#I’d been trying to get diagnosed for about a decade in two states by this point

[cookinguptales]

I know this is from a glorified salt advertisement, but you know what, I did need this today.

[thevividgreenmoss]

My grandfather was awake and lucid for a longish while between late Friday night and Saturday morning apparently first time since this past Sunday when we all thought that was It and crammed ourselves seven people in one sedan that got a flat on the way over of course (as we were leaving the handle of the screen door came off in my hand as I was closing it behind me so the vibe was very on the nose things farcically falling apart that whole goddamn day lol) but then when we made it he was smiling and laughing and talking to and teasing everyone that was there, albeit with much more effort than it would have taken him even just a week earlier when he was already in a really frail state because of his hip surgery. My sister happened to be up later than she usually ever is and got to video call and chat with him for a bit I wanted terribly for my cousin in Colorado to be able to also but by the time he could get through my grandpa's blood pressure had suddenly spiked or something and he'd drifted back into that borderline unconscious state so they didn't get a chance to talk which makes me want to claw my fucking skin off of my face but who knows maybe another opportunity will present itself hopefully it does like he suddenly became really talkative and energized the other day after not having said more than maybe a couple sentences over the few previous days like I was there with him for several hours on Thursday and the entire time he didn't say a word and only opened his eyes once for like half a second and even that I might have been imagining after sitting there sleep-deprived and holding his hand trying not to cry because then my mom would start crying and then my aunt and on and on and if he's conscious at that point he'll start to get worried and his heart rate will destabilize but after that for this one stretch without anyone expecting it he was really talkative and alert and joking around with the nurses and doctors and all that for a while but then later yesterday afternoon he started to get disoriented and drift in and out of the present in between dreaming and waking again at one point apparently he kept saying 'look at my shoes' to my mom and her sisters and they thought it was just just the medication/pain-induced delirium talking but he kept insisting and eventually said 'you're not taking me seriously' and I guess gave up? Or said it a few more times I'm not clear on the course of events I only heard all this secondhand when my younger aunt, who also got diagnosed with cancer late last year but thankfully is more or less in the clear now, got back home last night and she and I went into his room and took all the shoes out of the cabinet he keeps them in and like looked inside and turned over and examined the soles of every pair, took the cushion insert things out of the ones that had them, checked for scooby doo-esque hidden doors, all that but there was nothing there just shoes. Her kids flew back out yesterday morning, the older one's tentatively returning to Toronto in the next week or so she had a painfully rough time in some ways her first couple of years and then abruptly had to be uprooted and leave because of covid then everything with her mom and in time honored eldest daughter tradition bearing the brunt of the familial frustration and insanity associated with that and now everything with our grandpa I really really want her senior year to go smoothly and be enjoyable and memorable in a manner opposite to how this past year+ has been I'm so worried about her and her little sister's starting freshman year there in the fall and I'm terribly worried about her in a whole different way like she's still really attached to her parents in this innocent way that still strongly resembles like a baby's adoring my mom hung the moon type attachment and it can be especially hard being away for the first time ever when that's the case...like she's hyper hypersensitive even by my family's standards lmao but she does have this sort of self-possession and inner groundedness that no one can quite pin down but it's

definitely there and maybe that

could carry her through I really hope so...they were saying to come up to visit them in the fall hopefully I can find a job soon after returning to Texas and like be able to afford to do that and also like keep paying the bills and shit lol in either case I hope so so badly that they'll be okay like I think they will be the women in my family are all really strong but they've also had to be because of various fucked circumstances and I don't want that to keep having to be the case...my grandpa's a Strong Woman in a certain way also honestly lmao like my mom's aunts have always been like your father raised you in a way beyond even most mothers which like who fucking receives let alone genuinely deserves that kind of praise from their in-laws lmao let alone a man from a notoriously patriarchal culture of a generation when fathers from any culture barely had any involvement in their children's upbringing at all which I mean most still don't but even more so back then and like literally everyone we've been hearing from or seeing drop by at the hospital has a story of how at one point or another my grandpa was there for them when no one else was like distant cousins variously removed and loose family friends all with something about how he comforted me when no one else could, I remember word for word what he said to me when I suffered some loss of my own, he's the strongest man in our family, the best times we ever had were when he was near us, when he'd take us out, his youngest brother's children saying he cared for and spoiled them as if their were his own after their dad died suddenly when they were just kids, my mom's third cousin whose own father was with her till a late age saying that he was even more of a father to me than my own father, his other brother's son who was ostracized for decades by his immediate family on some straight up racist ass bullshit on the part of his mom and older brother because he married a black woman but my grandpa stayed in touch and made sure my mom and uncle did as well and made sure we all got together when he'd came to the states, like even now lying there on what very well might be his literal deathbed when he can barely talk he was telling my uncle he's worried about him and he needs to go home and rest, asking who's taking care of the house, are the kids all okay even at this point his thoughts are for others. After I put his shoes back in the cabinet I closed it and opened the one beside just in case I guess just in case what I don't know but it was just like standard cabinet stuff clothes a shaving kit and a couple of what I assume are photo albums that I didn't feel like I should open for some reason and a few old books, a collection of Ghalib's which I can't really read very easily if at all because it's in Urdu lol, a history of government college of Lahore where his father was teaching at the time of his death and the two philosophy textbooks my great grandfather had written himself, Inductive & Deductive Reasoning, and inside the latter I found a handful of yellowed pages torn out of an old notebook upon which mostly seem to be translations of french poems and I think maybe a song or two? I guess old coursework or just for funsies I'm not sure whether written by my grandfather or his own father. My khala was mentioning just the other day that she'd kept one of my grandpa's old notebooks marked as having been designated for biology but inside it were no actual notes just urdu poetry which she wasn't sure whether it was his own original tossed off work or something the lifelong frustrated creative transcribed while bored in class. The night I got here I was looking through his bookshelves after everyone had gone to bed and then a couple of weeks ago I was sitting in the living room by myself watching archer when my cousin came and sat down next to me upset and unable to sleep on her own first night here and I held her and tried not to cry and then went through the same bookshelves again, this time with my cousin who we came to Pakistan for the first time after moving to the US

to see being born who turned three

the day we arrived on what until this current trip was the last time I was here her little sister having just been born earlier that same year (whose life I may or may not have saved when I caught her after she was dropped by the person holding her (the fact that (parentheticals within parentheticals!) I may or may not have been the one who dropped her in the first place is immaterial imo not that I'm the one on trial here but what's important is that I caught her and if anything this would be an even more athletically impressive and frankly heroic incident if I'd been the one that was holding her to begin with since I was 8/9 years old at the time and there wasn't much of a distance for her to fall and yet I kept her from hitting the ground like talk about reflexes like that's what's important and what's more important than even that @ my year older cousin (whose younger sister was the first baby in the family after myself whose arrival in this world when I was three had me positively giddy in the way that young children get when witnessing the miracle of even younger children, who's the only other one of the cousins that's been here during all this, just me and the three I got to see as darling little babies) who was the only other person in the room with me at the time, is that we take this to our fucking graves no one can hear a word of this least of all any adults in the house who like not that they're the ones on trial here either but like who allowed for this scenario to transpire in the first place where two children and an infant are in a room by themselves unsupervised in retrospect that's somewhat irresponsible not that I'd ever hold it against them or even mention it because then they might get mad and not let me hold my little cousin anymore and I do love holding my little baby cousin and carrying her around everywhere, mostly without incident)) neither of whom I'd see in person again until we visited them in Canada the summer after I graduated college the trip during which I finished the last of the Neapolitan novels the day after landing and turned 22 the day after their mother, my younger khala, turned 43, looking through my nana's bookshelves with my baby cousin no longer a baby but a U of T classics major entering her senior year, noting the overlaps with our own, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, George Eliot, the same exact copies of Cheever and Kafka's collected shorts, Umberto Eco, Proust, wondering what the various titles meant to him or what they might say about him, wondering how much of even the version of him that can be hypothesized based off his library I'm missing now that I'm limited to the much reduced version of what had been in his old home in Lahore (when he visited us after my junior year of hs and my mom was trying to convince him to downsize and move in with my other aunt with whom he's been living the past several years, the one who most resembles my grandfather the only one that has his cheekbones my khala whose eyes have sunken all the way into her skull before my eyes with exhaustion and grief over the past two weeks, when my mom was like what's the point of just hanging onto a bunch of books that you've already read: I look at them [dramatic pause], and I feel happy [my mom sighing equally dramatically in.exasperation, me cracking up in the background]) the city I was born in the house where I spent the first almost five years of my life before we moved to the US to join my dad who'd moved back shortly after my mom became pregnant with what turned out to be me, abu nana's house with the garden we'd walk through every morning holding his hand and following along as he puttered around with his plants in the garden in the house in the city he had to leave to move into my khala's house in Islamabad where I've been the past almost a month now where two weeks ago he suddenly came down with pneumonia and had to be dragged to a hospital in Rawalpindi where he's been since, not in his house, my nana's house, with the garden in the city I haven't seen since the last time I was in this country the

summer I

turned nine the day after my khala turned 30 the day before my other khala turned 32(?) the summer I first remember obsessive compulsive disorder becoming an overwhelming aspect of my consciousness although it was there before, the first summer of the Iraq war and being terrified watching the Iraq war unfold on the BBC evening news my nana would turn on

at dinner time and hearing for the first time or maybe just the first time I remember the night we left the phrase 'the rich will get richer and the poor will get poorer' from my younger khala talking to her sisters and some family friends that had come over to see us off feeling terrified and cold then embarrassed because she noticed my face visibly fall from across the room and told my mom and I was like godammit everyone knows I'm scared now smhead then crying the entire flight back home because I missed everyone and maybe had a little kid premonition that I wouldn't return to my nana's house and I would be years and years till I saw any of them again some I still haven't or maybe there was nothing premonitory about it but in either case that's the way it turned out. I do feel grateful I got to see him again at all, when he last came to the US late 2016-early 2017 I was sure it would be the last time we would be in the same room. I'd make breakfast for us every morning and we'd eat together and the entire day I'd sit next to him inhaling secondhand smoke and talking and reading. I was in the midst of my initial aborted attempt to read Swann's way when he arrived. I'd gotten to Guermantes way last summer but I couldn't find a secondhand copy so I had to read it via ebook and that didn't feel right so I abandoned it until now I've been reading a copy pulled from his bookshelf. Last he visited was the first time I learned we were both Garcia Marquez-heads which I'd kind of assumed before and I showed him Mad Men which he heavily fucked with and also every John Le Carre adaptation I could track down online. From the first time I read one hundred years of solitude the summer after freshman year of college the passage describing Colonel Aureliano Buendia's death already absolutely and unbearably heartwrenching enough immediately brought thoughts of my grandfather, aching aching sorrow over the solitude that he himself existed within in all the fucking pain his life has been inordinately filled with grief over the knowledge of this inevitable final separation from him after so many years and so much distance already having separated him from the people he loved and cared for and he loved and cared for so many people so deeply with such sincerity and beauty and endless endless warmth and compassion and humor when Gabo wrote of the colonel trying to reach back through to his memories and being unable to after previously recalling that distant afternoon when his father took him to discover ice even years later, as he faced the firing squad, at the moment of his death like a 'baby chick' my poor frail beautiful grandfather appearing exactly the same way when he'd take off his dentures and curl over to the side to sleep, then when awake but still half asleep hearing your voice having brought his apple cider vinegar and garlic concoction or a cup of tea or just coming by to hold his hand or play with his beard the way all of his grandchildren have at one point or another and smiling with his eyes still closed smiling bright and wide the expression of a precious little cat purring as you scratch under its chin always the most beautiful smile and even as his hair turned white and his body withered and wrinkled and shrunk his cheekbones while still not bad long ago ceased being the way they were in that picture from his wedding day back when he he looked like young Robert De Niro's much much prettier Kashmiri cousin from then until now always that same radiance and those same quick-witted and kind and bright bright bright sparkling eyes. The past month and a half I've been feeling like I'm seeing my own mother dying before my eyes along with her father, my adorable beloved abu nana, I can't even begin to comprehend how she must be feeling right now I feel like I'm witnessing her death in advance through all of this and losing the part of her that is him even though I know that's not actually the case. Things have been so fucking painful and complicated between us but the one thing we've shared that's never

been painful is our love for him. When he left after his last visit four years ago I spent the next two days barely able to even talk. Compliments or like any positive comments directed in my directions have almost always caused me this reflexive discomfort and uneasiness but whenever he or anyone else would say that I'm his favorite grandchild I'd want to hold on to that as closely as i possibly can. I don't want him to leave us and more than that I want for whatever happens to at least happen with him back at home but neither of those things seem likely right now although who the fuck knows. I hope his last thoughts can be of flowers, like Kafka's, and Lispector's, or of love, wherever he is I hope it's not asking too much to hope for that at least. For someone that spent his life so deeply immersed within that Garciamarquesian solitude he never made those around him feel any way other than at home, safe and warm and loved and adored and adorable and lovable and at home not because of a place not even the garden at the house in Lahore but with him always always I've never felt more at home than during the times I spent near him, and his love and his flowers

[oimoi-op]

when were you diagnosed with t1d?

Ok, so storytime! Short answer is, as of today, barely over two months ago. 

(Very long post warning y’all, contains hospital mention and extensive, possibly upsetting descriptions of health conditions, specifically DKA)

My family doesn’t really have a history of T1D or even T2D, though my second-cousin-once-removed has had T1D for over a decade now. So, there was never any reason for me to try and get tests done for it. The only sign I really had up until last semester was two copies of a variant of an HLA gene that I knew about from a 23andMe report (which, according to the report, put me at a higher risk for celiac’s and nothing else), but of course at that time I had no idea that that could mean anything serious; after all, that sort of thing only happens to other people, right?

My college started in-person classes in the latter half of August. By October, I started feeling tired, having a lack of appetite, and needing water very, very badly. I actually went to my school’s clinic, and my erratic heartbeat prompted the doctor to recommend me for a Covid-19 test. My school’s protocols meant that I had to quarantine at my home (since I live within two hours of campus) until I got a negative test result. At home, I was drinking water all the time and sleeping constantly, and my parents had commented on how I’d been losing weight. I thought these were all good things. I had been slightly overweight at my high school graduation, and I’d always heard that drinking a lot of water is good for you, so I thought I was actually in excellent health even if I kind of felt like shit most of the time.

Well. Uh. I was wrong.

When finals came around in mid-November, I was just fucking tired. I’d get a decent eight hours of sleep and still have to take naps during the day. Hell, I was even late for work because I slept through one of my nap alarms. Studying was a pain in the ass. Attending classes was a pain in the ass. Staying awake for Zoom classes was a pain in the ass. I was waking up at 5 am to go to the bathroom, and then I would drink the rest of my water, refill it, drink half of it again, and then go back to sleep. Finally, November 20th rolled around, and I got to leave campus. It was my birthday (yeah I am a Scorpio and that weirds all of my friends out lol), and my parents took me to Fusion. And I just...couldn’t eat at all? I love hibachi, but I couldn’t even eat half of my food. The chef even got me a delicious banana split that I had to basically bully my younger sister into eating with me.

For the next week, I was sleeping about 18 hours a day. I didn’t think this was weird because I’d just had finals so yeah, it makes sense that I would be tired after exams and whatnot. I went shopping with my mom, sister, and sister’s bff. We were only out for a few hours, but I was fucking wiped out y’all, like in pain. Thanksgiving arrived, and again, I love food, I love eating, but I was not hungry in the slightest. I basically had to force myself to eat some of my favorite holiday foods just so I wouldn’t offend my mom, and then I didn’t eat for the day.

The very next morning, I was puking my guts out.

This started a pattern for the next few days: I would eat chicken noodle soup or some other food, sleep like the dead, and throw up every morning and every night. I started chugging large bottles of Gatorade constantly (which, if you know about diabetes and its health complications, did not help my situation in the slightest). I started breathing erratically after very little exertion. Like, I’m talking standing up and stretching brought about heavy, labored breathing. I weighed myself on my parents’ scale, and I was under 130 lbs. Now, for some people this might seem like a lot, but due to my height and build I could fucking see some of my ribs. That was when I started to realize that something was very, very wrong, but “losing weight is good” and I didn’t want my parents to laugh at me for voicing concerns (though, for all their faults, in hindsight, I doubt they would’ve). Yeah. Don’t do that, folks, that’s not a good mindset to have. 

On Sunday, my mom took me to town to get tested for Covid. This was despite me saying that I didn’t have symptoms (which I knew very well due to some of my friends catching it at school). Rapid test came back negative, so I did a culture test. Hell, while I was sitting in the damn chair, I was about to pass out. I asked for a nausea pill but my mouth was too dry for it to dissolve. I got a cup of water, downed it all, and felt like my throat was on fire. For the rest of the day I felt so, so awful. At some point I was walking toward my bed in my room and I fucking fell. I’m fucking lucky there was carpet. 

Regarding the rest of that night, things start to get blurry, for the lack of a better term. I legitimately cannot recall everything that happened that night or the following two days, so I will just try to explain it in the way I remember it best.

Around...midnight or one??? I was on fucking fire, so I went to my bathroom and decided to lie on the floor. The floor was hardwood and not at all cold, and it wasn’t fucking comfortable even in that state, but I was just in so much pain I didn’t even care. My mom must’ve heard because she found me there and asked me what I was doing. I said something about the floor. She asked me to go back to bed, but I must’ve scared her because she asked me if I wanted her to lie in the bed with me. I don’t remember what I said to her, but we were in the bed and she was trying to hug me, but she was too warm and so I told her to stop. I kept feeling this burning just below my chest, like there was acid in me (which I guess wasn’t too far off), so I would randomly sit up to try and alleviate the pain and not cry. I remember asking my mom to take me to the hospital in the morning.

My mom put me in the truck (I think around 5 am is what she told me). I remembered hearing my dad. I was lying down. Then I was awake, but I was on the floor. I thought this was wrong so I tried to tell my mom that but I guess I couldn’t talk. Then I was in a hospital bed, the ER I assume. My mom gave me some water with a sponge, and I was just so fucking thirsty. Then I was in the ICU hooked up to a bunch of machines. I didn’t know what was going on, but my mom kept giving me water with that sponge. That is all I remember from Monday.

I remember a little bit more from Tuesday. My mom said something about diabetes, but that didn’t make any sense to me because I wasn’t “fat” and I’d been losing weight, even! What had I done to get diabetes? I was thirsty and tired, so I slept a lot. At some point I really needed to use the restroom so I unhooked my IV???? (I mean I must’ve disconnected myself somehow but I can’t remember the details) which set off a shit ton of alarms and people were Very Concerned and kept asking me Why Did You Do That? But I just needed to go to the restroom, and they told me to use the Red Button to Call the Nurse (it was already there, and I now realize that we’d probably had a similar conversation about the Red Button to Call the Nurse possibly multiple times before this) in the future. A Chopped Teen Tournament from 2017 was playing on the TV nonstop. There were commercials for CGMs. I thought that God wasn’t being very funny about the whole thing.

