned that the hard way.

I had to live a lot of life before I became a person I like and respect." - Amelia Shepherd

[forlornputato]

Kierkegaard & Whatever It Is I Lost

"The biggest danger that you can face in this life is losing."

I spent a week racking my brain, trying to figure out what exactly it was that I had lost. Stephen West simplified it with an example of losing something like your phone. You could easily go half a day without realizing it's gone. Now, when your muscle memory kicks in and you instinctively reach for your phone, only to find it missing, you immediately recognize what you've lost.

Now, compare that scenario to losing something like your principles. It's not a sudden, drastic change, I'm pretty sure. It gradually happens over time, influenced by your experiences, environment, and the people around you. But here's the thing, months or even years may pass before you even notice that you have lost your morals. And that's only if you're fortunate enough to be aware of what you've lost. After all, some people live their entire lives not knowing they have lost something.

I have to hand it to Kierkegaard. When you find yourself losing your sense of identity, you will likely also find yourself grappling with a lack of direction.

And so I began to ask myself, "What is it that I have lost?" If I never truly knew who I was, how can I even begin to answer this? And why am I so determined to come up with something?

What am I worth? I would say it depends on the situation I find myself in. If I am merely surviving, I would estimate around 10,000 pesos. If I am thriving, I would raise it to 120,000. That's it! That's one answer I've been looking for!

I have always placed a monetary value on my worth as an individual. I might even disregard my morals and principles just to "get by." I have come to realize that my self-perception is directly influenced by my income, the level of financial support I provide to my family, and the extent to which I can give back to others.

But in a capitalist world, money is finite. Or I could potentially lose my job due to layoffs or accidents. I lack control over numerous factors that could potentially affect my employment. This reality is deeply unsettling and instills a profound sense of fear in me. Whenever I think of this uncertainty, I find myself spiraling into a state of overwhelming insignificance. And that's because my worth has always been about my money.

So sit with me as I find something valuable in my existence. Surely there are a few I can discover.

My worth is in the multitude of lessons that others have learned from me. I have hurt people but I also have loved them.

My worth lies within every tear I've shed, reminding me of my capacity to love.

My worth lies in the joy that illuminates the eyes of the people I love whenever they see me, and my soul deeply understanding that my existence alone is enough for them.

My worth lies in every idea I learn and bravely challenge, knowing that one day my voice will echo through history.

My worth lies in the single seed I nurtured and brought to life when I was 12, and how, for all eternity, its presence will linger in the air we all breathe.

My worth resides in the influence I had on a girl who ultimately chose to pursue an education in teaching, just like the 2016 me.

My worth is found in every laugh I bring to Leanne, whether it's during dinner, breakfast, or bedtime.

My worth lies in the newfound lesson my mom has learned from me about boundaries.

My worth is found in the countless moments of success and silence that I share with my friends.

My worth can be found in the moments when I gaze at the empty wall of my room and talk to Einstein, Jesus, Aristotle, Kierkegaard, and Blaise Pascal.

My worth is defined by the immense strength and bravery it requires for me to remain steadfast in the face of suffering.

I am here. I am living. And I think that alone is enough for now.

Sir, Kierkegaard sir, I don't think I have lost myself. Oh, disregard that. I actually think I did lose hundreds of parts of myself. But, when I consider what I can gain just by confronting your idea, that very bravery alone reassures me that whatever it is that I will lose, will eventually come back to me in one form or another.

[sarahvisscher]

Chapter 1

"Have a nice evening, Juul!", the manager calls out, waving from her office, when I clock out with my card to go home after a long day of work. I throw my bag over my shoulder, put my card away and wave back through the window.

The fresh air greets me when I open the doors and I sigh deeply. What a chaotic day and how much energy customers can demand from you. Fortunately, I can put everything aside. I'm just here to give people advice about the clothing and accessories we sell. It's not my dream job either, but choosing your career at this age is impossible. I always wanted to become a flight attendant, but over the years my interest has waned. I feel at home here in the store and this is fine for now.

It is still very busy in the city and the new hotspot Centrum Diner is packed. The exterior already looks so inviting with the green plants on the wall, lighting above every seating area and I haven't even been inside yet. I hear that you can order really tasty sandwiches there, so it's high time to go there. Another reason to go to this bistro is the nice boy from the motorcycle group. At least, I assume they are here, they always walk in the same direction.

Am I stalking now?

I really need to tell myself more often to stop daydreaming. I'm busy enough with my own life. Besides, I really have to hurry now, otherwise the supermarkets will close and I won't have dinner for today. I run as fast as I can to the parking lot, but when I'm almost at my car, I see a group of parked motorcycles. Are they? I look again and recognize the colors of the engines. This group drives by very often… and yes, there is the nice boy! He is wearing his black, red motorcycle suit and helmet.

The boy is tapped on the shoulder by one of his friends. He looks up from his phone and sees me staring. I quickly pull my head in the other direction and continue walking. This is so embarrassing, he saw me staring from a distance. The more I think about it, the more I blush. Maybe I should have waved? Should I have said something? No…he probably didn't see me properly.

In addition to my job in the clothing store, I also regularly look after the children Liz and Jamie. They live in the same apartment complex and the parents have asked me to babysit some evenings so that they can work extra hours or go to a restaurant. After I ate my own dinner, I went straight here. Liz and Jamie are also two big sweethearts and quite independent for their age. I love coming here and feel so much love for these sweet children. We often watch Disney movies or I read from one of their favorite books. After I put them both to bed, I have to wait until the parents come back.

I sit on the couch and open my phone. While scrolling through TikTok, one video stands out to me.

Is this the friend I saw today standing by his parked motorcycle?

