#anyway i’ve been severely mentally ill since middle school and looking back it was so obvious i was bipolar by i only got diagnosed recenty | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

momoliee · 3 years

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It’s probably too early for The Meta No One Asked For That I’m Gonna Write Anyway about XQC, alas…here we go

Dr. Xie Qingcheng, 32, male, straight (so far), 180 cm with only one current family member.

Xqc is introduced as a cold, aloof and apathetic retired doctor who has no passions, cares about nothing except for his sister, and unless he’s angry, you can barely get an emotional response out of him.

Through meatbun’s character notes on how he has no favorite food, no favorite color or animal, no personal preferences outside what’s most practical and how he’s very very responsible and rules abiding and honest and sober and serious, and through he yu’s POV that continuously paints him as this heartless cold blooded person, I dare say we were…deceived by this so far shades of gray picture we had of him.

Xqc was born into a finically stable middle class family consisting of two cops for parents and a younger sister that came into the world 8 years after him. When he turned 13, and his sister was only 5 at that time, his parents were fired from their job due to a case they shouldn’t have been investigating going wrong, and they had to move to a rural area. Not long after that, he witnessed both his parents’ deaths and saw their corpses with his own eyes, the site was bloody and there’s no way it didn’t traumatize a pre-teen like him. He then was tasked with taking care of his sister, becoming a doctor despite not wanting to, owing others favors and spending all his money on smth that’s yet to be revealed instead of enjoying it. He got married, not to a woman he loves but to someone whom he thought of as “suitable and appropriate”, got cheated on and went through a divorce before losing full interest in the marriage life. He was finally able to retire (we don’t know why yet) and live a quiet, normal, boring life.

I believe xqc loved his parents, I believe he loved them so much cause in chapter 20, he mentions how he thought he wouldnt be able to live past the grief, he wouldn’t be able to go on or move forward, how the grief completely overtook him. He also mentions how he used to play with knots and handcuffs when he was a child, which shows how close he was to them. So for a child who had a good stable life with two loving parents to suddenly fall from a class to a class, suddenly lose both parents and see their corpses with his own eyes, that must’ve fucked him up big time. I’m talking “when can I fully register all of this” kind of fucked up. But he didn’t have time to fully absorb all of this, didnt have the time to sit down and cry, he had a sister, she was only 5, where will they get the money from? What were they gonna do? How was he going to continue school while caring for her? He didn’t have the time to sit down and grief, to sit down and adjust. For a child who had a normal life and didn’t have to worry much about the money like every other middle class kid, he was suddenly burdened with poverty AND loss, and duty and responsibility. Good bye to the days of playing with handcuffs and knots huh?

You ask me, why does xqc not have a favorite food? I answer you, because many many nights, he didn’t know what to feed his sister, much less himself. Cause I bet that many nights, he would have to give up his portion for Xie Xue, to make sure a kid like her is full. Cause he couldn’t afford to be picky, couldn’t afford to choose; whatever was edible will be eaten, taste and flavor be damned. He had to start working from a young age, balance school, babysitting and working all at once. The last friend he made (I think) was that Chen Man guy whose parents were friends with his parents, back when they were alive and life was good. He didn’t have time to make friends, or go out, or have a favorite color or visit the zoo and decide on a favorite animal. No, he had to study, and study hard to become more financially stable and support Xie Xue, he had to raise his baby sister and protect her, he had to work or else how will he put food on their table? Yet he never lost his soft kind heart, cause when his sister asked for a laptop, he bought her one just so that she wouldn’t feel less than any of the other children.

Xqc had to SURVIVE, he had to make do with what he had and what he didn’t have. He didn’t have time to sit down and cry or process his trauma, didn’t even have time to think of adolescent love or his youthful days or do what kids his age did. And all of that carried forward into his adult life. He pushed his emotions back so hard and had his practical, business like mind take care of everything in order to make it through the days. He started to believe that passionate emotions such as love and hate and lust and desire were all a waste of time, a distraction from his duties, smth that will rock the delicate balance he created with his everyday busy schedule. Emotions will stunt you, emotions will delay you, crying and not going to work today means no food to feed his hungry sister with. That’s when he started thinking, strong emotions are a DISEASE, they will take up your time, cloud your judgement, have you make reckless decisions that you’ll regret later. And he couldn’t afford any of that right? Strong emotions are for the weak, they put you in crutches and disable you from moving forward. Wasnt that what he told his ex wife? If he had submitted himself to his grief back then, where would his sister be? Where would he be? How could they have grown up to be healthy and successful adults?

So this man taught himself practicality and duty and priorities. He stopped thinking about himself, about what he wants and what he feels, and instead started making sure that those around him are happy and content and safe and well taken care of. He no longer had desires or passions, he only had rules and regulations. If a person lost their sense of taste, would they still want chocolates and burgers? Would they still have cravings and foods they’d rather swallow medicine than eat? No. If so, how will they decide on what to eat every day? They’ll simply start following a “perfect nutritional plan” and “balanced diet”. They’d eat what they have to eat, when they have to eat, and in the exact portion they need. To them eating would be another chore they have to do every day to keep their bodies going. Similarly, with xqc, graduating, working, marrying, taking care of his sister and auntie, these all became “tasks” and “chores” that he had to abide by and follow. They became the dietary plan for his life till he dies, the outline he shall follow, the textbook rules he will carry out, no need to think of what he “wants” or “desires”, what will make him “happy” or bring him “joy”. He no longer listened to his emotions when making decisions. Even when marrying his ex wife, he married her cause she was “a suitable match”, not for her looks or personality or anything. Feelings are life’s taste buds, and once you remove them, everything becomes tasteless and mundane, and practicality/logic takes over. He stopped knowing what it felt like to choose based on your preferences, cause he stopped having the luxury of choice ever since that night when he was 13, and he no longer was able to re-teach himself the meaning of free will and choice.

So when he yu, in chapter 20, asked him how he would’ve acted if Xie Xue had died, and he said, “I would’ve continued living as I am today till my last breath,” he wasn’t being “cold” or “heartless” or “indifferent” as he yu likes to say. He was being practical and methodical and thinking with a logical approach, rather than an emotional one, just the way he taught himself to throughout all these years. His almost 2 decades of pure survival mode and severely repressed feelings spoke in the form of autopilot. “I would do what I have to do, what I’ve always done every day of my life so far cause what choice do I have?” Is what he meant to say.

But I believe that he’s a soft hearted, kind and loving person. He never says no his sister, never says no to his auntie, helped that homeless man as best as he could, taught he yu that he was normal and that he wasn’t a monster, believed in treating his patients with words instead of medicine prescriptions, believed that the mentally ill deserve to live normally instead of being locked up. I believe that underneath all the shit he has buried, there’s a lot of passion and love that’s been kept dormant for 19 years.

In conclusion, idk where meatbun is gonna take his character but I genuinely hope he gets to heal, and start having more color and flavor in his life. Start allowing himself to live, not just survive.

#case file compendium #xie qingcheng #bing an ben #meatbun doesn’t eat meat #cfc #bab #meatbun

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yellowocaballero · 3 years

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Not Your Queer-Coded Disney Villain: Annabelle & Web!Jon Ficlet

Got bored again today and forced myself to write something that wasn’t gratuitously long. Set in the same universe (or, one of the universes) as The Convention on Chronographer Lane, but it’s completely unnecessary to have read that one before this.