As of now I remember even less of Wednesday, but I know that felt better. There was this diabetes specialist who kept talking about insulin and life at college moving forward, but I wasn’t really there, either because of being so out of it for health reasons, disassociating, or a combination of the two. My mom told me she had emailed a professor so he would give me an extension on an assignment that was due by then, and I remember crying because I thought that was just so nice of him. That night, this guy got me in a wheelchair and put me in another room, which I would later learn was the ACU. My night nurse was this nice woman named Tanya, who had a very thick Eastern European accent. She got me orange juice to take some potassium pills, but it felt like swallowing rocks. I didn’t really get a lot of sleep, so I was awake when the nurses changed shifts. I remember one of them expressing surprise that I was out of the ICU so early.

My mom took longer to come that day because nobody had told her I’d been moved. I’d had plain Cheerios and orange juice for breakfast, but I couldn’t really eat because my throat hurt so badly. I talked to a lot of doctors. I guess at this point or somewhere near it I accepted that I had diabetes, but it wasn’t really real until the same diabetes specialist was going over carbs. I thought I was never going to eat shit I liked ever again. I really wanted a fucking McChicken sandwich. I signed some papers for Medicaid because I had aged out of the CHIP while in the hospital. I finally texted my friends and explained to them what had happened. I was so fucking tired.

I got out the next day, so that was Thursday. Normally, I would’ve been in the hospital much longer (especially because my Medicaid hadn’t been approved, meaning no insurance had approved of my insulin yet), but Covid cases were on the rise and the hospital wanted me out of there. The diabetes specialist and one of my nurses snuck me two fast-acting and two basal insulin pens, and I was out. I ate half a McChicken, a small fry, and drank my first Diet Coke. It tasted like diesel mixed with piss. 

That’s the gist of it. The hospital staff was very nice and thoughtful the entire time, I think. I felt as though everyone involved cared about my health a lot. 

For those of you who aren’t T1D or just don’t know, what I experienced is called DKA, short for diabetic ketoacidosis. To simplify, I was very close to entering a diabetic coma. My sister later told me that our dad had said (I assume a doctor had told my mother, who, in turn, had told him) that I was “approximately 45 minutes” away from death. DKA happens when a diabetic (usually a T1D like me) has too much blood sugar in their body due to them lacking the insulin necessary to break the sugar down, so their body breaks down their fat reserves and muscle to get the energy it needs. This is why I lost around 50 pounds over the course of a few months (I was 118 lbs. when I entered the hospital, the lowest I’ve been since grade school). I was officially diagnosed with T1D on November 30th, just ten days after my 19th birthday, which is a little older than normal I believe. It’s...well, it’s not fun, but I feel very grateful for my large support system, and tomorrow I’m trying out a CGM for the first time and applying for both it and a pump, so things are really looking up 

[phroyd]

Oh My, what terrible timing, and what a great loss! Rest In Peace Justice Ginsburg, thank you for all you have done for our country! - Phroyd

Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg, the demure firebrand who in her 80s became a legal, cultural and feminist icon, died Friday. The Supreme Court announced her death, saying the cause was complications from metastatic cancer of the pancreas.

The court, in a statement, said Ginsburg died at her home in Washington surrounded by family. She was 87.

"Our nation has lost a justice of historic stature," Chief Justice John Roberts said. "We at the Supreme Court have lost a cherished colleague. Today we mourn but with confidence that future generations will remember Ruth Bader Ginsburg as we knew her, a tired and resolute champion of justice."

Architect of the legal fight for women's rights in the 1970s, Ginsburg subsequently served 27 years on the nation's highest court, becoming its most prominent member. Her death will inevitably set in motion what promises to be a nasty and tumultuous political battle over who will succeed her, and it thrusts the Supreme Court vacancy into the spotlight of the presidential campaign.

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Just days before her death, as her strength waned, Ginsburg dictated this statement to her granddaughter Clara Spera: "My most fervent wish is that I will not be replaced until a new president is installed."

She knew what was to come. Ginsburg's death will have profound consequences for the court and the country. Inside the court, not only is the leader of the liberal wing gone, but with the Court about to open a new term, Chief Justice John Roberts no longer holds the controlling vote in closely contested cases.

Though he has a consistently conservative record in most cases, he has split from fellow conservatives in a few important ones, this year casting his vote with liberals, for instance, to at least temporarily protect the so-called Dreamers from deportation by the Trump administration, to uphold a major abortion precedent, and to uphold bans on large church gatherings during the coronavirus pandemic. But with Ginsburg gone, there is no clear court majority for those outcomes.

Indeed, a week after the upcoming presidential election, the court is for the third time scheduled to hear a challenge brought by Republicans to the Affordable Care Act, known as Obamacare. In 2012 the high court upheld the law by a 5-to-4 vote, with Chief Justice Roberts casting the deciding vote and writing the opinion for the majority. But this time the outcome may well be different.

That's because Ginsburg's death gives Republicans the chance to tighten their grip on the court with another Trump appointment that would give conservatives a 6-to-3 majority. And that would mean that even a defection on the right would leave conservatives with enough votes to prevail in the Obamacare case and many others.

At the center of the battle to achieve that will be Senate Majority Leader Mitch McConnell. In 2016 he took a step unprecedented in modern times: He refused for nearly a year to allow any consideration of President Obama's supreme court nominee.

Back then, McConnell's justification was the upcoming presidential election, which he said would allow voters a chance to weigh in on what kind of justice they wanted. But now, with the tables turned, McConnell has made clear he will not follow the same course. Instead he will try immediately push through a Trump nominee so as to ensure a conservative justice to fill Ginsburg's liberal shoes, even if President Trump were to lose his re-election bid. Asked what he would do in circumstances like these, McConnell said: "Oh, we'd fill it."

So what happens in the coming weeks will be bare-knuckle politics, writ large, on the stage of a presidential election. It will be a fight Ginsburg had hoped to avoid, telling Justice Stevens shortly before his death that she hoped to serve as long as he did--until age 90.

"My dream is that I will stay on the court as long as he did," she said in an interview in 2019.

She didn't quite make it. But Ruth Bader Ginsburg was nonetheless an historic figure. She changed the way the world is for American women. For more than a decade, until her first judicial appointment in 1980, she led the fight in the courts for gender equality. When she began her legal crusade, women were treated, by law, differently from men. Hundreds of state and federal laws restricted what women could do, barring them from jobs, rights and even from jury service. By the time she donned judicial robes, however, Ginsburg had worked a revolution.

That was never more evident than in 1996 when, as a relatively new Supreme Court justice, Ginsburg wrote the court's 7-to-1 opinion declaring that the Virginia Military Institute could no longer remain an all-male institution. True, said Ginsburg, most women — indeed most men — would not want to meet the rigorous demands of VMI. But the state, she said, could not exclude women who could meet those demands.

"Reliance on overbroad generalizations ... estimates about the way most men or most women are, will not suffice to deny opportunity to women whose talent and capacity place them outside the average description," Ginsburg wrote.

She was an unlikely pioneer, a diminutive and shy woman, whose soft voice and large glasses hid an intellect and attitude that, as one colleague put it, was "tough as nails."

By the time she was in her 80s, she had become something of a rock star to women of all ages. She was the subject of a hit documentary, a biopic, an operetta, merchandise galore featuring her "Notorious RBG" moniker, a Time magazine cover, and regular Saturday Night Live sketches.

On one occasion in 2016, Ginsburg got herself into trouble and later publicly apologized for disparaging remarks she made about then-presidential candidate Donald Trump.

But for the most part Ginsburg enjoyed her fame and maintained a sense of humor about herself.

Asked about the fact that she had apparently fallen asleep during the 2015 State of the Union address, Ginsburg did not take the Fifth, admitting that although she had vowed not to drink at dinner with the other justices before the speech, the wine had just been too good to resist. The result, she said, was that she was perhaps not an entirely "sober judge" and kept nodding off.

Born in Brooklyn, N.Y., Ruth Bader went to public schools, where she excelled as a student — and as a baton twirler. By all accounts, it was her mother who was the driving force in her young life, but Celia Bader died of cancer the day before the future Justice would graduate from high school.

Then 17, Ruth Bader went on to Cornell on full scholarship, where she met Martin (aka "Marty") Ginsburg. "What made Marty so overwhelmingly attractive to me was that he cared that I had a brain," she said.

After her graduation, they were married and went off to Fort Sill, Okla., for his military service. There Mrs. Ginsburg, despite scoring high on the civil service exam, could only get a job as a typist, and when she became pregnant, she lost even that job.

Two years later, the couple returned to the East Coast to attend Harvard Law School. She was one of only nine women in a class of over 500 and found the dean asking her why she was taking up a place that "should go to a man."

At Harvard, she was the academic star, not Marty. The couple was busy juggling schedules, and their toddler when Marty was diagnosed with testicular cancer. Surgeries and aggressive radiation followed.

"So that left Ruth with a 3-year-old child, a fairly sick husband, the law review, classes to attend and feeding me," said Marty Ginsburg in a 1993 interview with NPR.

The experience also taught the future justice that sleep was a luxury. During the year of Marty's illness, he was only able to eat late at night; after that he would dictate his senior class paper to Ruth. At about 2 a.m., he would go back to sleep, Ginsburg recalled in an NPR interview. "Then I'd take out the books and start reading what I needed to be prepared for classes the next day."

Marty Ginsburg survived, graduated, and got a job in New York; his wife, a year behind him in school, transferred to Columbia, where she graduated at the top of her law school class. Despite her academic achievements, the doors to law firms were closed to women, and though recommended for a Supreme Court clerkship, she wasn't even interviewed.

It was bad enough that she was a woman, she recalled later, but she was also a mother, and male judges worried that she would be diverted by her "familial obligations."

Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg is pictured in the justice's chambers in Washington, D.C., during an interview with NPR's Nina Totenberg in September 2016.

A mentor, law professor Gerald Gunther, finally got her a clerkship in New York by promising Judge Edmund Palmieri that if she couldn't do the work, he would provide someone who could. That was "the carrot," Ginsburg would say later. "The stick" was that Gunther, who regularly fed his best students to Palmieri, told the judge that if he didn't take Ginsburg, Gunther would never send him a clerk again. The Ginsburg clerkship apparently was a success; Palmieri kept her not for the usual one year, but two, from 1959-61.

Ginsburg's next path is rarely talked about, mainly because it doesn't fit the narrative. She learned Swedish so she could work with Anders Berzelius, a Swedish civil procedure scholar. Through the Columbia Law School Project on International Procedure, Ginsburg and Berzelius co-authored a book.

In 1963, Ginsburg finally landed a teaching job at Rutgers law school, where she at one point hid her second pregnancy by wearing her mother-in-law's clothes. The ruse worked; her contract was renewed before her new baby was born.

While at Rutgers, she began her work fighting gender discrimination.

The 'Mother Brief'

Her first big case was a challenge to a law that barred a Colorado man named Charles Moritz from taking a tax deduction for the care of his 89-year-old mother. The IRS said the deduction, by statute, could only be claimed by women, or widowed or divorced men. But Moritz had never married.

The tax court concluded that the internal revenue code was immune to constitutional challenge, a notion that tax lawyer Marty Ginsburg viewed as "preposterous." The two Ginsburgs took on the case, he from the tax perspective, she from the constitutional perspective.

According to Marty Ginsburg, for his wife, this was the "mother brief." She had to think through all the issues and how to fix the inequity. The solution was to ask the court not to invalidate the statute but to apply it equally to both sexes. She won in the lower courts.

"Amazingly," he recalled in a 1993 NPR interview, the government petitioned the United States Supreme Court, stating that the decision "cast a cloud of unconstitutionality" over literally hundreds of federal statutes, and it attached a list of those statutes, which it compiled with Defense Department computers.

Those laws, Marty Ginsburg added, "were the statutes that my wife then litigated ... to overturn over the next decade."

In 1971, she would write her first Supreme Court brief in the case of Reed v. Reed. Ginsburg represented Sally Reed, who thought she should be the executor of her son's estate instead of her ex-husband.

The constitutional issue was whether a state could automatically prefer men over women as executors of estates. The answer from the all-male supreme court: no.

It was the first time the court had ever struck down a state law because it discriminated based on gender.

And that was just the beginning.

By then Ginsburg was earning quite a reputation. She would become the first female tenured professor at Columbia Law School, and she would found the Women's Rights Project at the ACLU.

As the chief architect of the battle for women's legal rights, Ginsburg devised a strategy that was characteristically cautious, precise and single-mindedly aimed at one goal: winning.

Knowing that she had to persuade male, establishment-oriented judges, she often picked male plaintiffs, and she liked Social Security cases because they illustrated how discrimination against women can harm men. For example, in Weinberger v. Wiesenfeld, she represented a man whose wife, the principal breadwinner, died in childbirth. The husband sought survivor's benefits to care for his child, but under the then-existing Social Security law, only widows, not widowers, were entitled to such benefits.

"This absolute exclusion, based on gender per se, operates to the disadvantage of female workers, their surviving spouses, and their children," Ginsburg told the justices at oral argument. The Supreme Court would ultimately agree, as it did in five of the six cases she argued.

Over the ensuing years, Ginsburg would file dozens of briefs seeking to persuade the courts that the 14th Amendment guarantee of equal protection applies not just to racial and ethnic minorities, but to women as well.

In an interview with NPR, she explained the legal theory that she eventually sold to the Supreme Court.

"The words of the 14th Amendment's equal protection clause — 'nor shall any state deny to any person the equal protection of the laws.' Well that word, 'any person,' covers women as well as men. And the Supreme Court woke up to that reality in 1971," Ginsburg said.

During these pioneering years, Ginsburg would often work through the night as she had during law school. But by this time, she had two children, and she later liked to tell a story about the lesson she learned when her son, in grade school, seemed to have a proclivity for getting into trouble.

The scrapes were hardly major, and Ginsburg grew exasperated by demands from school administrators that she come in to discuss her son's alleged misbehavior. Finally, there came a day when she had had enough. "I had stayed up all night the night before, and I said to the principal, 'This child has two parents. Please alternate calls.'"

After that, she found, the calls were few and far between. It seemed, she said, that most infractions were not worth calling a busy husband about.

The Supreme Court's Second Woman

In 1980 then-President Jimmy Carter named Ginsburg to the U.S. Court of Appeals for the District of Columbia. Over the next 13 years, she would amass a record as something of a centrist liberal, and in 1993 then-President Bill Clinton nominated her to the Supreme Court, the second woman appointed to the position.

She was not first on his list. For months Clinton flirted with other potential nominees, and some women's rights activists withheld their active support because they were worried about Ginsburg's views on abortion. She had been publicly critical of the legal reasoning in Roe v. Wade.

But in the background, Marty Ginsburg was lobbying hard for his wife. And finally Ruth Ginsburg was invited for a meeting with the president. As one White House official put it afterward, Clinton "fell for her--hook, line and sinker." So did the Senate. She was confirmed by a vote of 96 to 3.

Once on the court, Ginsburg was an example of a woman who defied stereotypes. Though she looked tiny and frail, she rode horses well into her 70s and even went parasailing. At home, it was her husband who was the chef, indeed a master chef, while the justice cheerfully acknowledged that she was an awful cook.

Though a liberal, she and the court's conservative icon, Antonin Scalia, now deceased, were the closest of friends. Indeed, an opera called Scalia/Ginsburg is based on their legal disagreements, and their affection for each other.

Over the years, as Ginsburg's place on the court grew in seniority, so did her role. In 2006, as the court veered right after the retirement of Justice Sandra Day O'Connor, Ginsburg dissented more often and more assertively, her most passionate dissents coming in women's rights cases.

Dissenting in Ledbetter v. Goodyear in 2007, she called on Congress to pass legislation that would override a court decision that drastically limited back-pay available for victims of employment discrimination. The resulting legislation was the first bill passed in 2009 after President Barack Obama took office.

In 2014, she dissented fiercely from the court's decision in Burwell v. Hobby Lobby, a decision that allowed some for-profit companies to refuse, on religious grounds, to comply with a federal mandate to cover birth control in health care plans. Such an exemption, she said, would "deny legions of women who do not hold their employers' beliefs, access to contraceptive coverage."

Where, she asked, "is the stopping point?" Suppose it offends an employer's religious belief "to pay the minimum wage" or "to accord women equal pay?"

And in 2013, when the court struck down a key provision of the Voting Rights Act, contending that times had changed and the law was no longer needed, Ginsburg dissented. She said that throwing out the provision "when it has worked and is continuing to work ... is like throwing away your umbrella in a rainstorm because you are not getting wet."

She viewed her dissents as a chance to persuade a future court.

"Some of my favorite opinions are dissenting opinions," Ginsburg told NPR. "I will not live to see what becomes of them, but I remain hopeful."

And yet, Ginsburg still managed some unexpected victories by winning over one or two of the conservative justices in important cases. In 2015, for example, she authored the court's decision upholding independent redistricting commissions established by voter referenda as a way of removing some of the partisanship in drawing legislative district lines.

Ginsburg always kept a backbreaking schedule of public appearances both at home and abroad, even after five bouts with cancer: colon cancer in 1999, pancreatic cancer 10 years later, lung cancer in 2018, and then pancreatic cancer again in 2019 and liver lesions in 2020. During that time, she endured chemotherapy, radiation, and in the last years of her life, terrible pain from shingles that never went away completely. All who knew her admired her grit. In 2009, three weeks after major cancer surgery, she surprised everyone when she showed up for the State of the Union address.

Shortly after that, she was back on the bench; it was her husband Marty who told her she could do it, even when she thought she could not, she told NPR.

A year later her psychological toughness was on full display when her beloved husband of 56 years was mortally ill. As she packed up his things at the hospital before taking him home to die, she found a note he had written to her. "My Dearest Ruth," it began, "You are the only person I have ever loved," setting aside children and family. "I have admired and loved you almost since the day we first met at Cornell....The time has come for me to ... take leave of life because the loss of quality simply overwhelms. I hope you will support where I come out, but I understand you may not. I will not love you a jot less."

Shortly after that, Marty Ginsburg died at home. The next day, his wife, the justice, was on the bench, reading an important opinion she had authored for the court. She was there, she said, because "Marty would have wanted it."

Years later, she would read the letter aloud in an NPR interview, and at the end, choke down the tears.

In the years after Marty's death, she would persevere without him, maintaining a jam-packed schedule when she was not on the bench or working on opinions.

Some liberals criticized her for not retiring while Obama was president, but she was at the top of her game, enjoyed her work enormously, and feared that Republicans might not confirm a successor. She was an avid consumer of opera, literature, and modern art. But in the end, it was her work, she said, that sustained her.