Him who tapped the cute boy?

Out of curiosity I click on his profile R7_offical, I watch other videos, until he comes up on my screen. Something about men wearing helmets or masks makes them so mysterious. And I already have a huge interest in motorcycles.

I think that comes from the family. My father got his motorcycle license when I was just born, so I grew up with it quite a bit. My mother, on the other hand, is not a fan of it.

To pass the time, I made myself a cup of tea and kept scrolling on my phone. After a few minutes I hear footsteps on the other side of the front door. A key goes in the lock and the door opens. Liz and Jamie's parents are home, so my shift is over. After talking to the parents for a moment, I walk back to my own apartment, open the door and sprint straight to my bedroom. I plop down on my bed and fall asleep immediately.

__________

"That looks great on you Juul, just look in the mirror," says my best friend Lisanne. I turn to the mirror and admire the blue and white off-the-shoulder dress I'm trying on. We are shopping together and actually already have bags full, but it is never enough. In the meantime, I see Lisanne diving between the clothing racks to look for more. "You don't think it's too naked?" I ask. "No, you're crazy, it looks sexy like that!", Lisanne shouts from the store. She's right, it looks quite sexy and I already know exactly which shoes and bag I'm going to combine this with. I turn back to the mirror, but stop my head when I look through the store's display windows, I see the motorcycle group walking by and they stop at the entrance of the store.

“Oh my god,” I say out loud. Lisanne looks at me questioningly and then turns towards the shop window. At a small distance is the boy with the motorcycle group, they all wear a one-piece motorcycle suit, gloves, large motorcycle shoes and a helmet. He raises his visor, but wears a balaclava under the helmet, which puts the emphasis on his eyes. The sun shines on his face and I see his bright blue eyes sparkle.

Slowly I see him lift his arm. First he seems to raise his balaclava slightly and then he waves. He waves in my direction.. he waves at me.

Shit.. I'm staring again and this time he saw it. I wave back briefly and then quickly duck into the fitting room. What should I do? Panic sets in and I'd rather sink into the ground now. His beautiful blue eyes in my direction, his attention on me and what am I doing? I'm hiding.

"Are they gone?" I take a deep breath and step out of the fitting room, but when I look up the group has already moved on. I told her that I often see the motorcycle group passing by and suspect that they come here for a drink and then continue on the road. My head is working overtime. I want to know who that boy is.

All chapters

[holisticsoulhealer]

Recognition - A Spiritual Story

This subject matters to so many of us, if not all of us. We want to feel that our life here on earth matters, that what we have chosen to do, who we know and have invoked into our intimate circle, truly cares about us, and recognizes each of us for who we really are. The good news is that over a span of a lifetime, it’s quite likely that we will experience being seen and heard in many ways, by as many people as possible. We can think of recognition as another language of love. As Louis Armstrong so beautifully sang “ People shaking hands, saying, ‘how do you do’ is really them saying ‘I love you.’’’

This sentiment more than most words in a song, really touch me deeply. I feel that each and every interaction here matters. It’s way too easy to forget that we are all in the same boat of humanity. It is a boat that we all get to jump overboard from into other planes of existence. We have opportunity every day in all ways to make sure that there is meaning and depth in our interactions with one another. I am hyper conscious of this as I grow in age. I love being able to share this wisdom with you.

Here’s a story that deeply touched my heart, not so long ago. I hope you take something precious from it…………….

When I do clairvoyant readings for individuals, my heart is always in my hand. I have no idea going in to the reading, who the client on this earth plane has hired me to connect to, and there’s always a feeling of responsibility I feel, to do my best, to open the channels well, and ultimately to not let my client down in any way.

It’s especially challenging when someone has lost a child, and in all sessions I feel the weight of doing my best to be clear for the loss that my client is struggling with. I myself lost my husband a few years ago, and more recently my best friend and beloved mum. I will say that I deeply recognize that the people we cherish, and are passed, are irreplaceable. They leave a space in our being that nothing and nobody can or will fill. Our job is to learn how to live and flourish without their physical presence, and if we’ve done enough work, we will connect our Higher self with their spirit.

At one point in this life journey, I landed a wonderful opportunity, to provide inexpensive readings in an outdoor garden, at a beautiful crystal shop, that was only a block from some of the loveliest Southern California beaches. The shop owner, an older surfing dude, asked nothing from me, other than to show up as promised.

One day shortly after that dear man, owner of the crystal gem shop had suddenly passed, I was fortunate to be sitting with two other extraordinarily gifted women, both worked at that sweet shop. We met and had a sweet pajama party, sharing our immense spiritual gifts with each other. We chatted and mentioned our concerns for the lovely shop since the owner had left this World, and that we weren’t sure his sister would continue with the same love and clarity he had shown.

My mobile phone was sat on the table in front of us, and suddenly out of the blue, a male voice that I hadn’t heard before, spoke to us, telling us all was well. My phone had a female voice when asked for directions and more. We all stopped what we were discussing and recognized this “out of this World” experience. We all felt that the voice sounded like our shop owner. It was crystal clear.

Fortunately we were all awakened enough to recognize something had occurred on a deeper level of expression than the usual daily communication.

This was one of many provable witnessed experiences of communion with the other outer planes. For me, this grows my faith in “that there’s more than this life” and grants me hope in a World that doesn’t always do a great job in depth of relationship, or in communication that truly matters.

As always, please share this post with anyone that you feel can benefit from it! Please like us on your social media channels and subscribe to our mailing list if you haven't already done so! We are mailing out a monthly newsletter and a recap each week of our blog posts and interesting tidbits! This is how you can stay informed with what is new in the world of The Holistic Soul Healer!!