Content warning for (apparent and fake) predation of a student by a teacher, body horror, and spiders. REVERSE content warning for A PSYCH 101 LECTURE WRITTEN BY SOMEONE WHO WAS A TA FOR PSYCH 101. ACCURATE SCIENCE, BITCHES.

“What am I turning into?” Annabelle asked, after a half-second of rapid thought. “Who are you? And what do spiders have to do with any of this?”

Jon smiled again broadly, grey eyes dancing with a barely hidden delight. “You’re fully aware that these are all the same question.”

“Then answer them. You said you’re here to help me. Then help me.” Annabelle narrowed her eyes. “We’ll negotiate a price later.”

“This one is a freebie,” Jon said. He leaned back, face fading into the shadow of the dim yellow light of the hanging light. “You’re turning into something much akin to myself.”

In the darkness, Annabelle saw Jon open his eyes. And his eyes. And his eyes. And his eyes…

Annabelle was sleeping through Psych again.

In her defense, she was really tired. The nightmares had been getting worse every day, and yesterday she hadn’t gotten more than forty minutes of sleep without jolting up in the middle of the night. She had flipped on the light five times during the night, hysterically convinced that bugs were crawling over her and earning the eternal ire of her roommate. Whatever - Irene would forgive her once she bought her an iced coffee from that campus shop she liked. If Annabelle gave it to her later at night, she’d stay up later and would be less likely to bitch when Annabelle inevitably made a stink at three am again.

It didn’t matter. Psych was tediously easy anyway. Not that everything wasn’t tedious, but there were few things more boring than listening to the drone of Mr. Sims’ voice. She had no idea how that guy had a fanclub. Emmanuela Odugawa had asked her if she thought that he recited Piaget’s developmental stages in bed. Barf.

Thankfully, Annabelle had mastered the art of sleeping with her eyes open in class and barely aware enough to recognize when somebody called her name a decade ago, and she ruthlessly used this skill now. She dropped into a half-doze, and was only startled into awareness when she heard the word that had been running in a nonstop track loop through her mind for the past month.

“Phobia: an extreme or irrational fear or aversion to something.” Mr. Sims adjusted his glasses, pressing a button on his laptop that advanced the slides. “It’s an interesting definition, in my opinion. Like many things in Psychology, it is almost infuriatingly vague. How do you define ‘extreme’? How do you define ‘irrational’? Oftentimes, that label is determined by society, science, and our therapists. However, I believe you can argue that phobias are the most rational thing of all.”

Annabelle rubbed her arms, suddenly cold. These auditorium classrooms were always freezing.

“The concept of aversion is heavily rooted in evolution and biology. Anyone here ever eat any bad shrimp?” He didn’t wait for a response. “The smell of seafood probably made you sick for weeks afterwards. Our bodies are primed to detect poison, just as they are to detect danger. Phobias rooted in modern, abstract concepts - clowns, elevators, airplanes - are easy to extinguish. But phobias rooted in real, present, perpetual dangers, the sort of dangers that threatened the lives of cavemen, are far more difficult to ignore.”

Despite herself, Annabelle found herself awake. She found herself listening.

“Snakes. Heights. The Dark. Dogs, bears, large animals. Storms, driving, insects.” Mr. Sims’ looked up at the auditorium, and Annabelle could have sworn that he was looking right at her, he was looking at her. Annabelle’s breath caught, her heart thumping in her chest - a little differently than it used to. “Spiders.”

A horrible clicking echoed in Annabell’s ears. She was afraid that it was her.

Then he looked away, and the spell was broken. “Phobias are one of the most powerful and motivational forces in human evolution. Like mental illnesses, pack bonds, and emotional needs, the perceived weaknesses of the human mind can frequently be some of the most powerful forces that allow the survival of the human species. It isn’t a bug, it’s a feature. I find that a useful way to think of humanity, and of ourselves: that our weaknesses can make us very strong indeed. Next slide…”

If Mr. Sims said anything after that, Annabelle didn’t hear it.

She didn’t pay any attention to anything he said until the end of class, when she shrugged on her cute little silver backpack and merged into the stream of students filtering out of the classroom. A few students had stayed behind to talk to Mr. Sims, and he appeared wrapped in conversation with the giggling girls, but somehow he picked her out of the thick crowd.

“Annabelle?” Mr. Sims asked. “Stay after, please.”

So she leaned against the long sweep of desks, left with nothing to do but squint at Mr. Sims as he spoke with another student about the requirements for the upcoming paper, wondering why he looked so familiar.

All of the other students had assumed he was in his late twenties - “total DILF”, they all inanely assured her - but Annabelle wasn’t so sure. Despite the already graying hair, small glasses, and severe expression, she really wouldn’t put him any older than 23.

Maybe his greying temples were hair dye. Or stress did that to you, right? Annabelle squinted. But when Annabelle looked closer, if she really focused, then she really wasn’t sure it was his hair color at all.

So she looked closer. Her eyes had been itching for the past week. She had caught her skin flaking and peeling, and instead of pink raw skin underneath there was hard and scratchy black necrosis. Her eyes itched now, as if they were striving to split apart, and if Annabelle only let them then they would burst. And as her eyes itched in a horrible, visceral pain, she thought that maybe the white at Mr. Sims’ temples was the thin, sticky webs of spider-silk.

“Annabelle? Are you alright?”

She snapped back to attention, fairly embarrassed. She had been zoning out more in the past month than she had her entire life. Her older siblings had said that college would be rough, but she hadn’t known it would be this rough. This wasn’t like her. None of this was like her.

“I’m great,” Annabelle said reflexively. All of the other students were gone, and Mr. Sims was staring at her over his glasses. “Sorry. Is this about my test…?”

“No. You did quite well on your test. Best in the class, actually.” Mr. Sims smiled at her, as if this was a compliment or important. “Is that why you’ve been so bored in class?”

Ah. Busted. A rare thing for Annabelle. She affected a faux-abashed posture and expression. “Sorry, Mr. Sims. I’ve been staying up ‘til two every morning trying to get my homework done on time. If I’m ever going to go to med school…”

“I thought you were a poli sci major,” Mr. Sims said cheerfully. Annabelle fought a shudder - how did he know so much about her? This class had 200 students.

“Double major,” Annabelle said blithely. “I’m sorry about sleeping in class, I’ll manage my time better. It won’t happen again.”

“Yes, yes.” Mr. Sims waved her apology away, as if that wasn’t what he had been looking for. Then what had he been looking for? “I’m afraid I had somewhat of an ulterior motive for speaking to you today.” He leaned in a little, pulling his glasses down, and his foggy grey eyes - same color as the grey at his temples - focused solely on her. Annabelle made her eyes bigger, and she leaned in too, adjusting her posture so she looked smaller. “You’ve been doing very well in class. I actually wanted to invite you to a meeting. About...oh, your potential for med school. I’m excited to see you succeed. I think you could do quite well in whatever field you choose, and I’d like to help. It would be just us, of course.”

Ding ding ding. Annabelle affected a giggle. “I could totally use the help! Like, in your office? Or, like...lunch, or…?”

“I was thinking dinner, actually,” Mr. Sims smiled. “How’s Bombay Bicycle Club?”