"I do think that I was born under a very bright star," she said in an NPR interview. "Because if you think about my life, I get out of law school. I have top grades. No law firm in the city of New York will hire me. I end up teaching; it gave me time to devote to the movement for evening out the rights of women and men. "

And it was that legal crusade for women's rights that ultimately led to her appointment to the U.S. Supreme Court.

To the end of her tenure, she remained a special kind of feminist, both decorous and dogged.

Phroyd

[bluewatsons]

Michael John Carley, Autism-Schmautism...In the End, Darius McCollum was Poor and Black, Exceptional Parent Magazine (December 2018)

On October 5th, Darius McCollum, the autism world’s previously-unending sideshow, was sentenced to life inside a New York State psychiatric facility. No, he was not relegated back to Rikers island, or any other “normal” prison, as had been the case for the majority of his adult life. He was this time sent to the kind of place where our most dangerous, disturbed, and marginalized individuals are secretly warehoused to endure horror after horror without witness, until the unmarked, mass grave on Hart Island prematurely, and slowly consumes their trauma-ridden, dissociated selves. Darius’ remarkable story of rotating in and out of the prison system for 38 years came to a halt on the worst side of the turnstile. Autism-Schmautism: He is black and poor. We were fools to think this story would end in a restorative manner.

He almost made it. His brilliance, and the subsequent media coverage had all but ensured that he would not slip through the cracks like other poor, spectrum or non-spectrum African-Americans. Darius had a shot because he was noticed. But the final nail came, comic/tragically, from an African-American judge; one who justified ending Darius’ life because Asperger’s Syndrome, to her, is a “dangerous, mental disorder.” In the words of Darius’ lawyer, Sally Butler, “The sweetest guy in the world, never committed any violent acts, never hurt anyone, is going to be held in a hospital with people who slaughter people.”

Judge Ruth Shillingford hasn’t yet apologized with the standard, Kavanaugh-esque backtrack of, “Ok. Maybe I could have used a better choice of words.” But she will. Too many of us have this same “dangerous, mental disorder.” Darius drew a different kind of bigot.

The success rate on appeals is very low. He’s gone.

***

Darius McCollum, as most spectrumfolk know, couldn’t stop stealing subway trains and taking them on joyrides. His first arrest came when he was 15, and over close to the next four decades, he was caught and sentenced over 30 times.

But by his estimation, he was not caught thousands of times.

Like innumerable spectrum children, young Darius had a “thing” for trains. As a fellow spectrumite myself who works in the field, I’ve long thought it funny how the clinical world overthought our too common fascination with rail travel. The simple truth of why we love trains has not to do with the trains themselves…it’s the track. We don’t have to make any decisions about going left here, or right there, thanks to the track. We don’t have to read between the lines, or interpret a thing, as we would driving a car. The track has already determined our destination and our route. Furthermore, we have full control over the speed of the journey. For folks like us? That’s heaven.

How was this possible, though? How could one man, however Houdini-like, sneak into the driver’s seat so easily, time after time after time? Amidst our modern paranoia of mostly imagined terrorist threats looming around every corner—our FOX News hysteria—how did Darius manage so easily to take over the controls while we were the passengers? Well, Darius was brilliant. He not only knew the ins and outs of the New York Metropolitan Transit Authority (MTA) ten times better than any MTA employee, he knew the employee timetables, and how the MTA’s Human Resource department operated. He knew the trends, and the procedures, and he was also gregarious. Darius McCollum really is the sweetest guy you’ll ever meet. So when he’d arrive on the scene in a stolen uniform, and tell the scheduled driver “I just got a free day, man. Lemme help you out.” The uninformed, overworked and underpaid MTA employee usually said, “thanks, man,” and laid back on a welcomed break.

No passenger, it should be noted, was ever hurt when Darius was driving. Not one passenger was even aware that, driving their subway train or bus was someone other than a trained MTA employee. Lastly, Darius’ routes were always finished on time.

***

More than two decades would transpire thereafter that first arrest before we’d hear his name. For us, it all started with a Harper’s article from 2002—Jeff Tietz’s The Boy Who Loved Transit. In the opening paragraphs, Tietz introduced us not only to a train thief, but also a brilliant forger, who brought letters to crews “signed” by MTA managers, dictating that the crews allow “Mr. McCollum” to inspect their safety protocols. Tietz also showed us a concerned outsider, who always attended MTA workers’ union meetings and rallies. Finally, Tietz pointed out to us that Darius only attempted to steal these trains, buses, and equipment. After all, he returned everything he stole. Darius’ behavior originated not in contempt. He loved the MTA, and all its inner worlds.

But despite a diagnosis of Asperger’s Syndrome, one that should have explained his lack of criminal intent, he got idiot judge after idiot judge—monsters of an unfair, impotent, racist, and arcane criminal justice system in New York. To them, Darius was too intelligent, too polite, and too “white sounding” (as one judge put it) to both have a disability and not have control over his actions.

I first met Darius around that time. He was out on parole but at high risk for going back. People put high hopes that my new organization, GRASP, could help. GRASP was the first real peer-run (i.e. run by people on the spectrum) organization in the autism world, and later grew to become the largest membership organization in the world for adults on the spectrum. That all said, we didn’t have much of a budget, and we weren’t a services organization—we had no contract with the city. The type of help that Darius needed wasn’t complicated, but it was intensive. He needed talk therapy with a shrink that really knew their Asperger’s, peer support, perhaps some Cognitive Behavioral Therapy, some trauma-based therapy, a gym, and a Microsoft Excel class. He came to one GRASP support group meeting, but given his relative stardom, he had a hard time feeling like a part of the group. So he hung out in our office with me on several occasions. I’d work while he’d read. We’d talk. We’d go for walks. We got to know each other.

***

Everyone on the spectrum is different. On one end you might have someone non-verbal, who may never experience a reciprocated sexual relationship, or hold down a steady job for long. But this same individual could in fact be quite happy if surrounded by the right supports and attitudes; as measuring happiness by the capacity for speech is one of the infantile mistakes we used to make in the autism world. Why so stupid? Because on the other end of the spectrum you might have someone very verbal; maybe with an IQ of 180—we have all these famous people diagnosed in retrospect such as Einstein, Beethoven, Edison, Jefferson, Emily Dickinson, every famous mathematician…—whom everyone expects to be the CEO of a Fortune 500 company someday. But because no one explained to them how the social world works, their loneliness intensified until they became a suicide statistic. You can’t dumb this stuff down. We’re complicated.

I hadn’t yet seen anyone whose level of “juice” resembled mine—More functional than most in many capacities, I present well. But I was also inundated with spectrumites who were/are way smarter than I. So while better than most at hiding my cluelessness, until then I had always felt somewhere in the middle of the spectrum, with no real parallel.

Darius McCollum was the first and only time I’ve ever sensed someone whose spectrum gifts and challenges instinctively reflected mine. Four months apart in age, diagnosed at virtually the same age, both only children, our internal makeup seemed identical. Darius didn’t present like me, but I knew that if you took away the experiences of being stabbed repeatedly with large scissors when he was in second grade, the horrific prison rapes and beatings, the lifelong trauma, the brilliance…and that if you then took away my educational opportunities, and blatant white privilege…he was my mirror. People thought I was talented—more talented than I really was—and so I got scholarships that allowed me to divide whatever intelligence I had into many different directions, thus creating a more well-rounded individual…than Darius, who had real intelligence that few wished to recognize, and who in lacking those opportunities directed everything he had to trains. I ended up with an Ivy League Masters degree. Darius didn’t graduate high school.

We may have gotten close—It felt that way; the ease was both inexplicable and beatifically jarring. But I’m not sure. It’s hard to tell when the relationship was never equal; for in addition to both our racial instincts, I was to be the mentor, and he the mentee.

***

By this time, everyone was writing about him. Whether it was the New York Times, the London Times, or every news station…By 2004 Darius had racked up an impressive media portfolio. There would be a play, and a documentary—interpretations of Darius’ life made by people that were not out to exploit him—Good people were always on his side. There was talk of a movie starring Julia Roberts…

However, my main mission with him was contrary. I wanted to try and get him to stop seeing dollar signs from imagined film deals, to stop being addicted to the media attention. In my opinion, this was his real challenge. For in addition to withstanding the temptation to steal more trains came the devaluation of what he would do with his life if he wasn’t stealing trains. It’s difficult enough for ANY ex-inmate to get excited about trying to start a new life…when you’re a convicted felon (very few jobs hire folks with prison records) with no job training, money, or education. Being black just decreases your chances even more. I began running interference to try to de-celebrity his life a little.

And just so you know, of course he would have been a perfect hire for the MTA. But they wouldn’t have him. We tried. We tried the MTA, we tried the MTA’s transit museum (where Darius could be a tour guide), we tried the transit authorities of other cities, we tried Amtrak… But Darius, in his “career,” had shamed these folks. He had shown that their security procedures were a joke, thus pissing off Homeland Security and driving their insurance rates through the roof. Later, the MTA would rebuff our criticisms and escalate the divide even further by demanding re-payment on any possible movie deals. In addition to Darius pinning them down, MTA officials dug themselves a deeper hole by reacting like the petty, insecure bureaucrats they might have always been.

(Speaking of Homeland Security: Darius, in his infinite kindness, had even welcomed a visit from them during one of his jail stints, asking nothing in return. And they, after absorbing much information and consultation that Darius was more than happy to give them, free of charge, about how easy it was to skirt the MTA’s procedures…gave him nothing in return. Again, we are discussing the sweetest, most childlike, least streetwise guy in the world. Today, he is still proud of that meeting as he feels he served his country.)

By then, many media outlets were calling me to reach Darius (who struggled to maintain a consistent phone number), and I was trying to rebuff them. That time would be Darius’ longest stint outside prison. And when he fell off the wagon per se, he did so repeatedly thereafter. Over the ensuing years he would get out and almost instantly get caught taking another car or bus for a joyride. In the absence of access to real supports when he would be out, being a celebrated train thief was the only life he could see. He might not have been wrong.

During those years he also made bad decisions, about people, money, and especially legal representation. Stephen C. Jackson, the celebrity lawyer who gained fame during the Tawana Brawley case, rushed to Darius’ side and filled him with promises of millions. But when Jackson (now deceased) quickly saw that the fame he sought wasn’t forthcoming, he then abandoned Darius without officially dropping his name as Darius’ representative. What this meant was that when Darius, on more than one occasion, would show up from his cell for sentencing or a hearing, that he sat alone in court. The judge would ask where his lawyer was, and Darius could provide no explanation. But because Darius, in the court’s mind, couldn’t represent himself (because of his Asperger’s, the courts deemed him incapable of the decision to switch lawyers), he was then sent back to jail for months, even years once, until a new hearing could be rescheduled. Herein, my power of attorney was worthless.

GRASP didn’t have the means to help, but larger organizations like Autism Speaks and the Autism Society of America (ASA) could have. But neither organization would touch Darius McCollum with a ten-foot pole. The excuse was that they didn’t like the way Darius was using his Asperger’s as…an excuse, and that this made everyone on the spectrum look irresponsible. But to me, this was the excuse—to not have to acknowledge the punishments not fitting the crimes. If people really thought Darius deserved to be raped and beaten for taking subway trains on safe joyrides…I just couldn’t believe that. But I grew to believe that as a poor, black man, Darius for them was a lose-lose proposition. These orgs’ gutlessness did not have justification, but they did have explanation.

My prison visits felt more and more like spankings. I’d arrive, furious with him over the most recent arrest, and I’d lay into him. But at the end of the visit we would have worked it out. I once broke policy, and facilitated an interview with him for Caren Zucker and John Donvan’s book, In a Different Key (I trusted Caren, whom I knew from her days at Nightline when she produced some really fine autism coverage). I laughed in solidarity at the finished book, where they quoted my first words to Darius when I brought them to Rikers…in which I distinctively used an expletive. Donvan had inquired after the visit why I was so harsh with him, and rather than explain that neither Darius nor I came from finishing school, or that this was just the way we showed we cared, I answered in an acknowledgement that maybe it was wrong of me, but that “I visit him.” For at the time, no one else really was.

But then Sally Butler became Darius’ (seriously) pro bono lawyer. And he finally had a real chance…because he finally had a real hero.

***

Forget the nightmare center that Darius will go to (Kirby, or Mid-Island, according to an old colleague), our regular prisons are increasing in violence. Author, Shane Bauer, went undercover for Mother Jones as a $9 per hour Louisiana prison guard (an experience he recounts in his new book, American Prison) and took away a wealth of terrifying information. In a recent interview, Bauer stated that when he was being trained, he was instructed that the proper procedure for when prisoners were stabbing each other, was “to yell, ‘Stop fighting!’ and that’s it. We should not get in between them. We are not going to pay you (the guard) that much…if those fools want to cut each other, than happy cutting.”

And does anyone still think that you can go through long prison experiences without being raped? Are some people still capable of such denial? Unfortunately, yes. We are that naïve, or dumb, or complacent. And it’s mostly the law & order crowd—those who demand punishment, punishment, punishment, even when they acknowledge that punishment (even as a concept) really doesn’t work—that heartily approves of our “nudge nudge, wink wink” relationship with rape. We are complicit in this manner because we want to believe that we live in a society that does not condone rape. But it’s nonsense. We don’t just condone rape, we willingly use it as a coercive tool, and the proof doesn’t lie in drunken college parties. The proof of our societal need to never eliminate rape lies in our prison system.

“According to the Bureau of Justice Statistics, around 80,000 women and men a year are sexually abused in American correctional facilities. That number is almost certainly subject to underreporting, through shame or a victim’s fear of retaliation...To tackle the problem, Congress passed the Prison Rape Elimination Act, signed into law by President George W. Bush in 2003. The way to eliminate sexual assault, lawmakers determined, was to make Department of Justice funding for correctional facilities conditional on states’ adoption of zero-tolerance policies toward sexual abuse of inmates…But only two states — New Hampshire and New Jersey — have fully complied with the act…The Justice Department estimates that the total bill to society for prison rape and sexual abuse is as high as $51.9 billion per year, including the costs of victims’ compensation and increased recidivism. If states refuse to implement the law when the fiscal benefit is so obvious, something larger is at stake…Compliance does not even cost that much. The Justice Department (also) estimates that full nationwide compliance would cost $468.5 million per year.”

— “Why We Let Prison Rape Go On”

Bozelko, Chandra. The New York Times. April 17, 2015

***

This past year, after 38 years of in and out, it was time to roll the dice. Darius’ health had been deteriorating—He has gained tremendous weight and is experiencing rapid hearing loss. His brilliance has become less accessible, having slowly drowned in accumulated trauma.

In January, Sally scored a major victory: she got the Brooklyn District Attorney's Office to finally admit that Darius was not a criminal. But because of how the court still contextualizes non-apparent disabilities, Darius, in order to become relatively free, would have to plead not responsible by mental defect. And there was a big risk herein. As Sally wrote: “If Darius is determined to be dangerous, he will be confined in a truly horrific locked facility for the criminally insane perhaps for life.” But if the judge were to determine that he was not dangerous, he would be “civilly committed for intense treatment with the goal of returning to society with services available to him.”

In talks at the time with the Puerto Rican government on an autism consulting contract, I began looking into a side project of building a treatment center on the island, one that would use Darius as a pilot for low-risk, non-violent offenders with diagnosed non-apparent disabilities. Everyone’s been saying “there’s no proper care available,” even though what Darius needs is not brain surgery, and since no one else was doing it…I dreamt of him taking that Excel class, going to trauma-based therapies, and helping to repair houses in Puerto Rico’s still-reeling infrastructure, one with no transit system—Yes! There would be an ocean between Darius and temptation, if not also a warm, loving populace that would welcome him. The courts would save a ton of taxpayer money and stop enduring the bad public relations. Sally forewarned that getting the powers that be to allow him to receive his treatment outside state lines would be the challenge, but I was confident. It seemed a no-brainer.

I wasn’t alone. We all figured the odds were good. Who in God’s name would sentence this good-natured child to more torture?

But again, Sally and I being white, we forgot that Darius was black.

***

I’m guessing that at best, only 3% of the people that read this article will be African-American. It’s not that I don’t have black readers. As a white writer, I’m confident I have more than most. But for African-Americans, I would imagine that this material, like any material about Darius, reads like the box score of a game African-Americans already saw, participated in from start to finish, and in which their team got its ass kicked. There’s nothing to be learned, and only more heartache to be gained from reading. Maybe as some “militants” might say, everything really is about race. Maybe everything isn’t about Darius’ autism, nor fiscal variations (I especially have professed in the past that everything revolves around economics)…I’m white, so I can’t go there completely, but I could argue that maybe the Judge Kavanaugh hearings weren’t about women if, as a New York Times article reports, 53% of white women were in favor of his confirmation. Maybe the wonderful #MeToo movement will at some point have to address the buried complaints that many men of color, in corporate settings, have about the sexual harassment they’ve endured from many white, female supervisors. Maybe the LGBTQ community will someday acknowledge that a stereotype exists of them all being wealthy liberals—when most are actually poor (and therein, contain many people of color). Maybe the #MeToo heroes can see that while they risked their career track to report harassing bosses, that when this occurs to women of color in factories (that I’ve worked in), that for her and her family that woman doesn’t risk a delay in promotion, she risks homelessness. Maybe even our nation’s bipartisan era isn’t about Trump, but is still about Obama? After all, one look at the farcical complaints many Republicans had about Obama during his tenure, when compared to their silence regarding Trump’s unending list of proven lies? This nation’s divide isn’t about Republicans and Democrats at all…And then there’s Judge Shillingford, pictured on Google images at many NAACP functions, who simply may have seen a Darius we never saw; one who didn’t have the intelligence we knew of, or the indisputably kind nature. Maybe she saw a person who was incapable of a productive life given the right supports…because of his skin color. Maybe she knew better.

Having raised white children in predominantly black, Brooklyn neighborhoods, I can confess to you that every once in a while, a fellow white would let slip their belief that we were throwing our kids’ safety under a bus to prove our liberalness. The truth was the opposite—Because of the trust we’d extended by living there my boys were protected by those communities. The black on black shit is what will astound you.

(“Sidebar, your honor?” An old contact of mine works closely to [but not in] the Brooklyn District Attorney’s office. Not to go spy-novel herein, but this “source” felt that Shillingford will not be reprimanded for this ruling or her language. She may actually be rewarded. My contact’s theory is that the Shillingford’s “shortcomings” regarding her knowledge and feelings about developmental disabilities, are well known by the Brooklyn DA, Eric Gonzalez. Shillingford may have been set up to take the bullet for a DA’s office that has wanted this ending for Darius all along. And this would make sense; for Gonzalez’s office seems intent on preserving a progressive aura; yet in the case of Darius McCollum has never negotiated in good faith.)

Whether you are African-American, Spanish, on the spectrum, LGBTQ, or Muslim…any minority will always feel doubt about their way of doing things, even if that way is brilliant. And any majority will have supreme confidence in their way of doing things, even if their way is so dumb it’s beyond repair. Unless we are all educated otherwise, that’s simply how majorities and minorities think.