Love & Blessings,

Ruth

Get personal with your Angels!! Connect with me and see what they have to say!!

BOOK NOW!

[thelaurenshippen]

days now really are just: wake up, make coffee, get basic rights taken away, answer emails, learn new damning information about the coup, have lunch, answer emails, realize there will be no consequence for the coup, work out, answer emails, try to decide if you want to go to that thing this weekend you were going to go to because is it really worth it when cases are so high?, make dinner, read up on the mass shootings you missed that day, go to bed, have more rights taken away in your sleep, wake up, answer emails

[pet-genius]

A complex and many-layered thing

But Harry’s anger at Snape continued to pound through his veins like venom. Let go of his anger? He could as easily detach his legs. . . .

This is the first Occlumency lesson. Harry is right, of course. Feelings don’t go away because you want them to. To let go of them when they’ve not been addressed or validated can be as hard as detaching a leg. And yet, it’s what Dumbledore asked Snape to do, and it’s what Snape had to do to survive the first war as Dumbledore’s spy. You have to ask yourself… how?

Trapped animals chew off their own legs to escape. It’s a sacrifice they make to survive.

If there’s one thing in a fic that turns me off it, it’s the idea that Occlumency shields are a thing, that Severus was so gifted at it because he’s got some power like Second Sight or being a metamorphagus. I always preferred to think of Occlumency and Legilimency as skills that can be learned, even if some have more aptitude for it than others.

Severus entered Hogwarts with the kind of life experience that primed him for developing these skills, and left it with even more. Occlumency is magical dissociation, a post-traumatic coping mechanism, and Severus has C/PTSD. More under the cut; tw: just general angst.

To survive, he would have had to develop a knack for telling how explosive and unpredictable people feel. Over his life, he faced at least two egregious examples of what Pete Walker, author of “Complex PTSD” calls “the Charming Bully”.

Especially devolved fight types can become sociopathic. Sociopathy can range along a continuum that stretches from corrupt politician to vicious criminal. A particularly nasty sociopath, who I call the charming bully, probably falls somewhere around the middle of this continuum. The charming bully behaves in a friendly manner some of the time. He can even occasionally listen and be helpful in small amounts, but he still uses his contempt to overpower and control others. This type typically relies on scapegoats for the dumping of his vitriol. These unfortunate scapegoats are typically weaker than him. […] He generally spares his favorites from this behavior, unless they get out of line. If the charming bully is charismatic enough, those close to him will often fail to register the unconscionable meanness of his scapegoating. The bully’s favorites often slip into denial, relieved that they are not the target. Especially charismatic bullies may even be admired and seen as great.

These would be James Potter and Tom Riddle, who are distantly related, I might add. Harry inherited the tendency to default to the fight response, but since he grew up the scapegoat and not the golden child, he never becomes quite as appalling, and after all, a fight response is normal when they are after you. Even so, Harry, who has both James and Voldemort inside him, triggers Severus to no end. It’s not a coincidence that the memories Harry sees when he is with him are largely horrible, and vice versa. There had to be happy or at least neutral or even boring moments, but these two detest each other, and they know they detest each other. Negative emotions and associated memories are so close to the surface they can’t be contained. This is the purpose of the Pensieve in this context - to contain the emotions. Since Severus knew what was in there when he pulled Harry out, my theory is that you don’t suddenly forget the memories you placed there, but rather you make them less fraught with emotions.

“Get up!” said Snape sharply. “Get up! You are not trying, you are making no effort, you are allowing me access to memories you fear, handing me weapons!”

Harry stood up again, his heart thumping wildly as though he had really just seen Cedric dead in the graveyard. Snape looked paler than usual, and angrier, though not nearly as angry as Harry was. “I — am — making — an — effort,” he said through clenched teeth.

“I told you to empty yourself of emotion!”

“Yeah? Well, I’m finding that hard at the moment,” Harry snarled.

“Then you will find yourself easy prey for the Dark Lord!” said Snape savagely. “Fools who wear their hearts proudly on their sleeves, who cannot control their emotions, who wallow in sad memories and allow themselves to be provoked this easily — weak people, in other words — they stand no chance against his powers! He will penetrate your mind with absurd ease, Potter!”

A lot to unpack here.

“Memories you fear,” “weapons”, “easy prey”.

Fearing your own memories, viewing your own lived experiences as weapons to be used against you, being easy prey… Severus could not be speaking louder of himself here. He is the one whose mind had been penetrated with absurd ease, he is the one who handed weapons to Voldemort, and he is the one who had to do the psychological equivalent of detaching his own leg – again and again – to survive.

I’ll argue that Severus developed a fawn response and a flight response, as fighting had never really worked out for him if it was possible at all. He had at least two more people I’d describe as bullies in his life, Tobias and Lucius.

Again from Pete Walker:

These [fawn] response patterns are so deeply set in the psyche, that as adults, many codependents automatically respond to threat like dogs, symbolically rolling over on their backs, wagging their tails, hoping for a little mercy and an occasional scrap. Webster’s second entry for fawn is: “to show friendliness by licking hands, wagging its tail, etc.: said of a dog.” I find it tragic that some codependents are as loyal as dogs to even the worst “masters”.

Remember what Sirius called him? Lucius’s lapdog. Bellatrix called him Dumbledore’s pet, Dumbledore said he dangles on Voldemort’s arm, the narrative compares Snape to a rabbit in SWM and Harry compares the Half Blood Prince to a beloved pet who had gone feral (yes, this does mean a lot to me on a personal level, yes my username is not a coincidence).