Restaurant and bar, with a casual yet dignified atmosphere. Not formal enough to put up anybody’s guard, but nice enough that a freshman girl could feel treated and be impressed. Most importantly, it was popular among the businessman crowd and almost nobody on campus visited it. Annabelle used it herself to meet up with her sugar daddies all the time.

For a brief, strange moment, Annabelle felt as if he did - but of course he didn’t. But it wasn’t impossible. But if he knew, then why wasn’t he blackmailing her? Was the blackmail for later, once he got her alone? This was probably a power play, getting her off balance by insinuating that he knows but not being explicit about it. He’d probably pull out the blackmail, ‘I’ll ruin your reputation you slut etc’, once they actually got there. Not that he could - Annabelle had contingency plans - but she would have to be careful to actually record him propositioning her anyway. Worst case scenario they had a MAD situation, best case she could squeeze him. Probably not for very much money, since grad students were poor as dirt, and she didn’t exactly need him to boost her grades...get him to slip her the test key and sell the test key? That could work. She could probably get him to strategically cut grades, which was a service that Annabelle could probably sell to students with a grudge…

But then Mr. Sims smiled at her, as if he knew what she was thinking, and Annabelle realized that she had been silent too long. She wanted to come off as panicked, maybe desperate, definitely flattered.

“Sure!” Annabelle said, barely having to feign the anxious creak in her voice. “What time? I have night classes, so…”

“Next Friday at six,” Mr. Sims said instantly. “I’m looking forward to it.”

“Me too.” Annabelle affected Smile #35 - shy virgin. Mr. Sims’ grin widened. Annabelle silently put aside the ‘Catholic schoolgirl’ outfit for Friday. “See you then!”

She turned around, gave him a shy smile, and bounced off. She had just opened the heavy door out of the room when she heard him speak again, freezing her in her tracks.

“Oh, Annabelle - how is the study with Dr. Bates going?”

And his question panicked her so much, made her heart change rhythm and made her skin itch as if something was straining to come out of it, made her eyes itch and crawl and burst, that every calculated move went out the window. She didn’t answer his question, didn’t even give an excuse - she just ran out the door, bright purple vintage boots thumping against the linoleum, breath catching in a chest where she was no longer sure she even had ribs.

Most of her was already calculating. She was already two months into uni, she had to start establishing her power base. The minute her sorority accepted her she’d have greater access to money, popularity, and influence, but she needed reach with the administration too. Mr. Sims was her in. This was a good thing.

But part of her was disappointed, because she had liked him, and she felt a little used. Feelings of disgust, as strong and vivid as in her nightmares, rose in her chest. She squished far down in her chest, familiar with the feeling and effortlessly repressing it.

Annabelle was good with disgusting things.

She had another session with the Arachnophobia study on Monday. Which went fine. It was fine! She didn’t wake up that morning so sick with nerves that she almost threw up. She didn’t stare at her email inbox for thirty minutes, begging herself to cancel and drop out of the study. Nope.

She distracted herself by befriending all of her roommate’s friends and dropping faux-concerned gossip about how cranky and anxious Irene’s been lately, have you noticed she’s been blaming me for how badly she’s sleeping? It was really super sad, frowny face, how do you think I can help, frowny face frowny face frowny face?

So Annabelle went to the Arachnophobia study (it was fine), had increasingly realistic and vivid nightmares about her chest caving in and a nest of spiders crawling out of her chest and eating her eyes, and slept through class. It was all fine.

She should have gone to Oxford. It still made her a little bitter. She had been smart enough to get in, but she hadn’t been smart enough to get the full scholarship. She couldn’t afford it, so instead she was stuck in University of Surrey, where dreams went to die. Future politicians should go to Oxford. Yeah, Surrey had some peers and Parliament members, whatever. She needed better, Oxford and awards and money. From there, from some swotty school or another, it was easy street. Annabelle deserved easy street, and she deserved Oxford, and it just wasn’t fair -

After another three am nightmare, Annabelle blearily scrolled through her sibling groupchat. Barney was doing great in med school. Tricia had posted her maternity photos. Wow, look at that, Robin had gotten a commendation at his law firm. Whatever.

No hope of distinguishing herself in the world. No hope of distinguishing herself in her stupid family. She was smarter than any of her siblings, brighter and better than those doctors and lawyers and accountants, but nobody cared. Mum and Dad were living their retirement in comfort and cooing over their grandchildren, finally rewarded in old age for all their hard work.

If Annabelle dropped off the face of the earth, nobody would even notice.

It should have been a depressing thought. The idea that nobody cared about her, not really, that nobody knew the real her. But somehow it just made her heart beat faster in excitement.

The idea of disappearing from all of this, of cutting herself free from a thousand threads that brought her plummeting down to earth...in the cold hours of that dark morning, to an eighteen year old terrified and alone in uni, it was a siren song.

It was a siren song that sounded, oddly, like the chittering and scuttling of a thousand tiny bodies, but Annabelle was learning to look beyond that.

By the time next Friday rolled around, Annabelle was considering breaking her self-imposed rule against drugs and popping a Xanax. But that wouldn’t help her exhaustion, the persistent bone-deep frazzled sensation of going a week on almost no sleep whatsoever, so she settled for an espresso as she wriggled herself into a tight, slinky plaid dress paired with a puffy olive green windbreaker. She wasn’t sure if she owned any clothing that was made after 1990 - a habit born from a childhood of shopping from thirst stores, and continued voluntarily into high school when she started making her own money online fleecing suckers. It was her, so much as anything was.

“Hot date?” Irene asked, bending over her Physics textbook without looking up. She glanced at her vibrating phone, scowling. Poor baby - her friends were staging an intervention. “New guy or old guy?”

“New guy,” Annabelle said vaguely, carefully picking out a bold red lipstick - or did that seem too forward? Should she go for a natural look? “If I’m not back by midnight call the police. I’ll text you a picture of his car.”

“Roger.” Irene flipped a page of her textbook, oblivious to the fact that she was one of the few people Annabelle genuinely liked. Not enough not to screw with her, but she liked her. “He’s not good enough for you, something something.”

“Darling,” Annabelle said, winking into the mirror, “nobody is.”

She hoped Irene believed it. She didn’t.

It wasn’t a frequent occurrence that Annabelle wished she was stupid, but today she wished she was stupid enough to take a power nap during her ten minute Uber ride. Her mind felt frazzled and frayed, as if it had been taken out of her scalp and spread out with a rolling pin onto a floured countertop. She felt as if she was melting, her vision spiralling into fractals or blurring out. She wanted to sleep. God, she’d do anything for some sleep -

So she blared Bad Romance in her frayed earbuds instead, clutching her iPod Touch tightly, pulling herself together. Gaga, give her strength.

By the time that she tipped her driver, effortlessly found Mr. Sims’ car in the parking lot of Bombay Bicycle Club and texted Irene the license plate (Volkswagen, obviously), she had dragged herself into focus. She stapled on her confident posture and walk - no, we’re going with ingenue today, make it shy and hesitant - and slipped inside the restaurant, making a show of holding her clutch tight to her chest and looking around with big eyes.

She saw him instantly. He was sitting in a corner booth, head down and texting on his phone with a half-smile. The corner booth was poorly lit, light dampened by the wood panelling and soft leather seats, and half of his face was draped in shadow.