***

I can’t compartmentalize Darius McCollum as the screwup twin brother who couldn’t stop breaking my heart, or as the African-American who only had a chance in our dreams. Darius will perhaps best be categorized as the human being who consciously made us face our capacity for cowardice and inaction. For I could cry at will, in gratitude, for the fact that I was raised on this one notion: If in the course of your job, you have to turn a blind eye to a giant injustice? Then it is time to look for another job. These days, this concept feels more than lost. Judge Shillingford cowardly stated in her sentencing that her “hands (were) tied.” Bull. The judge is a bigot, perhaps twice over (though I can’t make that call). Because she is both a female and an African-American, and I am a white male, I will grant that she had it harder than me—I’d bet a limb on it. But the end result matters too.

I know I’m angry. And in my anger, I erroneously feel it’s my duty to look upon her, and maybe Gonzalez, as garbage human beings. But I think the real duty for us all is to acknowledge that they are not alone.

[a-crimson-lion]

The Moms Of BNHA

[Warning: Spoilers and Potentially Triggering Opinions follow. You've been warned.]

[Also: Long Post.]

So, I've been thinking about this when I should be doing, homework (lol), but... can we talk about a certain trio of moms in BNHA?

Inko Midoriya

Inko is probably the least problematic mom I'll be talking about today. Does that make her perfect? Hell no! But she tries so hard for Izuku, and it shows. Even if she doesn't support Izuku's dreams of heroism once he's diagnosed as Quirkless, it's clear that she supported him in any other way she could think of. She's also worried about his well being, as we see after the mall confrontation and the aftermath of Kamino. And when she sees Izuku's dreams finally becoming a possibility after a lifetime of doubt, she apologizes, fully supporting Izuku's choice in life from there on out. Sure, after Kamino she considers pulling Izuku out of UA, but that's not from a place of selfishness or malice. It's out of worry. She wants her son to be happy, but she also wants him to be safe.

Honestly, I can't think of any legitimate reason to full on hate her...

Rei Todoroki

So Rei... gosh where do I begin?

She's definitely more problematic than Inko, or rather, her situation is. People tend to get on her case because she was apparently just as abusive to Shoto as Endeavor was, and-

Can... can we talk about this for a moment?

I understand that what Rei Todoroki did was wrong, end of discussion. I understand what Rei did only worsened the circumstances for her family, her son, and herself. I understand that while her institutionalization wasn't fair, it was likely for the best given her state of mind. But to put the blame squarely and soley on Rei's shoulders?

That's where I draw the line.

I only say this with the experience of a novice, but from personal experience, most people don't just randomly lash out spontaneously. In my case, it's usually a series of offenses (minor or major) that I refuse to respond to because I feel like that will make me a bad person, but that residual rage? It builds up. Sometimes you can let it out in minor spurts, but it's not enough. One day, one way or another, it will boil over. All that anger, all that frustration, all that rage will combust. You won't be able to stop it once it starts. You'll feel tense. You'll punch things, not caring whether you'll break them or they'll break you. When you get tired of that, you'll storm off into your room and angrily sob into your pillows, or yell/growl... or both. And when it's finally over, you'll still feel like crap. And it'll be a long while before it feels like you or anyone else can forgive yourself.

This is me anywhere from several months to several years. Rei Todoroki had to put up with Endeavor and his abusive behavior for about a decade.

Rei was abused, end of story. Rei's children were abused, either physically or neglectfully, end of story. We've seen Shoto's training. We've heard Endeavor hitting his wife and hearing her scream. People are not perfect. People are not invincible. To expect that someone like Rei could keep her head held high when it felt like the world was against her is like expecting a stone to say the same shape and size out in the open for thousands of years.

In the end, it all wears down.

Rei even knew this herself. She knew she was breaking down, and tried to call on her other family in order to stop something bad from happening. Too little, too late. Rei sees her son, the left side of her son, the side that her husband was responsible for, in a sense. She remembers all the beatings, all the physical and mental degradation against herself and her kids, and she snaps. She has finally had it with Endeavor, and in her fury, she pours boiling water against his face. Only it wasn't her husband's face. It was Shoto's. Her youngest child, her little boy, the one Endeavor was the most brutal to. The one she had wanted to live without fear of a beating.

And she just struck him without a second thought.

There's immediate remorse. Rei doesn't stew in her rage; the guilt overtakes her almost instantaneously. You could argue that trying to ice boiling water is not the best method of preventing a burn, but it's the intentions that matter here. From what I've heard, the scar could have been a lot bigger if Rei just stood there. Plus, I don't think it's necessarily common that people think 100% sanely when they're overcome by extreme emotion. Saying Rei was wrong for trying to soothe her son's burn even if it wasn't the best method is like getting made at a fireman for successfully putting a forest fire out, even of the trees are no longer living.

It's permanent damage, but would you rather deal with that, or something worse?

And just imagine how Shoto feels in all of this. There's sadness. There's betrayal. Of course some of it is directed at Rei, and deservingly so. The one person he felt he could trust basically just turned on him, seemingly out of nowhere. And yet... even though Shoto is a child, he's far from naive. He knows that Endeavor isn't a good person. He's heard his mother's cries, likely her arguments with his father, and he's even been a witness to Endeavor's abuse towards her. She may have done the deed, but for Shoto, the scar isn't his mom's fault. It's Endeavor's. He was the one who abused them, he was the one who took away their sense of happiness, of safety, he was the one who pushed them to the brink and then pushed them some more.

If he had just been a bit more considerate, a bit more reasonable, a bit more human, Rei's breakdown might have been delayed, if not outright nonexistent.

And can we just talk about the Rei/Endeavor parallels for a bit? Nowadays the manga readers are in the midst of Endeavor's redemption arc. I personally think that it's mildly problematic, but I will admit that it's probably better for Endeavor to not continue being a sorry excuse of a human being for the remainder of the series. That being said, I'd like to point out that Rei came first. Rei threw the first jab, and immediately felt remorse afterward. Shoto walked back into Rei's life, and she did not take that opportunity for granted. She spent the time shortly after her hospitalization trying to get better, and this is only more apparent when we see her for the rest of the series. As for Endeavor? His change in behavior was a lot slower. I'll admit that functionally speaking, he's a good hero, but as a person he's the scum of the Earth. He doesn't try self-evaluating after Shoto's fight with Izuku when Shoto says he only used his fire because he forgot about Endeavor. Even at Kamino, Endeavor is still an ass to All Might even though they have bigger things to worry about. And when he sees Small Might, exposed to the world? His first idea is to state that knowing he'd never catch up to All Might drove him to abusing his family.

Endeavor, buddy, that was your call. Not All Might's. Quite frankly, I don't think he's even aware of the BS you put your family through.

One of the few things that frustrates me about Endeavor's redemption is not that he has one; it's that under different circumstances, it wouldn't exist to begin with. Without All Might's retirement, without Endeavor forced into the spotlight as the new #1 Hero, there is no development on his part. I'd have the gall to say that Endeavor would still be a narcissistic asshole if All Might managed to hang on to his power for a while longer. Without the pressure of being #1 on his shoulders, Endeavor continues (in vain) to try and surpass All Might, or at least get Shoto to. He's still a good hero functionally speaking, but how long until his obsession starts to cloud his judgement? How long before the #2 Hero eventually slips up in his rage-fueled fervor?

I'll say it again: it's good that Endeavor is trying to change, but without any actual unprovoked self reflection on his part, it's not as impactful.

So to sum it up, I don't think Rei deserves all the hate she gets. She deserves to be held accountable for what she did, yes, but she's also a human being who was put into a mentally toxic position. It's a miracle she didn't snap sooner, and it's a miracle she's finally making progress with help from her kids.

Mitsuki Bakugo

And finally, the reason why I started down this train of thought.

I'm not even gonna try beating around the bush here: Mitsuki Bakugo is a bad parent.

Notice how I didn't say abusive. No, that does not mean I'm validating her. It just means I personally haven't seen or heard enough in the series thus far to justify whether she should be held on the same level as Endeavor, if not close.

I still have enough sense to see that she's not a good parent though. Far from it, actually.

So far we've only seem Mitsuki officially in a parent teacher meeting after Kamino, and a brief mention of her from Katsuki during the Remedial Course Arc. It doesn't paint a good picture. Right from the get go, her first scene is her hitting her son on the head and calling him weak. This isn't some slapstick or tough love, as some people will say. This is something entirely different, and it should tell readers two things.

Mitsuki is disconnected from her son.

Mitsuki is a carbon copy of her son.

Now take that second point with a grain of salt. People have said time and time again that Mitsuki is basically a genderbent Katsuki, which is accurate to a degree. She's also more mellowed out than Katsuki, as she can talk to other people without trying to assert her dominance. She's actually surprisingly aware of her son's superiority complex as well, but... For all that, it's obvious that Mitsuki isn't actually fully aware of her son's issues. Like her son, Mitsuki is also too focused on her son's brute strength. Calling him weak isn't some karmic justice for all the times Katsuki has said the same to other people; it's a feedback loop that feeds into Katsuki's insecurities, which feeds into his inferiority complex, which feeds into his superiority, which then repeats ad infinitum. You could argue that maybe Katsuki has acted too thick-skinned around his mom to let her actually get a feel for his problems, but I personally doubt that she's really tried to understand her son, or maybe she just... gave up.

And then there's Katsuki saying that he was raised with violence. "BUT CRIMSON, SHE HAS TO BE ABUSIVE IF SHE'S WILLING TO HIT HER KID, WhY cAn'T yOu AcCePt ThAt!?" Well, from what I learned, people can hit their kids and still? Not? Be abusers? Spanking used to be a thing, y'know, and while it's heavily controversial nowadays, I doubt that the good parents used it at the drop of a hat. Kids can be jerks; I was one. Back to Mitsuki, I doubt that this line meant from the day Katsuki had been four years old, his life had been hell. I feel like even if Mitsuki was still brash, she didn't immediately start beating on Katsuki when he started to get a big head. If anything, I'd assume she waited about two years at most before she started letting the fists fly. Keep in mind, almost everyone Katsuki meets admires him for his abilities. Who's to say his mom wasn't one of those people at the start? It wouldn't have been until Katsuki ego started becoming a noticeable issue that Mitsuki decided she needed to tale care of it. Only problem? Mitsuki makes bad decisions, just like her son. Resorting to physical violence and verbal taunts did nothing to help Katsuki, but it's what Mitsuki knew how to do, so she rolled with that. I'm not giving Katsuki a pass because of this, however. Shoto essentially went through the same thing, and his response was not to endlessly shout at others or display dominance. The violence targeted at the boys was brutal, but violence doesn't justify more violence. Katsuki may have had a convenient excuse to start being an ass to people, but so did Shoto. And yeah, "Earlyroki" was an ass, but at least it wasn't intentional.

Before I go, I just want to bring up really quick where Masaru falls into this. One could argue that Masaru's also to blame for how Katsuki turned out for not stepping in but... have you seen Mitsuki, or even Katsuki for that matter? No offense to Masaru, but he's kind of a doormat character. He only married Mitsuki due to her persistence, and while Masaru's "Oxidizing Sweat" quirk is likely destructive, Masaru himself is... not. He seems to be the exact opposite of his wife and son personality wise, only instead of canceling them out, his lack of dominance forces him to run for cover should a dark omen come about. We've seen what Katsuki's done to Izuku before UA. Masaru basically has to put up with two of those, and unlike our protagonist, he doesn't have the resilience to withstand that much anger.

So...

TL;DR. Inko Midoriya is a great mom who just wants her son to be safe and happy. Rei Todoroki cares a lot about her son and is willing to work to show it, even in the face of setbacks. Mitsuki Bakugo is a terrible parent who either needs to figure out what's wrong with her son properly, or leave to someone who can.

Thank you for your time.

-Crimson Lion (24 November 2019)

[scribblyspaceskeleton]

My fiancee @martianmaenad mentioned a while back that I went through a lot of trauma and mental health troubles that I have since mostly recovered from, and they left it up to me to give details about what happened to me.

I'm going to talk at length about some very heavy topics, so here's a trigger warning for suicidal thoughts, paranoid delusions, and psychological abuse and neglect.

-----

My adoptive parents are narcissists, full stop. If you're familiar with this kind of abuse, you know exactly what I went through and the long lasting damage that kind of gaslighting can do.

I'm pretty sure my adoptive dad didn't even want me, and he stopped pretending to care around the time I was diagnosed with autism.

But by far the worst thing they did was put me through abusive ABA "therapy" with this practitioner who, on top of everything else, tried to cure me with fucking essential oils.

After a certain point I just broke. My mind couldn't take it anymore and all the latent mental health problems hidden in my genes came out at full force. Welcome to the wonderful world of bipolar disorder and serious emotional instability.

My mental health from around 2008 to 2016 was at absolute rock bottom.

I was wandering around passively suicidal, with intense intrusive thoughts and unchecked paranoid delusions that made me terrified of absolutely everything.

I had really bad swings of manic depression and that came with some incredibly worrying symptoms, especially when I was manic.

I thought I could control the weather and that I could move things with my mind.

I thought the NSA was following me and that people could hear my thoughts and I'd instantly go to prison for accidentally clicking on the wrong link, or that if I didn't control what I thought it would explode a blood vessel in someone's brain and kill them on the spot.

I remember at one point it was so bad I couldn't eat because I thought my food was poisoned.

My parents either took me to ineffectual psychiatrists who just gave me pills that didn't work, or just ignored the situation and hoped my mental illness would just go away and stop inconveniencing them.

I was isolated so much and for so long, basically kept in my room in solitary confinement aside from internet access on my computer that they loved to take away (thankfully I hid my DSi in my room so I could still talk to people without being caught!).

Even then I had a hard time keeping online friends because I was prone to trauma dumping, and I had an explosive temper and would lash out and get into verbal fights with people over small things. I alienated a lot of people and I'm still ashamed of the way I acted, there was no excuse for that kind of behavior.

My mind broke itself into pieces just so I would have someone to talk to, and I still have multiple alters and what I believe is some form of DID.

My room was your typical "depression nest" and I had absolutely no energy to even try to clean it, so I was essentially trapped in this filthy cell block.

In early 2014, a college professor called the campus police because my mental state had deteriorated visibly to the point I needed an emergency evaluation- it just now fully hit me that I easily could have been killed and I wouldn't have cared.

The full weight of realizing how easily I could have died hit me like a freight train last night, my life was dangling by the tiniest thread and someone could have reached up and snipped it in an instant if they saw fit.

I was 18. I'm about to turn 25 this summer, and sometimes waking up in the morning still shocks me a little bit because I still have no idea how I'm still alive.

But I'm still here. And I'm not hurting anymore.

My mind is mostly quiet and I'm no longer in pain.

I climbed all the way out of that hole, after years of therapy and medication that actually worked, and meeting the love of my life who steadfastly refused to give up on me even when I was at my worst.

I've learned to look into myself and understand what I'm feeling and why, and I'm still learning how to communicate what's on my mind after having shut myself away for so long. But I'm the most stable I've been in the better part of a decade and I'm still on an upward climb.

It looks like only good is going to come my way in the long run, and while I know it won't be some perfect path of sunshine and rainbows, I know I'll get through whatever tough times I run into.

I've thrown myself into my art and I've taken up music again. These two things have been my dual lifelines since I was small, and no matter how bad things get I will always have these two things that make sense and give me a safe haven away from it all.

[pythosart]

A big ol 2019 end of the year update

I felt somewhat compelled to write my end of the year/decade thoughts, but a warning before you read: This one’s going to be heavy, intensely personal, and long. If you don’t feel up to reading that, it may be best to skip it. I promise I’ll go back to shutting up and posting art afterwards. I’m profoundly incapable of being concise, ever, so apologies for the length of this.

2019 was a nightmare.

Some background: In mid 2016, my mother was diagnosed with a rare form of liver cancer. She was given a few months to live. She was given weeks or months to live multiple times, for almost three years. In that time my mom was in and out of the hospital, but spent all her good days living life to the fullest, starting and finishing dream projects, and keeping all of us going despite her own situation. Even when she was bedridden, hooked up to tubes and bags and god knows what, she found time to prop up her loved ones and pursue her hobbies. She even managed to develop new hobbies and interests while otherwise imprisoned by her physical state, something I struggle to do at the best of times even in my young and relatively healthy form. If there’s anything I can make of this experience, it’s that I hope to grow into even half the woman my mother was.

I ended 2018 with my final quarter at SCAD. I spent the entire quarter terrified my mom was going to die while I was away from home. It was horrific, I barely scraped by my last few classes (bless my professors’ endless patience), and immediately left Savannah for home as soon as the quarter was up. I never had room to celebrate finishing college. Any other year it would be a huge milestone, but I barely even care.

This past May, my mother passed away, after three years of petrifying suspense. It happened in the dead middle of the night, while my best friend was visiting for a con, and it still feels like a bad dream. It’s also one of the only vivid memories I even have of this year. 

I wish I had more to say on that, but I genuinely think the drawn out suffering and fracturing of my whole world left me unable to fully unpack everything that’s happened. It’s hard to even think about for long, and at times I even half-forget she’s gone. I think of things I want to show her, or tell her, or cook with her. Just the other day I kept thinking I’d tell her how much I liked endive after she showed me how to make it. I found a historical Italian cooking channel that, every time I see it, I just think of how much she’d love it. I knew she’d love Hot Fuzz but never got to show her. Little, stupid things that shouldn’t matter, but they do. They just do.

My mother and I were close, much closer than I am with my dad. Especially towards the end of her life, we had gotten closer, and I felt like I was only just really getting to know her as an equal. I still want to share my life with her, but that chance is gone.

This holiday season has been especially rough in her absence, because not only was my mom the motivational and creative force behind a lot of holiday activities here, it’s the first everything without her. We had Thanksgiving with friends and a catered dinner, instead of spending several days cooking and polishing family silver and setting the table. I won’t be making handmade tortellini with her for Christmas like we did every year. It’s the little things like that.

We’re a tiny family, with over half of us in Italy and lacking much communication due to the language barrier. Family holidays were always small, but there’s just a huge hole how, much greater than the cold numeric value of “one fewer participant.” My mom was always a driving force and a keystone in our support networks, not to mention the main line of contact with the Italian-speaking side of the family, so now the family feels so much more scattered and isolated than ever.

My girlfriend was close to my mother too, and as she’s been living with me for years now and is practically part of the family, I think she took it just as hard as anyone. Cel saw everything I did, and dealt with many of the same uncertainties and traumatic experiences I did.