His unconscious fawn response might have been his undoing, drawn as he was to figures like Lucius and Voldemort. As an adult, I think he utilized the skills he had developed to survive in order to stitch these people up, and involuntary dissociation and fawning became Occlumency, which to me, is his signature magic. Harry needed only to banish Voldemort from his mind; Severus could not settle for this. He had to give Voldemort something, and knowing how to fawn meant knowing what to give him and how to draw himself in such a light that Voldemort would believe it. We see how he wanted to be seen by the Death Eaters: a self-serving coward who sought to hide behind Dumbledore’s apron, playing his pet. But that’s Pettigrew, not Snape. Imagine the self-immolation, the self-violation, it must have taken to convince everyone that you’re an ersatz Wormtail! Snape is a man and a prince, and the text recognizes this as Harry calls him, in the end, Dumbledore’s man, the bravest man, and as that chapter is called “The Prince’s Tale”. Voldemort thought Snape was nothing more than a “good and faithful servant,” and that his last words were “My Lord”.

But Severus had an unequaled gift for Occlumency, specifically against Voldemort, because Voldemort could not legilimens what he couldn’t feel; and he couldn’t feel love, grief, guilt, and remorse. This was Severus’s secret weapon, which would not have worked against Harry - who can feel these things, and who is also Lily’s son. I can prove it. The first time Harry gets the hang of Occlumency is after Dobby dies:

His scar burned, but he was master of the pain; he felt it, yet was apart from it. He had learned control at last, learned to shut his mind to Voldemort, the very thing Dumbledore had wanted him to learn from Snape. Just as Voldemort had not been able to possess Harry while Harry was consumed with grief for Sirius, so his thoughts could not penetrate Harry now, while he mourned Dobby. Grief, it seemed, drove Voldemort out . . . though Dumbledore, of course, would have said that it was love. . . .

Harry learned to dissociate, though fortunately in a healthier way than many of us ever get to.

Of course, Snape was a good and faithful servant… to Dumbledore, which brings us to the flight response. The chapter wherein he escapes after killing Dumbledore is called “Flight of the Prince”. He should be fighting, he had just proven that he can cast a killing curse, and yet he flees. He can literally fly, in fact: He, Lily, and Voldemort are the only ones we see pulling this off.

As a child, we see this too: He copes with his home situation by reminding himself “it won’t be long and I’ll be gone.” He is thrilled when he imagines Hogwarts, his escape; he follows Lily out of the carriage instead of confronting James and Sirius head-on (which might have saved them all a lot of pain eventually). But this doesn’t work out, we see that in terrifying detail. The next attempt at an escape is joining the Death Eaters, but this too doesn’t work out.

He can’t flee anymore.

“Severus, you cannot pretend this isn’t happening!” Karkaroff’s voice sounded anxious and hushed, as though keen not to be overheard. “It’s been getting clearer and clearer for months. I am becoming seriously concerned, I can’t deny it —”

“Then flee,” said Snape’s voice curtly. “Flee — I will make your excuses. I, however, am remaining at Hogwarts.”

Shortly thereafter:

“Severus,” said Dumbledore, turning to Snape, “you know what I must ask you to do. If you are ready . . . if you are prepared . . .”

“I am,” said Snape.

He looked slightly paler than usual, and his cold, black eyes glittered strangely.

He was ready, and he was prepared. He didn’t fly; he walked toward what might well have been his end with open eyes, armed only with the strength of his mind. Before Voldemort killed him, he looked pale, again, and terrified.

“I sought a third wand, Severus. The Elder Wand, the Wand of Destiny, the Deathstick. I took it from its previous master. I took it from the grave of Albus Dumbledore.”

And now Snape looked at Voldemort, and Snape’s face was like a death mask. It was marble white and so still that when he spoke, it was a shock to see that anyone lived behind the blank eyes.

I ask myself if this was the moment he realized he had been betrayed, that by giving Dumbledore a painless death he had secured his own. Maybe he wasn’t pale because he was scared; maybe he was pale because he was shocked. He was at his absolute limit, Occluding with all his might when he could have easily saved himself. The dam is about to break. All the memories he feared, all the weapons, the entire content of his heart is about to spill through - literally.

He fawned for Voldemort, the worst of all possible masters, but in the end, he was Voldemort’s undoing. All the ways in which he was weak and powerless against Tobias, James, Lucius, et al., proved to be part of goodness and source of his power. It doesn’t surprise me in the least that Snape is so loved. I’ve never actually seen such love for any other fictional character. He represents a kind of courage that many of us need to get by, lest we simply become evil or give the fuck up (“I wish I was dead”). A kind of courage rarely celebrated. The more time I’ve spent in the fandom in general and in the Snapedom in particular, the more I am convinced of this.

[gaiuswrites]

King of Cups || Chapter 1

Chapter 1: The Tower

Archive: ao3 | masterlist | two

Pairing: Din Djarin x fem!Reader

Summary: You’re apart of the Refugee Relief Movement, an intergalactic organization providing aid throughout the systems, and you find yourself assisting at a resettlement camp in Lothal when disaster strikes, changing your life forever, intertwining your path with that of a certain Mandalorian bounty hunter.

Word count: 3.7k~

Rated: Mature

Warnings: descriptive violence, blood/injury mentioning, danger, mature language

Notes: Hi y'all, welcome. This fic is going to be set during Season 2 of The Mandalorian, and will be what I like to call ‘canon adjacent’. ALSo, this chapter is very much so Reader focused, setting up the scene and the general pacing of the story, but naturally, Din will be more and more featured as things progress. I’m a sucker for backstory and a slow burn, so ye be warned. Please feel free to reach out to me. :) I’d love to hear from you lovely little beans. Be safe out there, friends.

Lothal was a planet all too familiar with occupation.