Great. She had even arrived ten minutes early just so she could pick a brightly lit, intimate little table in the center of the room. This guy - he was almost like her. He was almost like her, but he was better.

Annabelle fought the urge to grind her teeth. She smiled instead, waving cheerfully until he raised his head. He smiled back at her, wriggling his fingers, and Annabelle wove around the tables until she could slide into the seat across from him.

“This is cozy!” She said brightly. “Thank you so much for inviting me out, Mr. Sims. It’s been ages since I got away from my books -”

“Oh, cut that shit out,” Mr. Sims said, bored. “I’m not going to sleep with you.”

Annabelle’s mind shut down. Error 404, blue screen of death.

“I’m sorry,” she said pleasantly, smile frozen on her face. “What?”

But Mr. Sims just shrugged listlessly, slumping against the cushioned wall. His expression was no longer fond, indulgent, haughty. He just looked bored now, as if he was too tired and underpaid to deal with eighteen year olds. “I don’t want to sit through this entire dinner fending off flirting. We have actual business to talk about, and I am uninterested in beating around the bush when there’s no point. You aren’t even subtle.”

“Excuse me -” Annabelle started, enraged, but Mr. Sims put up a hand and cut her off.

The change was instant. On a dime, Mr. Sims straightened his posture, swept a finger through his hair to transform it from slicked back professor type to windswept, adopted a friendly and casual expression, and leaned in as if he was happy and excited to be sitting with Annabelle. In a moment he dropped ten years. Barely a second after his transformation the waiter approached them, holding a notepad, and Annabelle realized with a start that he had noticed the waiter coming before she did.

“How are you two doing tonight?” the waiter asked politely, smiling at the both of them in a rote routine that Annabelle remembered from her own days waitressing.

“Doing great!” Mr. Sims said, and even his accent was different, closely matching her own. He glanced back at Annabelle, nothing but open and friendly. “Mum says get whatever you want, dork. It’s on her bill, so let’s run her out of house and home.”

Instinctually, Annabelle shot back, “Aren’t you old enough to take me out to eat with your own money, loser?”

“Not with your stomach!” Mr. Sims laughed, and the waiter chuckled along too. Mr. Sims effortlessly rapped out an order for the waiter, before Annabelle even got a chance to look at the menu, and when she floundered Mr. Sims just rolled his eyes and ordered for her too. It was, somehow, her favorite food.

He waited for the waiter to move onto the next table, eyeing him carefully, before he let the persona drop. Mr. Sims sagged again, dropping the friendly act, sizing her up from half-lidded eyes.

“How did he even believe that,” Annabelle said flatly. “We don’t look anything alike.”

“White people will believe anything,” Mr. Sims said, rolling his eyes. “I have the Belgian government convinced I’m an Iraqi scientist and most high profile Australian celebrities think I’m Egyptian royalty.”

“...does Egypt have -”

“Nope.”

Annabelle was beginning to feel a little like the star actress in the school play who got upstaged in every way by the villain’s performance. Nobody did what she did. Nobody did what she did, but better.

“Don’t feel insecure,” Mr. Sims said, as if he could read her mind. “I’m a good actor, and I’m excellent at reading people. But I can’t plan or plot like you do. I’m shit at thinking three steps ahead, much less thirty. You can keep plots and schemes going for years - decades, even, if I were to guess. I’m not sure how someone as competent as you can have self-esteem issues.”

Annabelle bristled. “You try having nobody care about you for - how do you even know that shit about me?” Something terrible occurred to her. “Are you some kind of stalker, Mr. Sims?”

Mr. Sims shuddered in real disgust. “It’s Jon. And no, of course not. You just aren’t as subtle as you think you are.”

Yes, she was. She was subtle to everyone on the planet - everyone save, maybe, Jon. Annabelle narrowed her eyes. “What do you want?”

“Absolutely nothing,” Jon said immediately.

“Liar. Everybody wants something.”

“I’m here altruistically,” Jon said, the perfect picture of innocence. “Really. I’m here to help you, Annabelle.”

“You are stalking me.” Annabelle leaned forward, but Sims didn’t move. “Are you even a real graduate student?”

“Absolutely not. I’m twenty three, I got my Psych degree last year and I’ve been bouncing odd jobs since.” Jon shrugged, as Annabelle felt silently vindicated. Nothing about this man acted like a twenty three year old - she remembered her siblings at twenty-three, there was nothing adult about them - but it was probably just another persona. She wondered how far she’d have to scratch to get to the real Jon Sims.

“So you were just at Surrey to spy on me,” Annabelle said slowly. “I don’t know what country you’re from, but in England that’s definitely stalking.”

“I’d call it scouting,” Jon said. The waiter dropped by to place their drinks on the table - Jon had gotten a mule for himself, and he had ordered water for Annabelle in a move uncharacteristic for a sketchy guy. He waited until the waiter left to continue. “Call me a recruiter.”

“For who? What kind of job recruiter teaches a class for two months just to get to me?”

“How’s your study with Dr. Blake going, Annabelle?” Jon said, almost randomly, and Annabelle shut up. He must have seen something in her eyes, because a sharp little grin stretched in the corner of his narrow and sharp face. “Thought so. What do you dream of, Annabelle? In the cold corners of night, what fears come to life in the dark recesses of your mind?”

Maybe, Annabelle thought inanely, this was a dream too. Just an extended nightmare, one she hadn’t woken up from. It felt like that: distant and strange, hyper-real and unreal. This strange man sitting in front of her, who swapped faces so easily even Annabelle couldn’t keep up, was far too out of place to truly exist.

Or maybe he was the first real person she had met in a very long time.

Jon continued talking, as if she had responded. Maybe she had. “I am not a hero in this story. If I was, I would have come earlier. I would have deleted your name from the pool of subjects, and I would have made it so that you never got that call.” Jon looked away from her for the first time, letting a little sadness show on his face. “I couldn’t. No - no, I could have, I simply chose not to. You’re important, Annabelle. And I didn’t want to rob you of something that you may grow to treasure. I’m afraid that the choice you make now may not be much of a choice at all - but, perhaps, there is still a chance. At the very least, I would like to make this transition a little easier for you. It is a terrible thing, to have to do it alone.”

That…

“That was so vague it was completely meaningless.”

Jon barked a laugh, strangely delighted. “It’s not fair to speak in circles to somebody who’s gone a week without sleep!”

“But you’re doing it on purpose,” Annabelle said, too dead inside to feel mad.

“Oh, absolutely. I am not taking the risk of taking you on at full power.” Jon smiled at her, as if they were friends sharing a joke. “I saw what you did to that Walker boy in secondary.”

Despite herself, Annabelle smiled. “Hear he gets out on parole in five.” Something else occurred to her, a bit belatedly. “You are stalking me!”

“Does a spider stalk the fly that strikes a string on its web?” Jon asked cheerfully. “Or is it simply investigating an encroachment into its territory?”

“Does that mean that you’re going to eat me?” Annabelle said archly. “Thought you said you didn’t want to fuck me. Rude, by the way.”

Almost hilariously, Jon wrinkled his nose. “Sex is a waste of time, resources, and my attention. Can’t imagine why people are so obsessed.”