A month after I lost my mother, I lost my cat too. Galileo was twelve years old, a spry old man who yelled instead of meowed, and just a wonderful cat. I got him when I was in 7th grade, after begging my parents for years to get me a cat. It was my mom who eventually overrode my dad’s hesitations, and from then on Leo was part of the family. He went through a very sudden decline over the course of a week or two, and we learned it was cancer. Feline lymphoma, I think. I had to make the call to put him to sleep, and it ripped what was left of my heart out.

Not that it needs stating, but fuck cancer.

A few too-short months later, I cut ties with a “friend,” which despite how fucking much it hurt, was really for the best. At a certain point one simply can no longer afford to waste energy on a certain kind of person. Unfortunately I’m a persistently optimistic idiot, and it took me too long to cut my losses before deep damage was done. Done to me, my close friends, and even barely involved acquaintances this “friend” dumped on relentlessly and tried to harass into spying on me. Really, if any part of this is unforgivable, it’s that.

All this was, however, a valuable reminder that it’s no good to have any tolerance for habitually dishonest people, even if they think they’re doing it to look “nice.” Chronic liars will gaslight you whether they know it or not, and trying to navigate that in an already damaged mental state is inadvisable. It was an important lesson in picking one’s battles, albeit one learned too late. I’m still holding out hope I can find it in my heart to forgive this person, if only for my own selfish sake so I can move on. I have a lot of experience living on spite, and I don’t want to make a further habit of it.

Naturally all of the above did little to curb my already inflamed pessimism about the state of my country and the world at large, but I need not expand on that, I imagine.

I suppose it would be unfair of me to leave it all at that and only mention the negative, though admittedly positivity is hard to muster these days. A few bright spots of note:

Graduated from SCAD with my BFA in Sequential Art (technically last year, but I did the ceremonial bit this year)

Tabled at Animazement with Woods. We barely broke even, but it was a great time and I plan on doing it again in the new year.

Spent literally an entire month hanging out with my two best friends, which was amazing and exactly the kind of healing experience I needed around that time of year.

Properly did Halloween for the first time in years. I made a costume I’m proud of and we went out on the town… for like an hour, because it promptly started pouring. But fun nevertheless

Started therapy. As of writing this, I’ve only had an introductory session, but it’s a start. Should have started six months ago, but didn’t for reasons to be addressed...in therapy

Started volunteering at the local natural history museum, where I spent like half my childhood. I’ll be doing data entry in collections, but that’s still cool as hell

Got a start on figuring out what I want to do with my life. It’ll involve going back to school for science within the next five-ish years, but it’s nice to have a goal. More of a goal than I’ve ever had, in fact.

Played some extremely good video games (shout out to The Blackout Club and Control)

Made a shitload of unnecessary yet endlessly fun and good AUs with my friends and my one (1) OC

Got an iPad Pro and started learning Procreate, which has gotten me drawing more

Learned a bit of needle felting

2019 was a year of getting much closer to my two best friends, and I genuinely owe them my life at this point. I don’t know where I’d be without them. Nowhere good, certainly.

Woods and Dross kept me talking to people, kept me creating, told me when I was being unreasonable or needed to cool it, heard me out when I needed it but always kept me honest. They helped me keep some creative juices flowing when otherwise I’d have been at a frustrated loss and might have given up for good. If it seems like I’ve kept up my usual art output at all, and if you’ve enjoyed the Lou content (or not, whoops... apologies to everyone who followed me for monster content) you have both of them to thank.

Even moreso, I owe my girlfriend a great deal for being there for me through all of this while she herself was suffering similarly. She and I have had our ups and downs, and been through a lot in the five-ish years we’ve been together. We aren’t the most outspoken couple, but I think our mutual understanding and pain mitigated a lot of the damage this year has done. I don’t think I could have handled it alone.

Furthermore, I really need to thank a lot of other friends and acquaintances I’m not quite as close with, but still talk to. These people especially were willing to call me on my bullshit when necessary, or just talk to me at all, about anything. Even if these acquaintances didn’t know it at the time, there’s a good chance they were dragging me out of one of my frequent existential despair spirals.

I also, weirdly, owe a lot to helping my hen Julia recover from her dog attack. That was around the time that my mom’s health was in its final decline, when I felt the most helpless and despairing. I think having even some tiny something I could do to help was like, the only feeling of control I had in life for a bit there. Julia’s fine, by the way. Still queen of the yard, top chicken boss bitch, etc. Julia was always a kind of kindred spirit with my mom, in a way. Little but not to be underestimated, gray, big personality and commanding presence… Not to mention, she was one of the first in our flock and was always my mom’s favorite. 

It would be too much to say I have high hopes or plans of any kind for the upcoming year, but I do have a list of things I want to try and do. Some of which will involve art, and the posting thereof.

Big if on this one, but I’ve also recently started therapy (only took me half a year to work up to making a phone call after the first failed attempt took all the wind out of my sails) and I have…maybe not high hopes, but hopes, for that doing something to help. I should have started therapy two years ago, but the second best time is now, etc etc.

I have a lot of New Year’s resolutions, beyond the usual “get in shape, drink less coffee, blah blah” that I’ll try and write up a little list of separately. Most of them are art-related, so you all will be there to watch me swing and miss I PROMISED I’D TRY TO BE LESS NEGATIVE. New Year’s resolution #1: Maybe don’t make so many self-deprecating jokes.

Anyway, I don’t know how to end any wall of text, be it an OC worldbuilding screed or something serious like this, so... I guess, love yourself, cherish your friends, know when to put your own needs first and when to put your friends’ needs firster. One of the things my mom taught me in this past year or so is that relationships are what you make of them, and that it’s okay to be selfish sometimes. Be generous, be genuine, don’t be a doormat and don’t lie to people you care about, even if it seems kinder in the moment. Savor the time you have with those close to you, and spend time doing things you love. Cliché, maybe, but cliché can still be true. Happy new year, everyone. I sincerely hope it will treat us all better. 2020 may just be an imaginary change of numbers, but I like to think it really does wipe the slate in a way, and make room for all of us to do what we can to be better. Speaking of which, vote. For the love of all that is good, vote.

--

A little bullet list of New Year’s resolutions, because it’s nicer to look at

Try to get back in shape (of course) - That 30 days of strength thing was good while it lasted, despite my joints hating me

Learn some new recipes, preferably with fewer carbs, you Italian ass

Keep a physical calendar and stick with it for at least a few months

Learn at least one new skill by the middle of the year, whether it’s art-related or something else

Start writing more. Don’t have to share it, but try. Write down ideas somewhere other than Discord where they’re easy to lose

Either reopen Patreon or figure out how ko-fi works. Even if it’s for no money, just to have structure and goals.

Do Animazement again and try out some new product types

Go to SCAD career fair with a decent portfolio

Get better about spending, by whatever method works

Attend some art classes at the local collectives, doesn’t matter what

Play more video games. I swear I only played like three new things this year 

Read more classic literature and nonfiction, at least one book per month. I’ve been really enjoying Agatha Christie’s works and am about to start Guns, Germs, and Steel

Read more comics. Basically just consume more media

Do Halloween again, better this time

See friends in person more

Practice accepting whatever shitty thoughts show up and then letting them go, rather than dwelling on them

[robogreaser]

This is a Long Time Coming...

It’s been a relatively hard task to sit down and make sense of, well, a lot of things as of late. I could chalk it up to the state of the world, but it’s been troublesome for significantly longer than that.

Long Story Short Version: I’ve been in a hell of a place, mentally, physically, and otherwise.

The proper story is a hell of a lot more involved than that and I know damned right well it’s going to take me a fair bit to explain myself and my various professional and social failings over the past... while. I’m gonna try to contain this under a read more, of course, but I apologize to mobile users if tumblr fucks that up.

Okay. That took a fair more bit of effort to figure out than I remember. Which, I suppose, is a fair enough bit of a segue into one thing that’s happened to me.

Tumblr has been deteriorating.

Whether I like to admit it or not, tumblr has been my go to social media platform since... 2011. Yeah. I’ve spent the vast majority of the decade here. I’ve seen a lot. Sure, I’ve lurked elsewhere, but I really cannot stand the interface and nature of a lot of other social media, especially the likes of twitter. Unfortunately for me, this place has been in constant decline for years now at this point. It extends well beyond the porn ban, but that’s a whole separate discussion.

I’ve lost touch with a lot of people I care about, some vanishing into the ether, some ghosting me, some just drifting into other communities or onto other sites. I’ve come to terms with the majority of this. It’s been happening for a while. It’s the very nature of digital relationships. It hurt, and I do think it’s contributed to a fair bit of stress and depression that has resulted in my... withdrawal from online spaces. It’s not a major factor, but its here, it’s present, it’s a factor in all of this.

I’ll be honest in that, well, I’ve tried to make this post several times over the past several weeks and months. It’s hard. Talking about my issues, using ‘I’ and ‘me’ so much in a post... it’s a bit jarring. But I’ll try to suck it up.

It’s been ten years (god I fucking hate time) since I’ve graduated high school. Yeah. It’s a fair thing to say that, on reflection, that’s incredibly jarring. The vast majority of that time has been... relatively unstable. I spent a fair few years working on my book and my publishing journey, now all but scrubbed clean from this blog (more on that later) and... well... Trying to be an adult. I’ve applied to, gotten accepted, and had to withdrawn from my dream school twice in this time. I’ve had a fair few jobs, nothing worthy of my resume, and lost all of them in one form or another, whether being fired for retaliating to my shitty work conditions, or, well, quitting for the sake of my own health during this pandemic. There has been a lot of family troubles. I’ve been through a lot of... ‘varied’ living situations, some horrendous, some just stressful, some, like now, actually really good compared to the others. And for the past few years in particular, it’s been constantly one thing after another, nonstop.

In short, progress is slow, but it’s happening. I don’t care to delve into a lot of these sorts of personal details lest this get to a ridiculous length, but that’s the short of the stuff I’d rather gloss over.

I’ve been on a health... Let’s call it a journey. I’ve been on a health journey. Over the past few years I’ve gone through the long processes of being diagnosed with ADHD, discussing my options regarding my depression and anxiety, and finally getting myself on a medication regimen that works. And then, because the health care system is a joke, I was without insurance. I had been off my medication, an absolute lifesaver and release of burden on my garbage tier brain, for eighteen months. Until last week. I think it’s fair to say, between my revolving door of living situations, employment, and then being un-medicated in a continually more stressful environment... That this is the main reason I’ve been absent. I’ve had no focus. There were weeks where I had no drive to do anything outside of routine that others depended on. I had not only gone back to how I was before situating my mental health, but in some ways, found a worse state.

Finances have been slowly eating away at me. I had been working a part time retail job until November, which made decent enough money, but not nearly for the amount of work and responsibility I was handling. I got fired. I found work with one of the big, corporate postal services. The pay was phenomenal, but it began to actively destroy my health, mainly physically, but also mentally, especially considering I was working a graveyard shift. Eventually when I began having prolonged health issues there, and then a whole lot of the symptoms of covid-19, on top of them turning me down for an entry-level position outside of the package handling, I had to quit. This was shortly after the lockdowns, in early April, and I refuse to look back despite people like my parents insisting on me trying to get work there again. Sure, the pay was phenomenal compared to anything else I had until then, but I cant continue to sacrifice my health. As of now, I’m unemployed, and... well...

I’m working on my commission queue. It’s art. It’s stuff I’ve owed friends (luckily those who are incredibly understanding and good to me) for an embarrassing amount of time, even before moving to and from Oklahoma at the end of 2016. I’m terrified of being the person who is known for taking commissioners’ money and running.

I know, I’m not good at giving updates. I’m not good at a consistent work schedule. I’ve had numerous tech failings over the past few years that constantly slow my roll on any progress I have made. Hell, I’ve had files corrupt despite being two thirds of the way complete when transferring from one computer to another. I’ve lost my cable for my external hard drive. I’ve had my tablet go to hell and back multiple times. But I am working. I am trying. I am sitting down as often as I can between looking for work and managing family nonsense to try and get my workload tidied up.

Which... brings me to my next point. And one I’m rather... ashamed about.

I have used trello, infrequently, since taking on a large load of commissions, and despite not being faithfully updating it and checking back on it, and using it to it’s fullest potential, I had kept, at the minimum, a list of all the work I did owe people using it. Well. Dumbass me attempted to use a mobile app. In short, in an effort to try and make myself tech literate and allow me easier access to my queue, I ended up deleting it. Somehow.

I’ve gone through and slowly flagged all my paypal notices and various emails concerning my commissions. I’m putting it together again. I’m trying. Granted, I am damned sure I am going to be missing someone, somewhere, somehow. I know it. I’ve got a shit brain, and despite my need for organization and minimalism, I don’t put it past me to have missed something along the way.

If you have commissioned me, please, do not hesitate to reach out and contact me regarding your commission. I owe every last one of you a massive apology for my continued failure to produce what you have paid for.

More likely than not, I have a wip already started somewhere, and if not, I have a slew of reference and thumbnails already compiled together somewhere on my computers. I am not ignoring this work. It’s been painfully, embarrassingly slow. It’s been one obstacle after another. But I have every intention of doing this work, and, likely, upgrading the quality of the finished piece past what my commissioners have paid for simply because I do feel bad about the wait time.

I have been inexcusably unprofessional. I know this and I am working as best I can with the time and resources I have to correct it.

In a similar vein, as I mentioned before, I have slowly been cleaning up my rather unimpressive publishing attempts. I’ve gone through and cleaned this blog recently, deleting reference to my work by name and the process of trying to get myself published. I may have missed a few posts here and there, but for the most part I would like a clean slate in regards to building a social media platform surrounding my written work. And this is the part where... I am probably going to be the most upfront and honest with you reading this than I have been publicly before.

I am not ashamed of who I’ve been online these past ten years or so, but it reflects only a sliver of my personality, a sliver of who I am as a whole. I catered to a very specific subset of who I am in pursuit of finding acceptance in communities much larger than myself. I’ve learned a hell of a lot about myself in that time. I figured out what’s important to me, my health, my sexuality, my relationships and my long term goals. I’ve found a very important group of friends. I’ve found people who understand and empathize with a lot of the things I have been through, experience, and am at my core.

But the fact of the matter is, this hypersexual, sci-fi aesthetic-oriented, very open person is only a singular facet. And it is not nearly enough of a reflection of who I am, or who I want to be as a professional, public adult. Will I always be gay for robots? Yes. Will I, when time permits and creative energies are present, continue to make nsfw art? Absolutely. Will I always have a toe dipped in erotic literature and the like? Most likely.

But a lot of me, a lot of my emotion and strife and feelings regarding most things in the world, are completely separate from this. It’s separate from me liking porn on twitter or having a homestuck roleplay blog. It’s separate from who I am in real life, with my boyfriend or with my family or with my work. And I have been dwelling on this, sincerely, for a while. I need to allocate more energy into my life. The separate life offline and online too, where I am pursuing an actual professional career, because, at the end of the day, I want to be an author. I want to have a career telling stories. And, in my time online, I’ve found a lot of skeletons in authors’ closets, the kind that really put mine to shame, and the kind that will always be a footnote to their work. You know the ones.

I want my creative work to speak for itself. I want people to be able to enjoy what I do without a specter, without my time and energy having to explain to a future audience why it is I had explicit thoughts about x,y, and z. I want to be able to write a book, write many books, and have people enjoy them without a footnote about me, a person with a sexual life and a history exploring it through years of depression and isolation, clouding it. It’s not fair to my work. It’s not fair to a future reader. It’s not fair to me.

I’ve got several social media accounts made and slowly coming to life that I need to spend more time with as I try and pursue this new, second leg of a very long journey into publishing. I’m not going to link those here, now or in the future. It’s likely a few people I know and trust have access to them. But I am, effectively starting over from scratch trying to build a platform as a writer. And it’s hard. Juggling that, alongside all of the things in the world today, alongside family and my relationships, alongside my commission queue? It bears down on me and if I didn’t have experience handling more than one thing at a time, I might trip up more frequently. Hell, I forget to post and use those new accounts regularly.

But I’m trying.

I’m not moving away from my current social circles or hobbies or anything like that. I’m not abandoning any fandom or friends or communities. But I am going to be trying to balance myself more thoughtfully moving forward, past just commissions, past just writing.

I’m here. I’m moving forward, slowly but surely, and I am making an effort to improve.

[charlie-minion]

What were the highs and lows of this year?

I didn’t do journaling on my blog this year, but I didn’t abandon my insightful nature either. I believe this year was better than last year and considerably better than 2017, so I’d like to borrow the last journal entry from last year in order to organize in my head the good and the bad of 2019.

LOWS:

I spent a long time staring at the word “lows” and trying to write something, but every time I came up with an idea, my brain provided a thought that made it seem like it really wasn’t a big deal and that it all worked out for the best, anyway. I guess my psychologist would be very proud of me right now! For instance:

I let go of some friendships and acquaintances.

After uttering this statement, I realized that this was more positive than negative because I learned to invest my time and energy wisely. I learned the importance of giving and taking in a relationship (platonic or otherwise) and the necessity of letting go of those who don’t make an effort. So, in this regard, I regret nothing.

I had another depressive episode and some serious moments of crisis.  

This is another low that turned into a high. I started to feel the decline in my mental health again at the end of June and promptly looked for help. I realized the health care system in my country does offer mental health services for free, so I went back to therapy. I had regular weekly sessions with my psychologist for 6 months, and I was properly diagnosed by a psychiatrist. They discovered I had been wrongly diagnosed with major depression the previous times I had hit rock bottom, but in reality, I’ve had bipolar disorder all this time (which makes a lot of sense, truth be told). Without that depressive episode, I wouldn’t have gone back to therapy and many of the highs of the year wouldn’t have happened.

My social service project and master’s thesis took a lot longer than I expected.

However, I can’t complain much about this because everything worked out great in the end. And the fact that my graduation was in September gave my big sister the chance to come to my country and be here with me on such a special occasion.

It took me a long time to sell the missing half of my old property.

But it was worth the wait because a friend of my mom’s bought the house and I don’t carry that burden into 2020 anymore.  

I didn’t get a job.

This isn’t true, though. I did get a job. I got a job as the vice-principal of a private school, but I decided not to sign the contract because there were things I didn’t agree with. I was offered two other jobs during the year and I just wasn’t interested in taking them. It took me some time to realize that I didn’t want to get a job because I wasn’t stable enough. I felt pressured to do so because it was expected of me as someone with both a bachelor’s and a master’s degree, but I didn’t really want to, so not getting a job was actually a good thing and the Universe knew better.

I burned the bridge with my ex-girlfriend (whether temporarily or for life).

When I broke up with my girlfriend, I didn’t do it because I didn’t care for her; I did it because I wanted to give her a chance to learn what she truly wanted. She’s still hot and cold and that’s understandable due to her age (there’s an age gap to consider between us). She kind of tried to communicate with me a few times (mostly when she needed something) and I tried to stay friends, but when she approached me a month into my depressive episode of the year, I was not in the right condition to keep playing mind games with her and decided to set very clear boundaries that would leave her out maybe for good. On the one hand, this could be one of the lows of the year, but on the other hand, I simply don’t regret a thing because I had to do what was best for me and my mental and emotional health.