You remember seeing a quote somewhere that read ‘Look no further than Lothal if you want to see what happens when the Empire takes control of an entire world’; and although the Imperial chokehold had loosened when the Empire fell, the planet, even all these years later, still found itself gasping for breath. 

Off world migration from the Core Worlds had been popularized since the expansion of the Imperial government bureaucracy, which brought booming business opportunities for the fortunate few, but as the rich became richer, the poor grew poorer. The Lothalites were forced out of their homes, off their own lands—refugees on their own planet; forced to resettle and relocate with nothing but the clothes on their back and the possessions they could cram into their pockets. The only heirlooms passed on from generation to generation were that of poverty, tall tales of former splendor, and the greatest of ancestral traumas: disillusionment.

The truly desperate turned to crime, and what couldn’t be solved by back-dealings and blaster fire was managed with fear mongering and the bitter flair of xenophobia. There was always a species to blame, and it was always the one who seemed to be doing better off, no matter how slight the margin. 

Greed. Fear. Despair. These are the currencies in which the galaxy trades. 

And so it was then, and continued to be, cycle after cycle. History, always finding clever ways to repeat itself.

On bad days, pollution still loomed heavy over the atmosphere—remnants of the fires from the Imperial occupation still clinging on to Lothal’s weary bones. She had been stripped during that time; gutted and strung up by her feet to dangle from the Empire’s meat hook, exsanguinated slowly, drop by drop, until she had nothing left to give. Her resources and minerals and ore and water and seed, robbed. Pillaged.

She’s free from it now, but the scars remain— the planet remembers. Her people do not forget. Like muscle memory, they all ungulate to this synthesized rhythm they can’t seem to shake, day in and day out, wandering. Forever unsettled.

The planet had always had a diverse population and had become something of a safe haven for other abandoned people fleeing their home worlds, determined to find somewhere - anywhere - for them to survive. Lothal provided that for them. It wasn’t rich or bountiful by any stretch, but it was simple and safe—safe in the way hidden things in plain sight are. One could blend into the crowd of many, unique faces, of all races and backgrounds; you could be anonymous, if you wanted. You could be free.

That’s how you’ve found yourself here in Jortho. You had been with the Refugee Relief Movement for the better part of what felt like forever, and they had transferred you to this planet not six weeks ago. You were out on rotation; the RRM sends someone new twice a cycle for the span of a month or two to varying locations to supply rations, aid with the influx of refugees, organize resettlement lodgings, and generally be of assistance when and where you could. However, your tenure on this temperate planet was coming to a close, and soon you’d be flying back to the headquarters on Coruscant before being bounced to another post somewhere out among the stars. 

You love your job. You know it’s unpopular to say, but you do. It’s fulfilling and impactful and indescribably special. The individuals you meet, the stories you hear, they’re invaluable— priceless and precious, like handmade trinkets crafted by the fingers of a child; you press them all to your heart, holding them there. You’d be lying if you said it didn’t get to you— the weight of it; the plights of all of these people, all of these lives, burdening your conscience. It isn’t always painless— you aren’t immune to it. Even so, on most nights you manage to sleep easy, tucked away aboard the transport freighter you flew in on with the batch of settlers newly assimilated into town knowing Maker, at least you were doing something— anything— everything you could.

And really, to call Jortho a town would be an insult to all towns everywhere—but ‘town’ has a certain charm to it that ‘refugee camp’ simply did not, and it gave the people hope. Pride, even. That they belonged somewhere.

You suppose that’s all anyone wants. To belong. 

A feather soft gust of wind tickles the golden blades of prairie grass as the sun, bleary and tired, starts dipping from the sky. The crickbeets begin their song early, trilling, sensing Lothal’s moons still coyly tucked away, hiding somewhere along the horizon. A smile adorns your face, private and serene, as you bring a bowl of broth up to your lips, humming when the warm liquid meets your tongue. You sigh, contented, taking in the sights before you; how the dusk blurs the aromatic air, making it opaque, the shuttles docked across the way from you casting long purple shadows onto the flat plains, the snowcapped mountains in the distance bordering the cant of the planet’s surface, nestling Jortho in a shallow valley.

You feel calm, at peace, and take another sip.

An easy moment passes, and it’s the last one you get before silence stalks up from behind you.

You don’t notice it at first, like any patient predator, it goes undetected: the white noise, the nothingness— until finally, you do and then suddenly it’s everywhere. On top of you. Smothering you. Goosebumps stipple your skin and you bristle. The insects have stopped chirping. The breeze has stilled. The air hangs dead. 

And then—

Chaos.

You’re hit with a blast of crushing heat, the sheer power of it picking you up off your feet and onto your side, sending your body careening into a nearby structure. Your shoulder takes most of the blow, but your neck still snaps backwards unnaturally, the back of your head colliding with the stone wall behind you with a dull thwack. You let out a groaned cry at the impact, the wind knocked out of your lungs as you crumple to the ground.

For an instant, your vision goes white, stars popping and fusing out in front of your pupils, and it’s like you can feel everything and nothing all at once, hollow but overwhelmed, and all you want to do is close your eyes and drift asleep— Maker that would feel like a luxury, just right here on the damn dirt. And you almost do, you almost let yourself slip under and sink— until you hear a piercing scream from somewhere close. 

Immediately your eyes shoot open, desperately blinking away the blurriness that threatens to over take them, and you try pushing yourself up by the heels of your scraped hands, failing once - twice - before finding your footing. You’re shaky at first, uncoordinated and dizzy and redownloading bipedalism, before that sweet drug of adrenaline starts to course through your veins and finally, finally, you take in your surroundings. 

The ships that once stood across the field are gone, obliterated, and in their place only metal ribcages remain—empty carcasses like dead birds splayed on their backsides, imploded from the inside out, their bits strewn all around you. 