“I know, right!” Annabelle burst out, before she could help herself. “Do you have any idea how much money I get a month from guys just to talk to me? It’s like they’re aliens! Why do people fuck or date if it’s not to manipulate someone?”

“Right! It’s ridiculous.”

It was the first time anybody had ever agreed with her on that. It was the first time she had even told anybody she felt that way. For a brief second, Annabelle felt connected to Jon. It was the first time that happened in...a very long time.

Jon was the first person Annabelle had ever met who was like her. Everybody in Annabelle’s life had always been either useful or useless. Jon seemed above that, somehow. To be beyond utility, to exist on your own power...what did that look like? To be the powerful, instead of the powerless?

No matter how hard she tried, no matter how many puppet strings Annabelle tied around her fingers, she was never powerful. Not really. She was eighteen, from a nothing family, and no matter how many molehills she made herself queen of she would never rule the mountain. She couldn’t get as far as she wanted with what she had. The only reason she had even volunteered for the stupid Arachnophobia experiment was because she needed to crush out weakness in herself, erase the hidden flaws in her mind.

But Jon said her flaws were strengths. What made her weak could be turned into power.

Annabelle needed more, more, more. She needed everything, if she was to have anything. She needed what Jon had.

Everything Annabelle said had a purpose. Every word she used was chosen carefully, every little gesture or body language was calculated. She said nothing without thinking, and she could do it so quickly nobody even noticed. Jon would notice, a con man as perfect as she was.

Let him. Give her two straight days to sleep, and they’d have a real battle of wits. In the meantime, she just had to pick her questions strategically.

“What am I turning into?” Annabelle asked, after a half-second of rapid thought. “Who are you? And what do spiders have to do with any of this?”

Jon smiled again broadly, grey eyes dancing with a barely hidden delight. “You’re fully aware that these are all the same question.”

“Then answer them. You said you’re here to help me. Then help me.” Annabelle narrowed her eyes. “We’ll negotiate a price later.”

“This one is a freebie,” Jon said. He leaned back, face fading into the shadow of the dim yellow light of the hanging light. “You’re turning into something much akin to myself.”

In the darkness, Annabelle saw Jon open his eyes. And his eyes. And his eyes…

All eight of Jon’s glittering black eyes shone in the darkness, straining her own and making her head thump. It was wrong, outside of humanity or reality, and it felt as if the very sight was straining the fabric of her delicately maintained life so tight it would tear. It felt as if it was tearing her, right in two, ruining her forever. Her eyes felt like they were going to burst out of her head.

She didn’t want to know what would replace them. But she had the feeling that she already did.

“Then what,” Annabelle gritted out, “are you?”

“I am the eldest and most treasured Son of the Mother of Spiders,” Jon said. He smiled at her, just a little, almost apologetic. “Sorry about that. I know you’ve always wanted to be an only child.”

Ah. Duh. Obviously. She should have known.

“...do I want to know who the Mother of Spiders is?”

“Your mother, should you choose to accept her,” Jon said cheerfully, leaning back into the light, and his face was normal again. Human as ever. Strange and foreign as ever - possibly everything, possibly nothing. “I know you aren’t strictly in the market for adoption, but you may not have much of a choice. You’ve felt her scratching beneath her skin. She’s going to tear out of you, and soon. Did you know some species of wasp lay their eggs in the body of spiders to provide food for the grubs?”

“During the next experiment,” Annabelle said dully, already filtering out Jon’s useless tidbits of information. That was a guy who spoke for the sake of hearing himself talk. “That’s when it’s happening. When I’ll...change.”

“Yes. It’s a painful process,” Jon said, and it was almost apologetic. “My own happened when I was fifteen - quite young, all things considered. I still remember the sound of my bones snapping as -”

“Don’t.”

“Of course! Anyway, I thought I’d make sure you had...to use the psych term, informed consent, before you entered the crucible. Our - my, sorry - Mother often foregoes true consent in our operations. The beauty of nature!” Jon laughed, as Annabelle felt sick. “Agnes wanted to put together a pamphlet, but then we let Gerry go wild on the clipart and...well, it’s better if I just explain. I can’t give you the full story now, but I’ll tell you as much as your mind can comprehend.”

Annabelle wasn’t sure she could even comprehend this. It was so much, and she was so tired. She had just heard that her body was going to rupture like a cocoon and give birth to a giant spider that may or may not also be her, and all she could think about was the fact that she wanted to go back to bed. Somehow, all she could ask was -

“Why?” She asked, so stupid and pointless, as if she was stupid, as if she wasn’t her at all. “Why are you doing this?”

“It’s like I said.” In the dim yellow lighting, Jon’s eyes glittered pure black, and in that brief and stupid second Annabelle felt as if they were the same in that way. “Nobody should have to go through this alone and ignorant.” Then the moment was over, and his eyes were a human grey again, just left of normal. “Besides. Siblings stick together, right?”

“I hardly need more siblings,” Annabelle snapped.

“You’re about to lose seven of them real soon,” Jon promised, extremely worryingly, “so I’d take what you can get right now, Annabelle.”

“Are you going to kill -”

“Unfortunately, you may have to fake your own death!”

Then their food came, and Annabelle received her first lesson in the class of hard knocks.

They talked for hours. It took hours, to even just get a picture of the story. Jon was patient, answering every question, and Annabelle strained so hard trying to fight through her exhaustion, trying to understand the answer, Jon’s motivation in answering it or what he could be leaving out, that by the end of it she felt as if she had run a marathon. She had never felt so tired in her life, in the most dangerous situation in her life, with the most dangerous person she had ever met.

By the end of it, Irene was texting her to ask if she was dead, and Annabelle was falling asleep at her chair. Jon cut an end to their conversation when he slid out his wallet, covered the bill with a black Amex card, and slid a business card against the table. Annabelle squinted down at it.

The text in the center just said [FREELANCERS]. That was it. She stared at it.

Underneath the vague word, she saw a phone number [555-555] and an email [[email protected]]. Annabelle looked up to stare at Jon. “Are you for real?”

“Almost never,” Jon said cheerfully, “but the card will make sense when it needs to. Let me take you back to your dorm, alright? You can get some sleep in the car.”

If he was a creep, she was dead anyway. Annabelle didn’t bother arguing. She grabbed her jacket and got in the passenger seat of his car, and true to his word Annabelle drifted asleep almost immediately. She even felt as if the ride took longer than ten minutes, as if he drove in circles just waiting for her.

For the first time in a week, Annabelle slept uninterrupted, and had no dreams.

Annabelle wanted what Jon had.

And a week later, she took it.

Shivering in an alley, clothing ripped to shreds, her own skin hanging off her triple jointed limbs, she dug out a creased and torn business card. She had been worrying at it intensely over the weekend, staring and it and clenching it tightly as if it was her only lifeline. It was, of course. But Jon had known that.

The card looked different now. The text now looked handwritten, but with a beautiful and old-timey slanted handwriting. It now just read:

‘To Annabelle, with love. From your new friends Gerry, Jon, and Agnes’. There was a number underneath, and Annabelle frantically dug in her tattered leather jacket pocket to draw out her cracked phone.

Annabelle hated taking favors from people. Everything she had, she had fought for herself. She would scrape, borrow, beg, and steal whatever she had to. But, when it came to siblings...maybe, then, it was okay.

Dizzily, as Annabelle let the phone ring, she thought: this is my supervillain origin story.