Honestly, there’s not a single low this year that can’t be turned into a good thing. And I know that must have been true in the previous years as well, but I wasn’t in the right state of mind to do so.

HIGHS:

All the aforementioned things are definitely highs, but they are the result of an automatic exercise my brain did to transform something negative into something positive. My therapist spent weeks and weeks working with me on this, and I thought this was the most difficult exercise of all, so that’s why I believe she would be extremely proud of me if she saw me doing this unprompted.

Now if I want to talk specifically about the highs, I can mention:

I had a spiritual awakening on January 28th.

When my depressive episode kicked in, I started to doubt the spiritual awakening had been true. Then when I learned about my mental illness, I thought that maybe what I thought was a spiritual awakening had simply been a hypomanic episode. But the truth is that my level of consciousness shifted and there’s no denying that. I may have a serious mental illness and I may be on meds for the rest of my life, but the fact that, from January on, I’ve been very in tune with my intuition has nothing to do with all that. There’s no need to go deep into this because I don’t feel the need to talk about it or convince anyone anymore, and isn’t that even better?

I got closer to my family.

I realized that I didn’t have to turn my back on my family because not everything is black or white. They may not be perfect, but I’m not either; nobody is. So, I made peace with some relatives and got closer again to some others. I’m a lot better at setting boundaries now, so I’m not a people pleaser, but I’m not nasty either. All in all, I feel good about the fact that I may not be as alone as I thought I was.

I released the two major sources of stress I still had.

When I finished grad school and sold my house, I could finally breathe a sigh of relief. I don’t have any more papers to worry about, professors or classmates to deal with, or fees to pay. I don’t have to clean my old house or continue paying the bills. I’m finally free! And there’s no better way to start a new year and a new decade.

I got diagnosed and was given the proper treatment.

As I mentioned before, I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder. It’s not that I’m happy about it, but I was treated incorrectly for so many fucking years, that it feels wonderful to be taken seriously for the first time in forever. I started medication in November and my psychiatrist has been really helpful. The effect of the meds has been evident! There haven’t been side effects and my brain has reacted beautifully to the treatment. It feels like I can use my rational mind now, and I can even keep it together when other people act in a threatening way (which has happened). I’m amazed at how different life feels like from this perspective. I never quite understood why people liked to be alive because all I felt on a daily basis was despair, so to me being alive used to feel like a burden rather than a blessing. It doesn’t feel that way now. I know both the meds and the changes in my life style have contributed, but I can say with 100% certainty that without the meds, I would not feel the way I do right at this time.

I look freaking fantastic!

I have lost over 80 pounds since I started exercising on March 20, 2018. I have a lot of energy and feel good about myself. It’s not just the fact that I’m not overweight anymore, though. I’m proud of myself because I’ve had the patience and discipline to do something that didn’t give me any immediate benefit. I see the results now and everyone praises me for what I’ve accomplished, but I exercised daily for over a year without seeing much of a change, and despite that, I kept going. So, this is definitely a high! I’m missing just 25 pounds to weigh what I want, and I’m confident I’ll be there soon.

I appreciate the people who are still part of my life.

I haven’t let go of every friend; I just got better at knowing when a cycle is over without taking it personally. Some people have returned to my life, and some others have left. That’s just part of life, I guess. The only thing I know is that those who remain mean a lot to me, and I’m thankful for them.

I finally learned what I want.

It was December of 2017 when my friend Kate asked me what I wanted after yet another failed suicide attempt. I couldn’t answer her question because I didn’t know; no one had ever asked me that, not even me. I’d always done what others wanted me to, or what I thought others wanted or expected from me. Last year, when I had to answer this question in my journal, I had trouble giving a straight answer. It was easier to identify what I DIDN’T want. That was progress, indeed, but still not enough. This year, I’ve continued to progress. I know what I want! I want to live as if I had already retired without feeling guilty about it. I want to feel proud about my academic accomplishments without feeling that I’m obliged to climb a professional ladder because of them. I want to have time to enjoy my hobbies and to enjoy the simplest things in life, even if I can’t eat out at fancy restaurants or buy fancy things as often as I used to. I want a humble, simplified life. And that’s exactly what I have right now!

I may not be where I thought I wanted to be 10 years ago, but at the time, I didn’t even know what I wanted. I was just acting in autopilot, following other people’s beliefs of what I should want. I’m convinced that 2020 will be an amazing year precisely because I am EXACTLY where I want to be, and if that’s not where others expected me to be, all I can say is that I don’t give a single fuck! :’D

Thank you for everything, 2019!

HAPPY NEW YEAR to everyone, especially to those who read all of this! ♥♥ 

[boccs]

Reviewing my decade and ugh...

The decade kicked off for me with falling into a near catatonic depression that left me in my bed for a solid month.  I was 22 living in the same city where I’d dropped out of college a few years earlier.  Thee months prior to the new decade I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder, the following month my apartment was broken into and everything stolen, and finally in December my mom was diagnosed with cancer.  I was working a soul crushing job in an call center for a phone and internet company where I was actively encouraged to push superfluous services onto people that just wanted to pay their bills or get a problem fixed. Most were retirees on fixed incomes and if I didn’t push shit on them I wouldn’t be paid for shit and also I’d be fired.  I was lonely, I was exhausted, and I was miserable.  For the entire first month of 2010 I was in my bed only getting up to use the bathroom or hoover up a bit of food before sulking again.  

Obviously I got fired.

For three months I was able to hold my own on money I’d saved (despite hating it with a passion, I was good at sales and made plenty while working there) while searching for a new job.  Well.  I say searching but really I wasn’t.  I was still miserable and still unwilling to put myself out there anymore.  Losing my job was enough of a kick to at least make me move out of my room for a while but I couldn’t bring myself to really try at living.  At that point I had to move out which meant moving back home with my parents.  Both of them were really good sports about it and were willing to pretend, for my sake, that my moving home was to help my mom with her cancer treatments and doctors appointments but we all knew better.  I’d failed as an adult and had to come crawling back.

For the next two years I was unemployed.  It was true I was helping my mom with her doctor’s appointments and such and in return they helped me with my bills but even still it was too too easy to fall into debt.  Taking care of my mom was... stressful.  I’d never had a particularly healthy relationship with the woman and trying to help her through a point in her life as scary as cancer and radiation and surgeries didn’t make it any easier for either of us.  A lot of resentment was there, so was a lot of guilt, so was still the love I had for her even if, in hindsight, she was likely responsible for a lot of hardship in my life.  There were a lot of days that were filled with yelling at each other mixed with days of her crying apologies for everything wrong with my life.  It wasn’t fun.

In 2012 I was able to secure a shitty minimum wage job in retail, a huge jump down from what I had been making but still something. I went in for my first day at the end of October.  The next day I found my mom dead on the living room floor.  I helped my dad and older brother organize her wake and cremation.  The following day I went back to work.  I built up a reputation of being very friendly and personable to all of the customers so that was something I guess but I would often truthfully tell them I was faking it.  Say it with a fake enough smile and they think you’re joking.  I worked there for three and half years.  I still live with my dad because at this point the money I make it barely enough to keep my head above water outside of a few rare comforts.  Moving into my own place again is out of the question with my income and my town is so small jobs are essentially retail or food service.

In late 2013 I went to South Korea.  A vacation my dad encouraged because he knew how numb I was becoming to everything around me.  I went to meet a friend of mine I’d known online since 2005.  We’d met up at some anime conventions in the past and cared a lot for each other. Spoke pretty much every day.  I’ll call them A. If I’m honest I loved them, and unfortunately still do, and had ever since I first spoke to them.  A and I met in Seoul (a vacation for them as well) to spend two weeks hanging out and taking in the sights.  A few days into it we had a blow out of a fight and stopped speaking.  I came back to the states and didn’t talk to A again for a year.  I kept working retail.  I kept making no progress in my life.  A moved to Korea and we resumed contact for a while.  When they moved back into the states I flew to LA to help them move home. Six months later we had another blow out.  The silence following that one lasted a year and a half.

In early 2016 I changed my job to working as the night auditor for a hotel in the next town just over the state line.  It was better pay but the travel took a lot of that money.  Working the midnight shift meant I dealt with a lot less people but I also saw my dwindling number of friends less and less.  If I’d felt lonely before I felt isolated now.  Getting to and from work was becoming difficult as it involved a thirty minute drive that mixed travel down back roads with I-95.  I’d gone off road at least twice due to dangerous weather conditions and hitting a deer totaled my front end.  In 2018 I was able to get work at a hotel in town.  In 2019 the mounting isolation from people and frustration with my supervisor lead me to quit.  Like a failure I returned to my retail job.  My old manager and customers were happy to have me back at least.

Around the beginning of 2019 A and I had resumed contact again.  I think mostly because they were unhappy in a relationship they were in and knew I was sad enough to always pick up our friendship again.  This December, a week before christmas, I flew out to LA again to spend time with them.  It was a really good until the very final day when a serious mistake of mine caused another blow out.  We’ve dropped contact again.  I’m honestly not sure if we’ll talk again.  

Midnight has passed here and it’s now 2020.  I’m sitting here, 32 now, as the same unaccomplished lump I’ve been for the entire decade.  I haven’t moved forward.  I haven’t grown.  At this point I don’t think I can anymore. I don’t even know what I hope to get out of writing all of this out in the random flood of thoughts like I have.  I guess I’m hoping all of it might have conceivably meant something but I strongly doubt that it did.  All I’ve got now is to look at the upcoming decade and see if I muck this one up as badly as the last.  Fuck.

[mitchsmarners]

SEMI CHARMED LIFE

summary: “You guys have kept in contact this whole time?” Bill asked, brow disappearing underneath hair line as he looked like his old friends in amazement. “And you guys are.. what? Room mates?”

Eddie avoided looking at Richie as he answered. “Yeah, uh… room mates. Something like that.”

[or: the adult!losers reunion, done 2000s sit-com style, just like we all deserve.]

chapter count: 1/?

Ben Hanscom kicked at the dirt path alongside the Barrens. It was as just as obviously a foot-made path as it had been twelve years earlier, the last time Ben had walked down here. Back then, he had never been walking alone- always flanked with two or more of his friends from youth.

For safety, Ben remembered bitterly. It had been little Eddie Kaspbrak who had made the first statement, that nobody should go into the Barrens alone, after Ben had been attacked that day. They hadn’t even been my friends, Ben thought to himself. He picked at long, overgrown yellowing grass alongside the path. I’d only known Beverly then, but they’d stood by me. Stole supplies for me. Even though it put them higher on Henry Bowers’ shit list.

Henry Bowers… Ben let out a shaky laugh, pressing his hand against the long faded scar on his stomach. It was barely visible now days, over a decade faded in age and dimmed with the loss of his childhood weight. That day, though undoubtably terrible, had been the last day for many years that Ben Hanscom had been able to say he didn’t have any friends.

Those same friends that Ben hadn’t been spoken to near on a decade, people he’d considered to be his soul mates and thought he’d never separate from. They’d graduated high school, moved across the country, and by the time the summer of 1996 rolled around- they didn’t even speak at all.

Until Derry High School had sent out the e-mails, announcing that in the May of 2005 that they would be holding a 10 year reunion for the graduates of 1995. Mike Hanlon had reached out not long after that. Ben had a Facebook, used it for his work, and had looked up his former friends after hearing from Mike. Most of them had not taken the leap to website, but two had.

Richie Tozier, who seemed to embraced his given name of Richard, seemed to only have work friends on his Facebook as well. He’d gone into work with radio, such a Richie job Ben had thought fondly when he’d realized. There was a slight illusion of some sort of serious relationship on Richie’s Facebook, if just from small comments of his own and that of his friends. He didn’t list a relationship status, nor any name of the radio station he worked for. Ben had scrolled through Richie’s page for his entire lunch break and still hadn’t reached the end.

Beverly Marsh had also gone online with Facebook, but had taken a longer time for Ben to find. At some point in the last ten years, Beverly had gone and tied the knot. Her Facebook name now fell under Bev Rogan and was listed as Married to Thomas Rogan. Her privacy settings were much higher than Richie’s- which had easily been non-existent, so Ben hadn’t been able to see any of her personal posts. He supposed that was for the best, if the uncomfortable feeling in his gut at just the thought of Beverly being married had anything to say about it- he wouldn’t have been able to look at Beverly’s happy life.

Ben moved himself up the steep hill, and walked back to his patiently waiting cab. His overly friendly driver grinned up at in the rearview mirror. “Anything interesting down there?” He asked him happily.

“Yeah, yes,” Ben said, voice croaking. “I was just…” An image of bulky thick rimmed glasses, and burning red hair flashed in Ben’s mind. “Just visiting some old ghosts.”  

→  →  →

“Just not too hot!” Eddie Kaspbrak was calling over his shoulder as his husband was attempting to assure him out the front door. “You know not to make it too hot, it’s really important. If it’s too hot, it’ll-“

“Eddie, sweetheart,” Maggie Tozier laughed happily, patting her starting to winkle hand against Eddie’s soft cheek. “I’ve done this once or twice. You don’t have anything to worry about, sweetie. Go see your friends, have good time.”

“Yes, I-” Eddie nodded, feeling Richie’s arm coming to rest around his waist. “I know, I know. But we have a very particular schedule we’ve been working with and if it’s-“

“Okay,” Richie pressed a quick kiss to Eddie’s cheek then grinned at his mother. “We’re going to get going, before we’re late and Eddie says something rude that he doesn’t mean.” Eddie grumbled, but flushed and leaned into his husband’s gentle touch. “Love you, Ma. Thanks so much for doing this. Tell Dad we’ll go out for a drink before we head home.”

Maggie rolled her eyes. “He’s your father. Tell him yourself.” Richie gave a matching eye roll, ushering Eddie out of the door and shutting it behind them.

→  →  →

“Who’s a good boy?” Mike Hanlon cooed as his six month old golden retriever, Henry, jumped up on him with his paws landing in Mike’s awaiting hands. “You are! You’re the goodest boy!”

Mike’s boyfriend, Alexander, padded into the farm house’s kitchen in his flannel house coat with a steaming cup of what could only be coffee in his hand. He grinned at Mike and shook his head. “Don’t say things like that. You’re going to give the other animals a complex.”

Mike beamed. “They can’t hear me from in here.”

“You don’t know that.”

Mike and Alexander had been together going on two years now. Six months earlier, Mike’s father had been diagnosed with Alzheimer Disease, and when Mike had expected to loose out on the best relationship of his life because of the time he’d be (willingly) giving up to care for his father, Alexander had surprised him for the millionth time since Mike had met him. He’d jumped right into the situation, moving his things into the Hanlon’s farmhouse and taking up what Mike felt might be a little more than his shared of responsibilities.

“When are you meeting your friends?” Alexander asked, jumping to sit up on the countertop with his legs dangling.

Mike sighed, scooping his pup into his arms and pressing his face into his fur. “Soon. Really soon. I should get going if I’m going to make into town in time.”

Alexander raised his eyebrows. “Wasn’t this whole get up your idea? Why do you seem so reluctant to actually go?”

Mike walked forward and dropped Henry into his boyfriend’s ready open arms. “I’m not reluctant… I’m definitely excited to see them. It’s just… it’s been a long time, you know? I guess I’m nervous.”

Alexander nodded, scratching behind Henry’s floppy ear. “I don’t think you need to be worried. If even half the things you told me about your old friends are true, you’re going to click back to who you were immediately.”

→  →  →

Beverly Rogan had stepped off the train in Derry and had absolutely no idea what the hell she was doing. The town of Derry hadn’t changed in the decade since she’d turned her away from it and never looked back. Same stores that looked like they hadn’t been renovated since the 1960s, same people on the streets giving her dirty looks- just a little bit older. She hadn’t even come back to this place when her father had died six years earlier, and could barely explain to herself why she was coming back now. It certainly wasn’t to celebrate her days at Derry High School.

She hadn’t been able to explain it to her husband, either. Tom didn’t like surprises, and he very much did not like surprises that including his wife packing up half her belongings and getting on a train. Belongings she was still carrying on with her, which was only drawing more eyes to her. Tom Rogan was a good guy, but as Beverly had learned slowly- not the best husband. He was neglectful and didn’t’ seem to have any idea of how to make a person truly happy. She’d walked out to return to her high school reunion, and didn’t know she if she’d been walking out on her marriage overall.

Beverly stood outside the old Dancing Clown diner, knowing that she was early, knowing that she’d never given Mike a straight answer on whether or not she was coming. Inhaling deeply, she started up to the building and went inside.

→  →  →

Bill Denbrough tripped and nearly fell down the flight of stairs at parents house. He bounced into the living room, trying to stuff his foot into a sock. His twenty-one year old brother barely even looked up from video game and let out a laugh. “Ha. Fucking loser.”

“You’re one to talk,” Bill shot back, licking his lips and frowning to try to keep himself from stuttering. It was never as bad as when he was back in Derry, there were times when he could years without stuttering if he didn’t make a home visit. “When’s the last time you got off that cuh-couch?”

George held up a half eaten Pizza Pocket and shook it in display. Bill made a disgusted noise and looked over at his father, who’d yet to glance up from his book since breakfast that morning. Turning away, Bill grabbed a jacket from rack by the front door and shrugged it on. The air was still crisp in Maine this early in May, he was lucky Audra had thought to bring them. Despite being the native Maine-r, Bill often forgot what life was like living in Maine. It sometimes felt almost like a repression, and everything was burning into his mind that second he crossed into the state like. Never mind once they’d ridden into Derry.

Bill and Audra had spent the better part of the last year in England, sending their belongings to their unlived in New York apartment while themselves and enough things for the weekend made their way to Derry.

“You’re leaving now?” Audra asked, appearing by Bill’s side as he started putting his boots on. He looked up at his girlfriend of three years and smiled at her. “Have fun, I hope your friends are as awesome as you remember them being. When you get back, there’s something I’ve got to talk to you about.”

“No, no no, hey no,” Bill stood up straight and took Audra’s hands into his own. “You can’t pull that on me, baby. You know I’ll be able to do is worry about what you’re going to tell me the whole time. Just tell me now.”

Audra smiled. “You don’t need to worry about it right now.”

“But I will, if you don’t tell me what it is?” Bill said, rubbing his thumbs against the backs of Audra’s hands. “Please just tell me.”

“I’m pregnant.”

→  →  →

“Are you going to go inside?” Patty Blum asked, taping the steering wheel and making her engagement ring flash in the sunlight that cast through the car window.

“Maybe.” Stanley Uris replied, picking at his peeling bottom and staring out at the Dancing Clown diner. “Definitely maybe.”

Patty sighed, part annoyed, part fond and turned off the car. She twisted in her seat and gave her fiancée the stare down. ‘If you didn’t want to come here, why didn’t you say so?”