Your breathing comes hard and heavy, fighting down panic, and cloudy eyes search through the thick black smoke billowing up in stacks, trying to pin point the source of the scream you’d heard just moments ago. You cough a strained wheeze, sputtering against the charred air, and wade your way through the debris— it’s only then that you realize the magnitude of the explosion. It’s not just the landing bay, it’s half the kriffing village. The buildings that neighbored the airfield had been decimated, burning roofs and crumbling fixtures, homes collapsing onto themselves, scorch marks and shrapnel branding the outsides of the shanties left standing.

It looks like a battlefield. You’ve seen holovids of this—what war can look like, how it can ruin a people… But you’ve never had to stand in the middle of it, head on. 

Your heart drums against your chest as you break into a hobbled run, desperately scanning the area for any signs of life, up and down, left and right, straining against the waning daylight. It’s then that you hear your name, urgent and frantic, and you whip your head in it’s direction, knees nearly buckling in relief. You immediately recognize your friend Hareem, brandishing her arms at you, waving you over to her. 

“Thank the Maker, you’re alright!” the Balosar cries out, trembling hands finding purchase on your shoulders, bracing you. You don’t know if its for your benefit or her own, but either way you’re grateful for the grounding pressure; for the first time since the initial blast, you feel solid, like you won’t just float away, atomized and weightless. Worried, you look her over. A sliver of fresh scarlet blooms from her scalp, a small line trickling down past her temple, but she otherwise looks relatively unharmed. You grasp onto her wrist, squeezing firmly.

“What the hell happened?” You ask, voice low and pitched, wide fearful eyes drilling into her.

“T-There was a man-” And she shakes her head, mouth clamping shut, deep wrinkles framing her face.

“Hareem,” you reassure, giving her another squeeze. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.

She tries again with a steadying inhale, “I-I saw him. A-a man. He had a device with him, and he set charges, and Maker I don’t know— I don’t know— it went off a-and he ran towards the center of town!” The Balosar is in hysterics, tears spilling down her dirty cheeks, and it takes your brain a moment to catch up, to wrap your mind around the words she’s stuttering out. 

A man. 

Device. 

Charges.

A bomb. This wasn’t an accident; this was an attack—and he’s still kriffing here. You cup her cheeks, thumbs rubbing against the pale skin, smearing away the blood that’s nearly dripped to her chin. Your friend’s gaze is flighty, everywhere and nowhere, and you try giving her a smile, but you’re not quite sure you manage it.

“Hareem? Hareem. Hey, shh, you’re okay. You’re alright…” You peel your eyes off her to glance around hurriedly. “We need to find cover.”

///

You’re holed up in one of the few remaining homes on this side of the encampment, crowded into the small space with three other survivors. All four of you, packed in and silent and petrified. Unsure of any further threat, you stay completely still. Helpless. Laying here, idle, for whatever awaits you behind that feeble, wooden door. You feel like prey for the wicked, just passing the time.

Minutes inch along like this—or maybe its hours; time moves eerily different when you’re attempting to become invisible—and eventually, you almost begin to relax.

Almost.

But a new sound breaks the din, hard to recognize at first, indistinct from all the commotion outside their hut, but you hear it. You all do. The youngest of you, a teenaged Devaronian, grips onto the hem of your shirt, knuckles creasing with anticipation. You tense, spine going rigid. Footsteps. They’re slow, guarded, but they’re getting closer. You bring an arm up, for all the good it’ll do, creating a human shield in front of the boy at your side. Closer. Someone behind you muffles a whimper. Closer. A Bardottan you hadn’t even met until today let’s out the faint whisper of a prayer, lips barely ghosting over the phrases. Closer- 

and then, nothing.

They’re here. You can sense him, see his shadow sweep across the gaps in the entryway. You all hold your breath, as if the air is being syphoned out of the space… And the door is flung open, nearly breaking off it’s hinges as it slams into the inside of the house, shuttering the rickety walls with a jarring bang. 

You don’t know who looks more astonished: you four, or the Mandalorian before you, dripping head to toe in silver plated armor, pointing a blaster directly at your head.

“Where is he?” He asks, hard edged and modulated, and it’s more of a demand than a question—but he lowers his weapon all the same, holstering it at his side. You gape at him, guppying wordlessly. “Volcur X’elo. The bomber. Where?” He hasn’t moved an inch out of the doorframe but he’s still managing to loom over you, completely filling up the archway, shoulders set and impossibly intimidating.

You gulp, finally finding your voice. “In town, i-in the center of town…” Kriff, you had not idea if that intel was good or not, but it’s all you think to say. Seeming satisfied with your answer he turns on his booted heel, cape whipping behind him, leaving just as soon as he arrived. The dust barely has time to settle as the door teeter’s on its hinge, its rusty squeaks filling the void in the Mandalorian’s wake.

“Fuck,” you hiss, exhaling a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, doubling forward, propping your palms up on your knees.

///

After deliberating it with your group, you all come to the agreement of braving it outside. Better to be out under the open sky than die under a concaving apartment, clambering over each other to get to the exit. After all this, at least your dignity was still partially in tact— normally, you reckon you’d chuckle dryly at that. But you don’t. 

Can’t. 

You lead the pack through the mazelike streets. The sights that once seemed so familiar after weeks of living here become like strangers to you, and you sleepwalk through Jortho, snaking down paths marred by rubble and fallen wreckage— you haven’t seen any bodies, but maybe that isn’t true. Maybe you’re just too scared to notice them. Maybe they’re there, hovering just outside of your peripherals, haunting the corners of your vision… 

You keep your head fixed forward, jaw clenched.