The thought sent a slow smile crawling across her inhuman and warped face.

Sounds like fun.

#AROACE ANNABELLE RIGHTS #tma #tma fanfic #the magnus archives #the magnus archives fanfiction #annabelle cane #jonathan sims #web!jon #realized while writing evilcon that annabelle was seven while jon was twelve #and that their sibling relationship must be a NIGHTMARE #anyway i'm trying to convince myself not to write a web!jon agnes and gerry fic where its basically a leverage au #and i am failing miserably #so i wrote this instead of that #GRIFTER!JON AND IN THIS ESSAY I WILL #my writing

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sage-nebula · 3 years

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Do NOT reblog, or I will delete the post and block you.

There are so many posts on here about “eldest daughter this” and “oldest sibling that” but there are no posts that talk about what it’s like to be the middle sibling when your oldest sibling is a complete and utter fuckup in basically every way.

I’m technically the middle child. I have a sister who’s 8.5 years older than I am, and a (technically step-)brother who’s nine months younger than I am. My brother became my brother when I was six and he was five, so the “step-” determination is really meaningless, but I added it to explain how he could be my brother when he’s only nine months younger than I am. Anyway. I have two siblings, one older and one younger, and so that makes me the middle child, right?

Well, yes . . . but also no.

As you could surmise by the opening paragraph, my older sister fucked up in basically every conceivable way. I won’t get into her whole life story here because that’s not my story to tell (though believe me, there are doozies in there), but suffice it to say that every single choice she made is one that most parents would disapprove of. All three of my parents certainly did. And so what do you think happened when it came to me?

I’ll tell you what happened.

Because my older sister fucked up in every way one could possibly fuck up, there was a fear, I suppose, or a concern that I would, for whatever godforsaken reason, follow in her footsteps even though the two of us could not be more different in terms of attitude, outlook, goals, et cetera. As a result, if I did even the slightest thing wrong, the punishment hammer came down on me with all the might of Thor celebrating a delicious beverage. I failed geometry in junior year of high school due to an undiagnosed learning disability (along with undiagnosed severe depression and an undiagnosed anxiety disorder, all following years of abuse at my biological mother’s hands), and I was put under lockdown for the entire summer. I was not allowed to leave the house except to go to summer school, I was not allowed to talk to or see any of my friends, or play video games, or watch television, or be on the internet, or read, or write fiction, or do basically anything besides the aforementioned summer school and listening to music. To this day, my parents think this was a good decision on their part even though they now know about the learning disability and myriad of mental illnesses. They think it was a good call for them to punish me like they did.

And so you would say, okay, but if they punished you that severely because they didn’t want you to end up a drug-addicted high school dropout like your sister, surely they would level the same punishments against your brother, especially since you two were so close in age! Well, you would think that, but nope!

Instead, when my brother was around seventeen, he got pulled over and arrested for marijuana possession. (I think he was pulled over in the first place for speeding, but I can’t remember.) His punishment was to have his car taken away for six months. That’s it. He still had all of his other privileges, was not punished in any other way, he just could not drive for six months. He got in actual legal trouble, but he was still allowed to have hobbies.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying that my brother should have been punished more harshly, per se. I’m only saying there was a stark difference in the way that we were treated that my family refuses to acknowledge or own up to even to this day, and it all comes down to the fact that I was never cut slack in either direction. If I was compared to my older sibling, then the fact that she had screwed up so royally in basically every single way meant that I would be made to stand at attention so I could be yelled at for an hour for failing a math class, and then continue to be berated and insulted for how I was clearly never going to college (I have a master’s now, by the by) because of it over the next few days, and yelled at further for having “nothing to say to myself” in the face of all the lecturing. But if I was compared to my younger sibling, why, then it should be expected that he always gets off easier, because he’s younger than I am and the baby of the extended family and, well, I’m older and more mature, so I can handle it better, anyway. And I mean, I guess, for the record, true; I took my punishment in silence because as a victim of child abuse for basically my entire life I never stood up for myself against my parents back then and always just stayed quiet to try to make punishments worse, whereas he threw fits about having his keys taken away every single day for those six months, but also we have to consider how “mature” one really is if that “maturity” stems from a decade and plus some of child abuse.

Because see, that’s the thing, and what has made me really start thinking about this the past few days. I mentioned it on twitter, but a week ago I got into a fight with my mom (stepmom, the better of the two) over politics that has effectively led to her disowning me, I think, which in turn means that my dad has disowned me as well, I think, because I’m pretty sure he’s going to take her side on this one. I won’t get into the actual subject matter here, but the long and short of it is that she accused me of “attacking” her when I wasn’t, and has since then refused to speak to me, even when I tried to offer an olive branch by texting her that fine, I wouldn’t talk to her about politics, but I still loved her. She left me on Read. So the way I see it, she’s not talking to me until I apologize, and I won’t apologize, so she’ll never talk to me and I’m just effectively disowned, I guess. It’s not exactly the first time I’ve lost a parent, and actually, it’s kind of in the same way as the last time.

Fifteen years ago, I left my abusive biological mother to live with my dad and stepmom. (I’m going to keep using stepmom to keep it clear from here on out, just as I use biological mother, even though I do call my stepmom “mom” and consider her as such.) At first my biological mother kept trying to reach out with her pity party guilt tripping about how lonely she was and how much she needed me and yadda yadda, but in the last phone conversation we had, she called me a traitor for leaving her. Keep in mind, I was 15, and she was abusive to the point where the neighbors could hear every profanity and threat she screamed at me from down the street. They told me this. They also told me they always thought about calling CPS, but they never did, but whatever. The point is, on that last phone conversation, she called me a traitor for leaving her. I told her that I wasn’t. She said that I was. I told her I didn’t have to listen to that. She said I did. I said I didn’t, and hung up the phone. I expected her to call right back to curse me out . . . but she never did.

That was fifteen years ago, and we’ve never spoken since.

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t want to speak to her. Actually, the one time it looked like it might happen (at my sister’s wedding), my Fight or Flight response kicked in when I saw her walking toward me and I bolted. I had a panic attack so bad I felt like I was going to vomit. It’s really embarrassing to admit that, but it’s true. The only time I’ve seen her since was at my nephew’s high school graduation (which is the only graduation she got to attend for anyone directly related to her, since my sister dropped out and she didn’t attend mine), but although we made eye contact I looked away pretty quickly and, again, didn’t speak to her. Again, I don’t want to speak to her, this isn’t me complaining, I’ve not lost a single wink of sleep for the fact that she never reached out again despite how my dad likes to go on and on about how she should have “never stopped trying.” (But also, he never picks up the phone to call me for a chat either, despite always telling me how I should call him, so.)

But I just can’t help but notice the similarity. Once again, I have a mother who is refusing to speak to me because she feels I’ve wronged her in some way, and if I want a relationship, then I have to be the one to reach out (even though I already did, but was left on Read, so she wants me to reach out in a very specific way that she won’t even articulate). This isn’t the first time that she (and my dad) have done this, either. When I studied abroad in London, we got into a fight over something stupid over Skype, and I hung up the call. I was 19/20, so you know, not fully mature, but expected to be. Two weeks of silence passed before I had to call them to apologize, because even though their daughter was in a completely foreign country and, hell, could’ve been dead for all they knew, they wanted to Teach Me A Lesson, with that lesson being that unless I behaved the Right Way, they wouldn’t be there for me. And I guess here we are now, about eleven years later, having come full circle with that.