Stan made a loud and offended noise. “I did say so! I said so very many times actually! You just ignored me, packs our backs for us and told me to stop being dramatic.” Stan crossed his arms and goodness nearly pouted.

Patty rolled her eyes. “You were being dramatic. I’m still not sure what your issue is… why are you so afraid of seeing your old friends?”

Stan pressed his head against the head rest of the seat. “I did some shit that I’m not proud of. My best friend… I… I was so desperate to get away from this place, and I kind of betrayed him.”

“So, you’re not going to go in there because you’re afraid of your high school best friend that you stabbed in the back ten years ago?” Patty chuckled. “If it’s eating you up this badly, I can promise he’s moved on. You’re going to go in there, and you’re talk to him, and you’re going find out all the amazing things he’s done since this stupid betrayal that probably means nothing now. And you’ll tell him yours, and he’ll be happy for you and if he’s not- then fuck him.”

Stan cupped Patty’s cheek and kissed her lightly. “Have I told you yet today that I love you?”

“Mmm once or twice,” Patty said lightly. “But it’s always nice to hear it. Now go get em, baby. Call me if you need somebody to pick you up.”

Stan nodded, slipped out of the car and walked into the old diner. His eyes moved through until it fell onto what had once been the Losers Table and saw an all too familiar looking red head seated. Grinning to himself, he tucked his hands into the back pockets of his jeans and stepped up beside the table. Beverly looked like she walked straight to the diner from however she’d gotten into town, her bags all jammed underneath the table.

“Well, would you look what the cat dragged in?” Stan said in a happy voice that he hoped didn’t sound too forced. Forced or not, Beverly beamed at his greeting and quickly jumped to her feet. Even in high school, Bev had been shorter than Stan and that had been before Stan had hit that oh so rare growth spurt in his freshman year of college.  

“Stanley!” Beverly said cheerfully, squeezing his hips. “Stan the MAN! Look at you! You’ve got to be as tall as Richie now!”

Stan smiled bashfully- his perfect dimple smile, as Patty always called it- and slid into the booth beside her. They both kicked at the luggage under the table, giggling to each other like children. The diner seemed oddly deserted, a place that had been so important to them growing up, now seemed ready to close with a single moment’s notice. The door jingle open and Mike Hanlon, the man breaking into a deep grin the second he caught sight of his friends.

“Stanley Uris and Beverly Marsh,” Mike said in a laugh as Beverly leapt right back up to her feet and rushed at him. Mike patted at the top of her head, smiling softly at Stan from across the diner. “Why am I not surprised that you two beat me to my own event?”

“Why am I not surprised that you’re the only person who lives in Derry and you couldn’t even be the first person here?” Stan shot back dryly, standing as well and clasping Mike on the shoulder. The words seemed to hang in the air for moment, heavy and tense, before Mike simply smiled and they took their seats back around the diner table.

“You stayed in Derry?” Beverly asked, eyes widening as she slipped in to sit beside Mike. There was the distinct sound of three pairs of feet kicking at Beverly’s aggressive amount of luggage while Mike avoided making eye contact with Stan. “I thought you went to NYU with Eddie?”

“I was going to,” Mike said in light voice. “That was the plan but you know how life can be. Things get a little mixed up and then..”  The bell to the door rang out again, stealing the attention from all three former Losers. Bill Denbrough nearly stumbled into the diner, pale and looked dazed, seeming almost as though they’d came in by accident. He dropped into the booth without so much of a greeting, and dropped his hand onto Stanley’s shoulder. Stan crinkled his nose up in repulsion and forced himself to allow that distantly familiar touch.

“How you doin’ honey?” Beverly asked gently, looking between Mike and Stan’s worried gazes.

Bill groaned deeply, pressing his face harder into the crock of Stanley’s neck. “Life is terrible, nothing good happens to anybody and then we all die.”

Stanley coughed awkwardly. “Listen, Bill… I appreciate your struggle, but if you could please…”

“Sit up, man,” Mike said a little sharply and Bill startled upwards. “Oh, shit, Stan, I’m so sorry, I tuh-tuh-totally forgot!”

“It’s fine,” Stan said mildly, waving Bill’s apology off. “Is it really that bad being back in Derry? I know it’s no back packing trip through Europe but…”

Bill barked out a laugh while Beverly shook her head. “What, Stan? Did you keep tabs on us for the last ten years? Should we be worried?”

Stan shook his head. “Not all of you.”

The ringing silence danced over the table before Mike cleared his throat awkwardly. “You mean Richie, right? Stan, I really don’t think that Richie-“

“Don’t think I what?” Richie’s voice called over from where he was ducking into the entrance with an arm tossed around one Eddie Kaspbrak. The entire group of former Losers jumped, Stan feeling his heart leapt into his throat. “You guys all already talking shit about mem before I’m even here to defend myself?”

“Yup,” Beverly agreed, tears starting to well up into her eyes. “You have to know that somethings never change, don’t ya?”

Richie hummed, dropping his arm from Eddie’s shoulder to catch Beverly as she came running for him. Eddie laughed lightly, as Richie spun Bev around and narrowly avoided knocking over several chairs. He slid into Beverly’s seat, greeting Mike with a tight hug and smiling towards Bill and Stan across the table. As Beverly attempted to sit back beside Eddie, Richie slipped in before in and took the spot. Beverly raised her brow as she moved in beside Bill, muttering something under her breath about somethings really don’t change.

Richie gave a over joyous greeting to Mike, his voice sobering up as he glanced across the table towards Bill and Stan. He gave one simple nod, forced a small smile and pushed out one simple: “Lads.”

“Richard.” Stan said back through a dry throat. Eddie reached out and began fiddling with the sugar dispenser, Mike noting the discolour of paler skin on his ring finger and frowning.

“What are we all talking about?” Eddie asked, speaking fast and voice high. Stan almost smiled at the memories of Eddie’s nervous voice, the kind he only used when desperate to talk about anything else.

“Billy here was about to tell us about his backpacking trip in Europe with his movie star girlfriend,” Beverly jumped in, pinching at Bill’s cheeks.

“No fucking shit, Denbrough?” Richie laughed, fingers twitching as though desperate to return to a muscle memory habit but being unable to. “I always knew you were going to do some high living, but fuck, dude.”

“She’s not really a movie star,” Bill said, swaying slightly like he may be sick. “She’s a had a few roles in some B Lists and guest star roles on main broadcast television. She’s no Winona Ryder or anything.”

“Obviously,” Stan and Richie spoke up in unison, voices dancing in harmony. “Nobody could be Winona Ryder except Winona Ryder.”

Another awkward silence settled over the table, Stan biting his lip and looking down at the diner table while Richie looked up at the ceiling as though pissed with himself. Beverly thought she noticed Eddie’s hand slipping underneath the table, but was quickly pulled away from the moment by the diner’s door opening once more.

Ben Hanscom stumbled into the diner, out of breath and with mud stains on his jeans. He ran his fingers through his curlier-than-she-remembered hair as his danced through the diner until they landed on her. She watched the way the muscles in his neck hitched, as though he’d momentarily forgotten how to breathe, and she felt her lungs follow his inabilities for just a moment.

“Here we go,” Richie leaned over and whispered to Eddie, who pursed his lips in an attempt not to laugh. “Haystack! My main man! The biggest dick I’ve ever had the pleasure of seeing! Pull up at a chair!”

Ben’s cheeks turned a deep red, and the rest of the table all burst out laughing as Ben followed through with Richie’s request. “Come on, Rich, we all know you haven’t even seen Ben’s dick.” Bill said with the first genuine smile he’d cracked since he’d gotten there.

Richie gave Bill a dark, deadpan expression. “You don’t know what I’m into.”

“Oh… Kay..” Bill said slowly, frowning to himself while Eddie nudged Richie’s shoulder gently.. “Suh-suh-sorry, I guess?”

Richie shook his head, and forced a quick smile. “It tis no problem, misuser! But as we have all arrived now, why don’t we give a quick run down of a decade! Eds and I here are still out in the big apple-“

“You and Eddie live together?” Beverly cut across him, frowning in confusion. Richie opened his mouth, then snapped it shut before looking towards Eddie. Eddie cleared his throat and smiled.

“After what happened with UCLA, Richie came with me to NYU instead of staying in Derry,” Eddie said with a shrug. “Since Mike wasn’t going to go anymore, we moved into the apartment together and I just we just never… stopped living together.”

“So, You guys have kept in contact this whole time?” Bill asked, brow disappearing underneath hair line as he looked like his old friends in amazement. “And you guys are.. what? Room mates?”

Eddie avoided looking at Richie as he answered. “Yeah, uh… room mates. Something like that.”

Richie slammed his hands down onto the table. “Somebody else talk now!!!”

Ben startled, then cleared his throat. “I uh… I actually live in New York, too.” He said slowly. “I work for the Pennywise Architecture firm. I’m just an intern still, might as well be unpaid but it’s a first step to my dream job so I deal with it.”

“Okay, not to make things kind of weird…” Beverly scratched at the side of her face. “But I actually live in New York, too. My husband got a transfer last spring, better pay and all that fun stuff. I don’t work, but I sell commissions on my art and a little bit clothing design. I might do something with that, I haven’t decided just yet. I think Tom wants to start a family so I’m not really sure just now.”

Richie narrowed his eyes, but Eddie quickly caught across him. “A family is so worth it, Beverly. Trust me, you won’t regret it.”

Beverly smiled blandly, and the conversation slowed until the Bill cleared his throat. “Audra and I actually just bought an apartment in New York. She wuh-wants to do some wuh-work on Broadway and I can wruh-write anywhere, so. We haven’t moved in yet, because we were in Euh-Europe but we’re going straight there after the ruh-reuinon.”

“I…” Stan cleared his throat, a look of concern and discomfort on his face. “I’m actually engaged, Patty she’s… the most amazing person I’ve ever met. She’s still in school, trying to be a high school teacher. She’s… finishing her degree at NYU once the new semester starts. We’re moving out there in like a month from Atlanta.”

Every face turned to look at Mike, who sighed and rubbed at his face. “I applied to some museum job in New York on a whim earlier this year, but I actually got it. I’m not going to go, my dad needs me here and my job is fine but… I told my partner that I’ve turned it down but I actually haven’t yet. I don’t know why I didn’t, I guess part of it just felt wrong.”

“What was it we all used to say back then?” Beverly asked, shaking her head slightly. “When all those weird things happened that we couldn’t explain?”

Ben looked at her and smiled. “Soulmates for the centuries.”  

[thesickpanda]

April has been an expensive and exhausting month

This entry could easily be 10 pages long but I am going to try to break it down into few heavily condensed chapters. Today is the first good pain day I have had in weeks, so I am going to make the most of it and get this stuff out there.

 Lyrica and me:  an inconvenient truth

 Long before I developed fibromyalgia, I had a condition known as myofascial pain syndrome. The syndrome primarily affects my trapezium muscles in my shoulders and neck. I first started getting the spasms when I was around 12 years old. The neurologist I saw diagnosed it as simple growing pains. Because nobody understood what was actually happening to me, it was left largely untreated. When it flared up, I'd go to a physiotherapist for a few weeks and then it would settle down. Whole years could go by without any problems and then it’d flare again and trouble me for months. One particular episode was so severe I had to go to hospital, as the spasm was so bad I could not move my head even a centimetre to either side and had to have it put in a brace. I was finally diagnosed at 23 in my final year of university. After graduating, I moved to Australia. My fibromyalgia was in full swing at this point and both conditions put me through absolute hell. I saw another rheumatologist who diagnosed me with fibromyalgia and put me on Lyrica. I've always said that Lyrica did very little to nothing for my fibromyalgia and I stand by that. As I withdraw from this drug, there is absolutely no difference in my Fibro pain. However, at the time I went on the drug, my neck spasms reduced considerably. I thought, at the time, it was just going dormant again and I didn't think anything of it.

 Turns out the Lyrica was treating the myofascial pain.

 I know this because in the past year, as I have lowered my dosage, the pain in my neck has come back with an absolute vengeance. All the Lyrica did was mask the nerve pain in the fascia while I continued to use my body in a way that was likely exacerbating the underlying condition. Without the pain to warn me that I was damaging myself, my fascia have been getting worse. They’re in an absolute state right now and the full extent of it has been revealed as I’ve come off the drug. I'm still on 75 mg a day so it's likely the pain will get worse as I continue to withdraw across the year. I find myself scrambling to understand a condition that I never got on top of all those years ago, never learned to manage. I have a decade of experience dealing with fibromyalgia and even though I had myofascial pain syndrome for a decade before I was put on the Lyrica, I still have no idea how to treat it.

 For the last three weeks my neck has been in alternating spasms on the right and left side every single day bar two. It is a hot, gnawing pain that starts with a twinge and continues to grow until it feels all consuming. It becomes so tight and restrictive I cannot even hold a book or lift a kettle without antagonizing it. I can't hold a bag, use a computer, I certainly can't scroll on my smart phone and I struggle to do my weights. If I do any of these things while in flare, it can exacerbate what is already a very difficult pain to live with. Spasms last anything from a day to 4 days before they switch sides. I rarely have a reprieve and if it weren't for the medicinal cannabis, I don't think I could sleep in this pain. (The medicinal cannabis does nothing for the Myo pain; it's just a really good sleep aid and knocks me out for 4 to 6 hours a night). In the meantime, my partner and I have been frantically researching the condition. He had to take a week off work just to help me move around the house. Simple tasks have become agonising, like blow drying my hair or washing the dishes. When it gets so stiff I can barely turn it, something as simple as reaching behind me to grab something in the car can flip the pain from the left to the right side of my neck and put me into a second spasm. I have cried myself to sleep in sheer frustration as entire days go by during which I do literally nothing but sit my on my butt, smothered in heat packs, and watch Youtube. I am not a couch potato by nature: I like to do things. But the things I would normally do while my neck is in a state like this, such as hiking and walking in the bush, have also been off-limits to me due to knee and foot problems. It really feels like I’m in one of those booby traps where all the walls closing in around you. I'm desperately pushing back but it feels like a futile struggle.

 Myofascial Pain Syndrome: understanding it and finding treatments

 As I said, it took 10 years to fully understand and manage Fibromyalgia. The idea of having to go on the same journey for myofascial pain syndrome and contend with all the symptoms once more is frankly overwhelming and deeply upsetting. I've had some pretty dark moments the last few weeks, not helped by the lyrica withdrawal itself, of which suicidal ideation is a major symptom. My partner is determined not see me sink into another depression and so he has been doing research on the computer when I can't. He read on lyrica withdrawal forums that the pain often gets really bad during withdrawals and stabilizes sometime after your last tablet, then generally improves with other treatments. One of the recommended treatments is dry needling. I have been receiving acupuncture for years but my acupuncturist is very traditional and puts the needles in the Meridian lines, rather than the trigger points where I really need them. It has proven to be a great treatment for fibromyalgia as really, you can put a needle in anywhere and it would help. But myofascial pain syndrome requires a very targeted approach and so we looked up somebody who knew how to do it. I went to a physiotherapy clinic and had the dry needling, which was not painful in and of itself. I would like to write a whole blog entry about that experience, because it was pretty damn awful for other reasons. After the dry needling the (crappy) physio asked me to demonstrate some of the stretches he’d just shown me. I did one stretch, one that I've done hundreds of thousands of times before, but the room was very cold and I was really stiff after lying down on a uncomfortable table for the better part of an hour. Ironically, this was one of the two days that I actually wasn’t in any neck pain. However, when I performed that stretch for him, I felt that familiar twinge on the left side of my neck and later that evening I was in searing pain. I had gone to physiotherapy only to come back in a worse state than when I started. As I said, I am going to write an entire entry about that particular experience, but let's just say I want to scream at the top of my lungs at the state of commercialized physical therapy in general.

 So, back to the drawing board. While I am not giving up on dry needling as a process, I will need to find a better practitioner who really knows what they're doing and what they're treating. Some research provided two names: one of a highly skilled massage therapist who is trained in myofascial release and trigger point therapy. I have an appointment to see him in the city this Friday. I have also found a clinic run by GPs who have specialised in the musculoskeletal system and in acupuncture, exercise physiology and myofascial release. They do what is called wet needling, in other words an injection of anaesthetic directly into the trigger points. The idea is to settle the pain down in the fascia and then give you exercises to try and maintain that.  When the fascia goes into flare, you go in for another injection. Because myofascial pain syndrome often gives rise to fibromyalgia, (which is the brain incorrectly processing pain signals), it can create a negative feedback loop that needs to be broken by release of the fascia and a cessation of the pain. This is much easier said than done and requires a specialist touch. God knows that opioids have done nothing for it. I'm leaving that clinic as a last resort, however, not because I doubt their methods but because it is so expensive. While we have something of a healthcare system in Australia, many specialist treatments are still very expensive and require a gap fee that mounts up into the thousands after only a few treatments. And we've already spent over half a grand just on orthopedic surgeons and scans. Which brings me to my next chapter…

 Surgeons: having to do deals with the devil

 While I know that surgeons save lives and that some of them are wonderful people, the vast majority I've encountered in my lifetime treat you like a piece of meat to hack at and make a lot of money from. They are the highest paid professionals in Australia, earning between 200 and $400,000 per year. They are allowed to get 100% home loans and many other exemptions unavailable to the rest of Australia’s citizens. They are treated like demigods here; an exclusive boys’ club that makes an awful lot of money out of people’s suffering. In 2017 I was forced to go to one of these well-paid butchers because of a persistent neuroma in my foot. He supposedly cut it out in November 2017 and after a few months of healing, I could walk on that foot without pain. I didn’t get to enjoy the benefits, though, as I struggled with a very sore subluxating patella. I went and saw a physiotherapist and did a hell of a lot of work to strengthen my muscles to pull my misaligned kneecap into place. Needless to say, I didn't get to do much of the hiking and bush walking I’d hoped to do last year because of that problem. At points my knee was so painful I would just weep. The good news is that with a knee brace and a lot of physiotherapy, it is much more manageable now even though I had a bit of a relapse two months ago. The bad news is that the pain in my foot came back in November 2018. And so began a merry-go-round of doctors and ultrasound-guided cortisone injections. I believed the radiologist when he said I had bursitis in all four toes (scans don’t lie, right?). I submitted to more injections, but the pain did not get any better. Eventually I gave up on that route and made an appointment to see a different orthopaedic surgeon instead. The guy was absolutely stunned at the way the surgery had been done. He couldn't understand why my last surgeon went in from the top of the foot and not underneath; he asked if a biopsy had been done to confirm that the nerve was cut out and not an artery ("something that sometimes happens”) and I said no. He asked for my x-rays and MRIs and I told him all I’d had were ultrasounds, which he refused to look at as if they weren’t worth the paper they were were printed on. Frustrated, he sent me off to go and get an MRI and x-ray. I did that on Easter Sunday. Then yesterday, my partner took yet another day off work to drive me to the surgeon so he could check out the results. Long story short, my past surgeon didn't get all of the nerve. Some of them neuroma is still there and all the scarring from the surgery has formed a hard cap on it, exacerbating the pain. The good news is that it won't get any bigger than it currently is. It's not as bad as the original neuroma but it will produce many of the same symptoms. The bad news is that I need to get it cut out if I ever want to regain full function of my foot. (At present, I can only manage 25 minutes a day on grass before it is too hot and angry to continue).