Your feet move on their own like this, only vaguely aware that the red-skinned boy still hadn’t let go of your tunic. You forge on. Have to. You have to. Your only purpose on this kriffing planet was to help these people, to bring them aid, and if that means simply planting one foot in front of the other, then so be it. You take side alleys, double backing here and there, ducking under canopies, looping around yourself, only stopping when you catch a glimpse of beskar, the orange setting sun glinting off the surface of his helmet.

And he’s not alone.

You freeze suddenly, as do the rest, and the Devaronian bumps into you, stumbling under his lanky legs. Some paces in front of you, the bounty hunter has the other man, this Volcur X’elo, by a punishing grip on his shoulders, shoving him forcefully out in front of him; his wrists are bound and he’s fitful without the stabilization of his arms, his feet staccatoed and flailing wildly beneath him as the Mandalorian marches him forward. 

The wind shifts, and on it you can hear the bomber rant madly, only catching snippets of the vile nonsense that spews from him.“- like swine, they are a plague to the system! And they must be purged from this planet, and the next, and the next— every last filthy one!” You spare a glance to Hareem, to find her watching the scene in hypnotized horror, but your eyes snap back at the sound of something maniacal, drawing your attention. It’s laughter. The zealot begins to laugh a twisted, mocking cry that makes you want to vomit. “You might have me in binders Mandalorian, but you’re too late. You’re too late. This isn’t over!” He’s practically giggling, gleeful and demented. Disturbed. “You’ve only found one.”

Your blood runs cold. 

Only one? Oneoneoneone, one what-

The realization hits you with a punch to your gut. He’s only detonated one of his bombs. Somewhere, nearby, there must be another.

Without another word, the Mandalorian whips the smaller man around, pulling him sharply by his collar to collide with his breastplate, completely dwarfing him with his beskar frame. “Where is it, X’elo?” Nothing. Only laughter. High pitched, terrible roars. He tries again, patience ebbing. “The bomb. Now.” X’elo’s head tilts back and he howls another crowing shriek, keeping private his own sick joke, as if clutching a secret to his chest with slimy hands. 

The bounty hunter had heard enough. He clearly wasn’t getting anything more out of him, and with a quick strike, he rears his blaster and pistol whips the terrorist with it. The body drops. Volcur X’elo crumples, unconscious, blood streaming from where he was struck. You hear the Bardottan behind you stifle a cry with her fist. 

And with that, Lothal’s sun disappears completely, stealing away the last of it’s light as it furls into itself, shrinking out of sight. The dark ushers a new wave of dread, creeping over Jortho like a miasma, poisoning the very air.

The Mandalorian wheels around, searching for his heading in the labyrinth of the town. Others have gathered now, poking their heads around corners, stealing glimpses through windows. He turns, his head on a swivel. “Where is your power generator?” he demands, addressing the small crowd, but you’re all too stunned to speak. “Anybody. Generator. Now.” There’s something new in his voice, something muddled, and it takes you a moment to interpret it. It’s desperation, you realize, tinny and deep through his vocoder, and with a surge of adrenaline you move forward, furthering yourself from your group. You swallow. “I-Its this way.” Upon hearing your voice, he spins around, his visor latching on to you, and with a nod you both set out. 

“Watch him,” the Mandalorian growls past his shoulder, stepping over the bounty’s limp body.

///

You’re still not really sure how he knew where it’d be, you wonder to yourself, gravel crunching under foot as you both trudge on, an eery quiet settling over them. You’d say it was a lucky hunch, but judging by the way the Mandalorian carries himself, you doubt luck had much to do with it. 

You had led him to the power generator hub on the other side of the sad excuse for a city, traveling in tense silence, and when you came upon that tall, bulky machine he sprang into action, circling it until he found what he was looking for. The bomb. You stood back, rooted there, and after some grunting and rewiring— or maybe he just hacked at it with a vibroblade, you had no idea; his wide frame engulfed his work and you couldn’t tell what he was up to, all you knew was that his methods proved successful— the man managed to disarm the second device. You had thought you noticed his shoulders release, slumping with relief, after the red flashing lights on the rudimentary interface flickered and then went dark.

And so here you are. The two of you, bathed in the bright light of Lothal’s twin moons, their bellies hanging full in the blue-black night, illuminating the trail of blood staining the dirt beneath your boots as the Mandalorian roughly drags the body by his ankle behind him— through the exploded rubble, through the fragmented lives of the people around you, already displaced and estranged. They’ll all have to move, you think, pack up their lives, or what little is left of them, and relocate. Again. The thought sinks in you like a stone, sobering you. 

Even with the weight of a fully grown man to lug, the bounty hunter is still a few long strides in front of you and your eyes are trained on the unconscious form, taking in the way his mouth lolls open like an animal, his hair matted with thick blood, eyes rolled back into his head. You’re talking out loud before you even realize it.

“How sick do you have to be,” you mumble, transfixed. Your voice, it’s not angry; no, shock has effectively robbed you of that— it’s not anger, but bewilderment. Quivering, broken bewilderment.

“H-How hoodwinked and warped you’d have to be, how disturbed... For you to think like that. To do all... all this...” 

“Hey,” his gruff voice shakes you from your trance, and you blink up at him, tearing your eyes off the body. “Focus,” he urges, and you can only nod dumbly back at him, suddenly feeling a ripple of nausea slither through you.

The ramp to his ship is lowering as they come upon it and you plant yourself at the base, feet seeming to stop on their own accord, and frankly you’re not really sure why you’ve even followed him this far in the first place— always a step behind him as he hauled his bounty all the way through the vestiges of Jortho, across the arid prairie to where he first touched down. Maybe it’s because you feel untethered, unmoored, and all of his steeled surety is like a lighthouse, a beacon, guiding you away from the rocks. 