And you know what? I’m tired of it.

Because here’s the thing about being the second child when the first child is a fuckup in every way: you are expected to not only not fall into those same pitfalls, but also to excel in every single possible way. Not only in terms of grades or whatever else, but also in terms of emotional maturity and support for the parents. This veers into the abuse I experienced, I know (at least some of it), but you know how I mentioned that my biological mother kept going on and on about how much she needed me and whatnot? This is because instead of treating me like her daughter, I was instead treated like her combo maid-servant-therapist. It was my job to wait on her hand and foot when she was home, whether that was through fetching her coffee or being in charge of the refrigerator remaining operational (this sounds specific because it is; when I was about 13 the refrigerator broke and she yelled at me for a.) not knowing it was going to break and b.) not doing anything to prevent it breaking), but also she laid out all of her problems to me day after day, month after month, year after year. Do you know how many times I had to sit and listen to the “your father ran out on me after 22 years of marriage” speech? And when I finally asked her if she could stop she yelled at me because I clearly let him badmouth her but I wouldn’t let her do the same. (He actually didn’t, and neither did my stepmom. She was the only one remaining bitter.) She “needed” me because I was the emotional pillar on top of which sat her own degrading stability. The second time I told her that I wanted to live with my dad (because I told her to her face that I wanted to switch the custody agreement twice, and got browbeaten down twice, before I finally left in secret and didn’t tell her until I was already at his place), she picked up smoking cigarettes again after having quit smoking while she was hospitalized for undiagnosed diabetes and told me that it was my fault that she was smoking again, because I had stressed her out so badly by telling her that I wanted to leave. And like, one, obviously I wanted to leave, is there any question of why I wanted to leave or why that wouldn’t make me just want to leave more? But also two, the point I’m getting at here is that it was always about her, always about her emotional needs, never about mine. My emotional wellbeing was never a priority in that house. I was always expected to be there for her, that was my entire purpose as her daughter.

With my dad and stepmom it was obviously different, and in a lot of ways it was better because, god, I hated having to be the recipient of the constant stream of stress and misery from my biological mother. My dad and stepmom had each other, so I never had to hear about their woes for the most part. But at the same time, look at what happened when I failed geometry; instead of looking into seeing if they could get me diagnosed with a learning disability, or maybe actually listening to me when I said I felt “burnt out” and pushing a little harder for me to go to therapy, my dad instead yelled at me for an hour and several days after, insulted me, told me I was never going to succeed, and put me under lockdown for the entire summer, cutting me off from my support network of friends. I came from a background of 15 years of abuse, and one fuckup a year or so later lead not to a reexamination of how I was doing, but instead a severe punishment so that I “wouldn’t do it again.” I couldn’t pass a math class in university and in my final year I finally broke and went to my parents about how I really wasn’t going to graduate college because of it, and they agreed to pay to get me examined for a learning disability which, whoops, looks like I had! And my dad still blames me for waiting for so long to get diagnosed and not telling him sooner, when the last time he found I failed a math class that summer lockdown happened. He still hasn’t put the pieces together between that lockdown and why I didn’t tell him about the math classes I failed in university. Amazing.

My point is, with my dad and my stepmom, it wasn’t so much that they used me as an emotional sponge or pillar, but rather that they were pretty much uninvolved so long as I performed adequately, and was the model daughter they could be Oh So Proud Of, but the moment I slipped, bam! Go to jail, go directly to jail, do not pass Go, do not contact your friends. My emotional needs were still not a priority because it wasn’t about whether or not I was okay, but whether or not it looked like I was doing okay in ways that were quantifiable, such as my grades. And I mean, to be fair, I wasn’t exactly keen on opening up about my feelings at that age and I was a pro at masking how I felt and acting like everything was fine because my biological mother would berate me on the car rides to school each morning to the point of tears, and then would yell at me more about how I better clean myself up because god help me if any teachers saw me crying, which would make them think she was a bad parent and that, too, would be my fault. (Protip: Washing your face with very cold water helps clear away the puffiness around the eyes that can be a tell you’ve been crying.) But even so, again, that puts the responsibility on me to do the Right Thing so that they could be there for me emotionally as my parents, and that is just—

I’m so tired of it, man!

I have had three parents and yet have never had the unconditional love of one. Never. My stepmom once tried telling me that she and my dad would love me unconditionally when I was a teen and she was trying to get me to admit I was a lesbian (funny thing is, even I didn’t know I was gay at the time), and my dad walked through the living room and, not even knowing what we were talking about, was like, “No we won’t.” So that was great. But the thing is this whole thing proves that she was full of it, too. Because they tolerate me being gay (while still trying to set me up with men), but because I won’t apologize to my mom when I haven’t done anything wrong but she feels like I have, she’s giving me the complete and total silent treatment until I do. Because I didn’t perform in the way I’m supposed to, because I wasn’t The Mature One, I’m being cut off. Because it’s my job to be The Mature One, because I was always The Mature One, because I never had any goddamn choice in the matter and the dysfunctional environment I was in when I lived with my biological mother (+ my sister, her baby daddy-now-husband, and their two very young children whom I was often put in charge of despite being in middle school at the time because their parents were often too busy doing drugs and/or sleeping to care for them) required it. Because I had to be Kept In Line so that I wouldn’t end up like my sister, but also it was just me that had to be kept in line despite how close in age my brother and I were. And again, I’m not saying that I wish my brother had also been punished harshly, but more that I wish that, you know, maybe some mercy could have been doled out to me, except it wasn’t, because I had two siblings on either side to be compared to and as a result one toe out of the line resulted in a smiting.

But in the end, it isn’t even really about that. This post isn’t really about how I’m simultaneously the eldest daughter but also the second child. It’s more about the fact that I’ve had three parents and yet have never had the unconditional love of even one, even from the one who said I had it. It’s about how my emotional needs were never a priority for any of the parents in my life. It’s about how I basically had to raise myself and it’s a real goddamn wonder I’m not even more screwed up than I actually am because of it. And it’s also about how I really miss therapy and haven’t been able to go for a long time, and I think this rambling stream of consciousness post proves that I really, really need to find a new therapist so I can go back again, because goddamn.

Anyway, once again, do NOT reblog this or I will delete it and block you, I just needed to get this off my chest, but I need it to stay here. Thank you.

#NO REBLOGS--//-- putting it there for good measure too #very personal ranting about past child abuse because it's 2am and I can't sleep & my life story is a Mess #and also I'm presently disowned from my parents etc etc that's what brought this on #''Gee Scrawlers why do you have such a preference for loving parent-child found family relationships in fiction?''#well [gestures above] does that answer your question or #not all of a person's fictional preferences are derived from their trauma but boy #some of them sure ass can be #anyway #i need to find a new therapist probably sooner rather than later

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writing-reading-inspiring · 4 years

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A Maddening World (Peter Parker X Reader) - Chapter One

Summary: (y/n) was only trying to get volunteer hours in order to gain admission into NYU. However, the Stark Mental Institution held more than she bargained for when she meets her patient, Peter Parker. She never planned to get mixed up with someone who is set on the idea that an alien named Thanos snapped half of all living creatures away and made everyone else forget, yet here she is. The universe has a funny way of trying to correct itself.