  My friends had to crowd fundraise for me to afford my first surgery which, with consultations and follow-up fees and hospital fees, came to $7000. To be told that all of that was for nothing, because the bloody surgeon had gone in an unusual route and missed some of the nerve, was devastating. I understand that this is not a life-threatening condition and that people have way more major surgeries and complications than this. The best way to describe having all these conditions (fibromyalgia, myofascial pain syndrome, irritable bowel syndrome, generalised anxiety disorder) is that it is death by 1000 cuts. So many small things go wrong that it begins to feel like a really slow but inevitable system failure, even though not one of them is life-threatening. But they are certainly lifestyle threatening, and with a body that doesn't properly function for a myriad of shitty reasons, one begins to feel pretty damn low. As none of it is serious, no one takes you seriously and so you’re not even allowed to show how much you are suffering. Because it could be worse, right? In any case, I pointedly told the surgeon that I was not going to get a surgery this year. My primary focus is to get off the lyrica and treat the myofascial pain syndrome. If I do go back in for surgery, it will be next year. After my last surgery, we increased our private health insurance so this time ‘round it should less expensive. It will still amount around $2000 which we were trying to put towards a trip to Canada to visit dear friends and family. Right now my partner is confident we can manage both if we are careful, but the treatments for the myofascial pain syndrome alone can cost thousands this year and so I am more sceptical. In order to maintain function in everyday life, we have to pour so much money into what sometimes feels a black hole. And we have to sacrifice things that we would much rather be doing, that I see my friends doing… (There’s a reason I am no longer on social media). I have spent most of the best years of my youth in pain struggling to do the basics and that is what my future is going to look like too.

 Isolation: having to say no to so many things

 While I've been lucky to have had my partner home for 10 days out of the last three weeks, he’s gone back to work today and I now have figure out what to do with myself. I have not been able to do my volunteer work for those three weeks. My committee have been doing their best to manage without me, but I'm the leader of the organisation and people look to me as for direction and momentum. I do 90% of the admin work. Without me, everything seems to have ground to a halt. I love my volunteer work but I’ve simply been unable to do it as to use the computer has been brutal. I only checked my email for the first time in weeks today. My online photography club is asking where I've gone because I haven't posted in so long. I've had to cancel seeing friends because I needed to make medical appointments instead. I haven't been able to craft or do any of the things I love. I’ve limited doing computer gaming, a favourite hobby of mine, to only every couple of days for 20 minutes a day. Any more than that and the pain is unbearable. Chronic illness really impacts on your social life, your ability to function, your ability to work and your ability to see any reason to keep going. But I am not giving up. I will keep trying to research these conditions and find answers. That said, I'm absolutely beside myself that I am now having to contend with even more symptoms and more conditions. Every year I have more/new challenges to face, more appointments to make, more unknowns to explore. But I guess I'm just going to have to accept that this is my life now. Every year it's gonna be like this and either I can accept that with a kind of “what will be will be” philosophy, or I can rage against it. I think I will likely alternate between those two states for a long time, but my hope is that one day, I will be able to accept it without giving up hope for finding some solutions.

[fadedtoblue]

Some spoiler-y thoughts on DDS3

I finally got a full night’s of sleep after being awake for about 24 hours lol, so I think I can start communicating like a regular person again. I feel like I still have a lot to process about DDS3 overall, but I thought it might be nice to share a few thoughts while it’s semi-fresh, and maybe later I’ll try to expand on them as need.

Anyway, spoilers below the cut....:)

Overall, this was a wonderful and satisfying season of Daredevil - it felt like they took the things that were notable about S1 and S2 and improved upon them by leaps and bounds. The result was a S3 that was sharply focused and consistently written, plotted like a single focus story (a la S1) while in actuality serving a broad group of equally important characters and intertwining storylines (like S2) - yet I never felt like they lost their grip on the steering wheel. There would be moments in the plot where I’d think, “Wait, are they going to address that plot point / answer that question, etc?” and in the next scene or at least by the next episode, they did. Whoever was in charge of keeping their scripts consistent and not leaving plot holes, extra gold stars to them b/c they did a fucking fantastic job. Kudos to Erik Oleson for coming in with a very clear and intentional plan and executing the shit out of it. 

Here are some things that were notable for me this season:

Matt Murdock. Look, I was pretty worried coming into this that we were getting Dark!Matt and not much else - I love my emo son as much as the next person, but it was hard for me to imagine how we’d get to a positive ending if all we were getting was dark and more dark. And while yes, we did get a lot of dark and emo and raging at God Matt, there were clear and purposeful moments of growth he made throughout the entire series to get from the Matt that washed out of Midland Circle, barely alive, broken and bereft over losing Elektra to the Matt at the end, accepting who he is as DD AND Matt Murdock and ready for whatever the future holds for him and his friends. 

Quick aside for my Mattelektra peeps: I wish he could have actually talked about the events of Midland Circle and better processed the trauma of that and losing Elektra - for the most part, it all gets grouped under ‘general rage at God and life’ during the early episodes and none of the people around him at the time, namely Sister Maggie and Father Lanthom, actually understand what happened with Elektra. BUT we do get shown a bunch of Mattelektra scenes from DD and TD and I realize that the show really didn’t need to do that, so I’m trying to be grateful that we were shown that little glimpse into Matt’s mind right before he comes to. Because it was necessary reminder that part of why he’s broken is not just that he lost some of his senses and abilities, but because he lost Elektra - again.

Thanks for indulging my moment there everyone lol. Anyway, Matt Murdock was A++++ in all scenes and states of clothedness. In conclusion: I still love him. 

Avocado Trio feels. As someone who has always enjoyed this trio, but maybe not as much the individual characters on their own, I am really pleased that they actually got the band back together again, and not only that, I came out of this season with positive vibes for both Karen and Foggy but ESPECIALLY Foggy. Goddamn, Foggy was the fucking MVP. First, he looked damn good this year. The haircut and the suits are working for him. But also, this particular team of writers actually wrote Foggy in a way that feels more true to what I had always wanted from Foggy - someone who was smart, resourceful, caring, and most of all, THERE FOR MATT. I felt like his decade long friendship with Matt finally paid off in his characterization and he wasn’t being pushed off to the side to further someone else’s narrative. My favorite moment was when Karen was ready to throw in the towel, but Foggy talks about how everyone has abandoned Matt and he’s not going to do it too. It warmed the cockles of my cold, cold heart. 

I’m also pretty satisfied with how they finally revealed Karen’s backstory and damn if they didn’t make me feel sad and impressed with her at various points - her phone call with her dad / her dad telling her to leave after Kevin’s death and the 1v1 face off with Kingpin being two such examples. She might not ever be a favorite of mine but she was represented well this season for sure. I’m also grateful that they actually allowed her and Matt to air their shit out in a semi-realistic way. They acknowledged there was a lot of shit and baggage and didn’t just try to rush them to some kind of romantic conclusion. In fact, this season was refreshing in that romance was never a primary plot for any of the characters! There was enough going on with the story that the sort of angsting that kind of plot usually brings would have just been distracting. Any relationships were contained to people who were already in them, like Foggy and Marci, or Kingpin and Vanessa. The focus for these characters was really on rebuilding trust and the overall friendship / family bonds between all three. That was one of my hopes for the season and it delivered :). 

Okay, I’m getting to the point in this post where I’m getting tired with my own babbling LOL, so I’m gonna try to bullet point some more notable moments:

Kingpin - Smart and menacing and I loved the take on him as being this ultimate spymaster. It was really well done and I think once you saw the full breadth of the conspiracy - it was really good. And I guess in this same point I’ll shout out Vanessa - I was SO glad to see her again and dang, she just has a presence on screen that is hard to match. I am looking forward to seeing her as badass Vanessa Fisk - maybe she hires a freelancer named Elektra Natchios as her own personal assassin since Bullseye is gonna have it out for both Fisks?? Would that not be an AMAZING duo?

Dex aka Bullseye. I loved how they established his origin and his psychopathy - it made a lot of sense to me how this inherently broken, mentally ill person could have flown under the radar for as long as he did, and that someone like Fisk would be able to manipulate him to his own ends. Wilson Bethel is easy on the eyes for sure, but I thought he did an amazing job playing a guy who always seemed on the edge of cracking. He played all the shades of Bullseye very well. I’m looking forward to seeing him again as the primary big bad and GIVE ME BULLSEYE v ELEKTRA YOU COWARDS. Speaking of which, that reminds me, I want to point out the Bullseye was literally a diagnosed psychopath who was incapable of showing empathy whereas they kept trying to tell us Elektra was a sociopath but she clearly is not - she definitely had some sociopathic tendencies, which likely developed from her very messed up upbringing and exposure to violence, and when they bring her back, she will probably keep on some of those characteristics b/c of the sort of fighter than she is, but let’s just put it to rest already. And yeah, I want those two to give me a 1v1 fight for the AGES. DD who? 

Sister Maggie. LOOK. I don’t feel like I should have been surprised with any of the stuff that happened with Maggie but everything about it was a HIGHLIGHT. I loved the way Joanne Whalley conveyed the character - every time I saw her and Matt interact, I knew it was gonna be good. When they finally reveal her as Matt’s mom (whew!), I was genuinely moved. When she realizes that Matt has found out her secret and is gone, the way she runs to his bed and completely breaks down at losing her son again? I WAS A BLUBBERING MESS. The forgiveness and acceptance in their reconciliation was something my soul desperately needed and I’m so glad we received. We better see more scenes of the Murdocks together in the future!

Ray Nadeem. Um, who would have thought I'd be so sad to lose Ray by the end of the season! The overall FBI conspiracy felt surprisingly fleshed out and was something I got pretty damn invested in (SO MUCH better than the conspiracy in TPS1). All the shifts and turns and betrayals of this particular storyline could have been very cheesy, but they ended up being working because they were almost character moments first? Because we know Ray and his relationship with Hattley, with Dex, even overall with the FBI, and then of course knowing his home life and his family...every time shit hit the fan, or a personal betrayal occurred, it really hurt. And that we got that super fun escape sequence with Ray and Matt in their civvies and then Ray’s final act of heroism with his dying declaration...RIP Ray. You will be missed. 

God, I haven’t even touched on the non character stuff, like the fights and shit, but I gotta wrap it up now before I bore myself to death :). I’m curious what everyone else thought of the season - feel free to hit me up if you wanna chatter about it!!

[inquisitivewordsmith]

Messy Thoughts on 2018

It’s time to get personal!

I don’t think I’ve had as much mixed thoughts on anything as 2018. On one hand, a lot of exciting and interesting stuff happened in it. On the other hand, some aspects of my personal life took a turn for the worst. 

* So, I started off the year by getting diagnosed with an inflated liver. That was fun. So, I’m supposed to watch what I eat and avoid alcohol entirely. The alcohol thing is weird because I barely drink in the first place, but I also resent having the option taken away from me. 

* My grandma and one of my cousins from Mexico also came over. My grandma visits every few years, but I hadn’t seen my cousin in almost a decade. It was nice having them around, but it was kind of awkward trying to show my cousin around the US, since we live in the middle of nowhere. 

* I had my heart broken. I guess it was a change that someone decided to play me instead of playing myself into thinking I have a chance with people, but....yeah. 

* I went to Mexico! I actually hadn’t been there in almost 10 years. Let me tell you, A LOT has changed. The town I grew up in is more of a city, and the neighbor city grew twice in size while I was gone. I loved seeing my family again and I hated that we only stayed there a week. I got to see one of my two childhood friends again. That was great. Not gonna lie, if it wasn’t for the poor job prospects (people keep telling me my US degree alone would make it easy for me to get any job, but that’s not how it works), I wouldn’t mind living there for a while. My grandma’s house is massive and she would love for someone to keep her company. It was probably the happiest I’ve ever been in a while.  

* Actually, I’ve seen seeing A LOT of people from my past this year. Some are just old high school friends I’d run into, which is expected considering where I live. Others, though, took me by surprise. Besides my childhood friend, I saw the twin sisters I befriended in my last year of high school, some coworkers from a previous job, and I’ve been texting and messaging some people from Iowa State, which I wasn’t expecting to at all. It was a great surprise. 

* At the same time, the project I was working on in the beginning of 2017 ended, so I was let go. The pay wasn’t amazing, but it was consistent, and the work wasn’t too difficult. I was honestly surprised it lasted more than year instead of a few months. I was jobless for pretty much the second half of the year. I had to rely on transcription work, but it wasn’t enough. I took a big hit financially and I was reduced to less than $50 before I finally got a job at the end of the year. This experience made me realize how paying off my loan is holding me back from actually saving a good amount and doing the things I want to do in life. 

* Job hunting was frustrating. Most of it was just rejections. I even applied for retail during the holiday season and....nothing. I did initially get a job as a bilingual costumer representative at a marketing company. It was a bit of a drive and I had to pay toll. I was required to wear businesswear and did some interviews. It was where the twins lived, though I didn’t visit them there. Eventually, I noticed the red flags and the job ended up being door-to-door sales. They used a lot of half-truths to hide the nature of the job. After finding out the company (which wasn’t the actual company in the job entry) had scam complaints against it, I left. It was quite a week. 

* I also lost my health insurance since I aged out of my parent’s coverage. I applied for other health care packages, but I couldn’t afford anything with my transcription payments. I applied for Medicaid, and they rejected me over paperwork I allegedly didn’t turn in (I did). I’ve been calling them over and over, but they always put me on the answering machine. I have a new job now, so I hope the pay is consistent enough to afford health insurance by the next deadline. 

* I got a job just last month. It’s my first time dabbling in professional copywriting. All I’m going to say about it for now is that the pay is decent and it’s nice to actually use my degree for once. 

So, that’s been my year. I’ve probably missed some things, but these are the highlights. I know it gets pretty dour by the end, but I think meeting up with old friends and the Mexico visit made up for a lot of the garbage that happened. For this year, I hope I’m better off financially. I would love to see more friends more often, since it gets pretty lonely now at the new job. Beyond that, I have no idea what to expect. I certainly didn’t expect 2018 to end up the way it did. No matter the good or the bad, at least it wasn’t boring. 

[brainstatic]

I was initially going to skip over this because who the hell cares, but this whole thing is gold. It’s an amazing descent into desperation and self-justification. I have so many thoughts.

Two days after the election, I crumpled over in yoga class, reeling from chest pain. After Googling the symptoms — soreness around my heart, difficulty breathing, numbness in my left arm — I took myself to the emergency room. There I was diagnosed with costochondritis, which sounded (and seemed) like a fancy form of hypochondria, but is in fact a swelling of the cartilage around the sternum brought on by anxiety.

“Anything stressful happening?” the doctor asked.

Was she kidding? Anything stressful? How about this election equaling the end of my personhood as a woman? A shove into cement for all women who’ve experienced sexual abuse? The horror of an inarticulate man with a microphone? Who wasn’t feeling stressed out?  

Alright, so we’ve established she’s aware of the stakes.

Then again, this was Florida, a red state I’d never planned to call home.

Florida is the most famous swing state. Trump won it by 1.2%. 

It mattered little that the dating scene was disastrous; I’d been single for most of the decade since my ex ended our marriage over the phone.

This could have been the end of the article. No one would really need an explanation past this. Nevertheless, it persists.

And just then — yes, while logged in for the purpose of deactivating my profile — came the most intriguing message I’d ever gotten in 10 years of online dating.

Wow, the guy you fell in love with just happens to be the last one to send you a message right before you gave up completely, isn’t it crazy how fate works?

His opening line was, “Nice use of the parenthetical.”

NICE USE OF THE PARENTHETICAL?

This guy Paul not only knew what such a thing was, he’d actually read my profile closely enough to find the parentheses. I had to write this guy back.

I am physically sad.

After a few witty back-and-forths, we moved to text messages. The conversation kept rolling, until he mentioned something about Pinot and pizza.

“Could be a dealbreaker,” I wrote. “I haven’t had a drink since college.”

I’ve learned it’s best to get deal-breakers out of the way immediately. He said it wasn’t, so I asked what was. He wrote:

“Not really sure ... getting shit for not texting/calling every 5 minutes. Trying to make me find Jesus. No physical, emotional, or intellectual attraction. Extremism. Putting toilet paper on the roll backwards. That’s all that comes to mind. You?”

I was already a little bit in love.

This is really a story about how the most boring human beings on earth found each other to be boring with.

Again, I couldn’t end the conversation because he hadn’t said the magic words, “I hate Hillary.” In my book, that’s usually not-so-secret code for, “I hate women.” Then he told me he wasn’t sure he’d have voted for Trump if he’d actually thought he had a chance of winning. That gave me pause.

This is in Florida. He did a joke vote in the state Bush won by 537 votes. One could argue this is as bad as being a sincere Trump supporter. But he’s almost certainly lying.

I desperately did not want to talk about politics — my chest pains had eased considerably since the news drought. And I did want to meet this guy. I’d come to trust myself enough in the dating world to know that if we went out, I’d spot a misogynist quickly. Nothing about him said “classist woman-hating racist,” so what was my objection? Legislation I wasn’t going to talk about?

You’ll remember at the beginning of the article, she was well aware of the stakes. Just a few paragraphs prior, she knew that Trump’s presidency would affect her personally. Now it’s all a bunch of silly tax mumbo jumbo.

Our first date was furniture shopping.

As it was for Nancy O’Dell.

If he was cheap, had bad taste, or was rude to the salespeople, I was ready to bail.

Say what you will about National Socialism, at least it’s an ethos.

We are very different, but Paul has shown me time and again how much he respects and values women

Neil Gorsuch Neil Gorsuch Neil Gorsuch.

My news block did not shield me entirely from world events, or my friends. If I was a person of color, someone with DACA status, or of different sexual preferences, I wouldn’t have the privilege of working through my feelings to reach for Paul across the aisle, and I have no intention of forgetting that.

That’s...startlingly self aware. Alright.

But I’ve seen too many families torn apart because of a lack of willingness to listen and engage, when the fact is that whatever differences surfaced after the election had been there all along.

I’ve seen families torn apart by ICE.

I never would have believed I could’ve fallen in love with someone who voted for Donald Trump, but by learning to put love above all else, the pains in my heart — physical and emotional — have finally disappeared.

The pains will of course come back.

Anyway, this is a story about how anyone can find love, once you realize you’re not getting any younger and maybe it’s time to abandon all your core values because your values aren’t going to stave away the crippling loneliness. Hurray for dating!