He heaves X’elo up the ramp and you’re left standing there, staring unseeingly into the durasteel, becoming more and more aware of the ringing in your ears. The longer time passes, the more it’s as if you’re underwater, the background blurring into the foreground, sound gargled and far away. A high pitched buzz pinches your ear drums, and it takes you a moment to realize the Mandalorian is calling out to you, trying to get your attention.

“— Dala.”

Does he sound annoyed? Kriff, you think he might... If you had your wits about you, you might be able to recognize it. But as it stands, you don’t. You’re not here, not all of you. You’re splintered. Suspended.

“Hmm? Sorry, what..?” Your mouth is as dry as Jakku— parched desert tongue darting across your cracked lip, tasting soot and ash and something metallic. Brow furrowed, you touch a shaky finger to the flesh and when you pull it back, crimson red dots your skin. 

Oh, you think, numb. Huh. 

Your eyes skitter back up to the Mandalorian, towering over you, nearly at the apex of the incline, and his stance is broad and his fists are clenched. You’re almost positive he’s glaring down at you through his visor, and you don’t even know the man, can’t even see his damn face, but you can tell he’s peeved— Maker, just how long had you been ignoring him?

A scratched noise comes through his helmet’s vocoder and his next words are clipped, punctuated. “I said, do you have a way off this skug hole?”

[eponymous-rose]

Please don’t reblog, thanks!

[cw: parental death, cancer, grief - nothing new or concerning about me, just working through some stuff!]

I still don’t really feel equal to reflecting on Mom’s death, to the point where I regret that I haven’t been able to offer support to the truly heartbreaking number of friends who went through the same thing in the year and a half since it happened to me.

But I was thinking today about how my dad mentioned in passing that his and Mom’s song was “My Romance”, which is an old standard. I don’t even know the origin of the song, or the context in which it was first performed, but the general gist is that the singer progresses through a list of elaborate and/or expensive things that their romance does not need: “My romance doesn’t need a castle rising in Spain/Nor a dance to a constantly surprising refrain”. In fact, the signer continues, the only thing their romance needs “is you”.

But one line in particular keeps getting stuck in my head lately, the climax of the song: “Wide awake, I can make my most fantastic dreams come true.”

Mom and Dad were realists in their relationship - it was both of their second marriages after disastrous first marriages, both were in their late thirties, and both were going in with eyes open. My mom in particular was aggressively practical - when she was first diagnosed with ovarian cancer in February of 2020, she privately told Dad that she’d read the statistics and knew that one in five husbands left their wives after that kind of diagnosis, and she didn’t want to cause him the kind of suffering sticking around would involve. She told me later that Dad very earnestly told her that it would be the greatest honor of his life to stand by her side to see this through. I don’t think any of us knew how horribly fast things would progress - in five months, she was gone - but in that time there wasn’t a day he wasn’t at her side, and she said her goodbyes to everyone the day before she died so that last morning would belong to the two of them alone. It wasn’t just a great love, it was a deep and abiding friendship underneath the passion. Respect and a joyful sense of responsibility to each other.

And I think I truly appreciate now what a terrible, wonderful honor it is to be the recipient of that kind of unconditional love. Everything that I am comes with that beautiful gift, and I can only hope to be brave enough to recognize it and continue to express it to everyone I care about.

I’d experienced a few different flavors of grief before this one - my very close grandparents, a good friend, childhood pets, a difficult aunt. But this was all-consuming, and it took me a while to work out why. We all become slightly different (or very different!) people around others in our lives - the you of the workplace isn’t the you of childhood friends, that kind of thing. And who I was with Mom was a reflection of her in so many ways, and that version of me was someone I liked very, very much, and that version of me was instantly annihilated.

So was a complex grieving process for all sorts of different things in my life - not only was I grieving my mom, I was grieving the version of myself I could only be around her. I could parcel off little pieces and bring them to light in my other relationships, but the whole was irrevocably shattered. And I was grieving the loss of a kind of innocence with regard to mortality, grappling with the realization that, in a very real way that has nothing to do with fate or destiny and everything to do with cold biology, some of us already have it written in our blood and our organs and our bones how and when we’re going to die.

I was deeply, unfathomably fortunate in that my relationship with my mom was uncomplicated, with no dark secrets, and that nothing was left unsaid in our last perfect goodbye. And also that my brother and my dad and I are just as close as before, but also capable of separating to give each other space to heal and work out who we’re going to be now that such a large piece has been torn from each of us.

So I rode out the darker moments with the help of dear friends, I supported others where I could, and I still walk every single night through dreams where it’s my family without Mom, or it’s my family with Mom, or my Mom isn’t dead but dying. And every one of those dreams, inexplicably, brings peace. When I have sleep paralysis episodes (very rarely these days!) it’s not a demon but a laughing figure in the doorway, teasing me for sleeping in.

And slowly, inexorably, I’ve started feeling good again. I can’t be who I was to her, but I can be the person she saw in the ways that really matter. She used to tell me she lived vicariously through my adventures, and I’ve had so many adventures: standing on the grass at Cape Canaveral during a space shuttle launch, watching a temple sink underwater with fireflies all around, stepping into a ballroom 300 meters under the earth where the chandeliers are made of salt crystals, moving to new city after new city after new city and reinventing myself along the way. And this new job, this absurd new job, is just going to get bigger and stranger and more and more exciting. There will be no shortage of adventures, big and small, not as something to fruitlessly, frustratingly pursue, but as giddy, wonderful side-effects of the act of living.

Wide awake, I can make my most fantastic dreams come true.