Chapter One ~ Chapter Two ~ Chapter Three

My life loves to be one adventure after another, which is why I was hoping to have a calm summer. Of course, this couldn’t happen. At least it couldn’t once my school counselor told me that I could kiss my dreams of going to NYU down the drain if I don’t get something impressive on my resume.

This is what led me to currently be on my way to the famous Stark Mental Institution with my best friend and life saver, Liz Allen. We're part of a program that takes in young teens from local high schools and gives them a summer volunteer opportunities. It's great on college applications, so why not? We're about 5 minutes away and I still have no idea what I'm going to do. We're supposed to get a talk about how we should go around and help the patients when we get there. Luckily, we’ve been assured that none of the patients that we’ll be working with are dangerous, which is why we’re allowed to be a sort of nurse to them. The silence in the car was thick until Liz broke it. "How do you think it will go?" "I don't know. Good, I hope," I replied, nervously picking at my cuticles. Silence rested over us again until we pulled up to the building. We piled out and I watched as our cab driver blended into the heavy New York traffic. I turn to find a man in a crisp black suit, that looked to be about in his 40's. "Hello, my name is Mr. Hogan, I'm the head of staff and security here," the man spoke, "If you would please follow me."

He turned and walked off into the building. We followed until he stopped in front of the elevator. "On the 4th floor to the right at the end of the hall there is a volunteer break room. There you will find your patient profiles and exactly what to do with them. There should be a schedule that you must follow exactly. Please do not say anything about your patient or their schedule. Each of you have a desk that holds your uniforms. Everything is very simple and straightforward. With both of your recommendations that we’ve received, I’m sure that you’ll be able to handle the two patients. Just be sure to follow your instructions and use common sense. If you have any questions, ask a staff member or me if I’m not too busy. If either of you have any questions, ask now," Mr. Hogan informed us. Neither of us said anything, so Mr. Hogan nodded his head. "If that’s all, I will be leaving you two on your own."

With that, Mr. Hogan walked down the hallway to what I could only presume is his office.

When we walked onto the elevator Liz began to speak, "He seems pretty happy with his job, don’t you think?” I couldn’t help but giggle at her remark.

I made sure to press the button for the 4th floor and we started our ascent.

“Anyway, why do we have to do exactly what the schedule says?" "Probably because they want the patients to be on a schedule and they don't want to disrupt it" I replied to her. Right after I said that the doors open to reveal a long hallway. The walls were white and the floors were marble tile. There were huge windows in the middle. As we were passing by them I could see a massive garden. We reached the end and opened the door that said volunteers only. The room was a decent size, only containing a fridge, two tables with chairs surrounding them, and several desks. We went to the desk with our respective names on them and began rummaging around. I was able to locate my uniform on the top right hand drawer. They weren’t much, just black yoga pants and a blue shirt that had the name of the hospital on it. We also got badges that allowed us to walk around the hospital without being questioned. Liz was first to look at the profile and schedule that we were given. I could see her face goes through different emotions like confusion, surprise, and even anger. “What’s up Liz? You don’t seem too happy,” I told her.

“Oh, it’s nothing, just I was kind of hoping to be able to help my brother,” she told me while raising her head.

“I’m sorry, Liz. I’m sure it’s just company policy though. I mean, you could give special treatment to family members. Anyways, who do you have anyway?”

“Oh, I guess giving the name can’t really put anyone in harm's way. My patients name is Brad Davis. What about you?”

I couldn’t help but chuckle, “Oh, I haven’t even looked yet hold on.”

I pulled out the manila office folder than was underneath my uniform. I quickly went over it: Name: Peter Parker Age: 18 Gender: Male Race: Caucasian Family: May Parker Emergency Contact: (347)-625-6396 Room: Floor 6 - Room 621 Mental Illness: Major Depression, Anxiety Disorder, PTSD, Delusional Disorder Other disorders: N/A Medication: Two Pills During Each Meal Additional Information: Believes That Man Named Thanos Destroys Half Of The Population & Made It So No One Remembers Schedule: 8:00 - 8:30 ~ Breakfast & Take Pills 8:30 - 9:00 ~ Personal Hygiene 9:00 - 11:00 ~ See Therapist 11:00 - 12:00 ~ Exercise 12:00 - 12:30 ~ Lunch & Take Pills 12:30 - 1:00 ~ Free Time 1:00 - 2:30 ~ Schooling 2:30 - 4:00 ~ Socializing 4:00 - 6:00 ~ See Therapist 6:00 - 6:30 ~ Dinner & Take Pills 6:30 - 7:00 ~ Free Time 7:00 - 8:00 ~ Quiet Hour 8:00 ~ Bed When I was done reading I looked up to find Liz looking at me expectantly.

“His name is Peter Parker,” I told her.

She nodded her head as I looked at the clock, only to realize that it was already 7:50.

My eyes widened, “We have to go, Liz. I’ll see you tonight or if we run into each other at one point.” We quickly said our goodbyes and went our separate ways. I ran to the elevator and hit the button for floor 6. On the way up I looked over his profile again. I wonder how an 18 year old person can be like this. As soon as the elevator doors open I step out only to run into someone. "Sorry, I wasn't looking where I was going," they apologized. "No it's my fault I shouldn't have rushed out," I took a second to look him over and soon realize that he is really cute with brown eyes and black hair, "my name is (y/n)." "Brad Davis" "Well it’s nice to meet you Brad, I’m glad I was able to meet someone new on my first day." "What do you mean?" "Oh, sorry. That was pretty vague. I'm a part of the volunteer program." "Oh, I heard about that. Well it's a shame I can't spend the summer with you. I’m one of the patients whose a part of it" "Yeah, well you get to spend it with someone else who I’m sure is amazing."

“Yeah, but they might not be as pretty,” he told me with a smug smirk.

I couldn’t help but blush at the comment.

Luckily he decided to save me from my misery and ask, "So who do you have?" "Oh, Peter Parker." "Parker, huh? Yeah I'm his friend, cool guy, at least from what I can tell. It's hard to know since he doesn't speak much." "Yeah, well I really should go, but it was nice meeting you." "You too, I would really hurry though, you only have 2 minutes and his room is all the way at the end of the hall to the right." "Thanks, I'll see you around." "I hope so." With that he left, leaving me in front of the elevator door. I snapped back into reality and hurried down the hall, earning me some pitiful glances from nurses and doctors. Brad seems like a nice guy and I'm starting to regret not getting him as my patient, but I'm sure I'll see him around. I couldn't believe I'm crushing on a patient and I've only been here for 10 minutes. I keep walking until I see the number 621 on the plate next to the door. 8:00, perfect timing. As I walked in, what I saw was not what I was expecting. There in a chair sat a boy with messy, yet curly brown hair that looked like he just came in from a windy day and chocolate colored eyes that made you feel as though everything would be alright. He turns his head from the window and gives me a smile that lets me know how much of a puppy dog he truly is. He opens his mouth to utter a word that turned my life around. "Hi"

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coronashmorona · 4 years

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COVID-19 Isolation:

Day 0

For a day & a half, my husband (hereinafter “Hubs”) & I pondered (read: lowkey argued about) the boundaries & limitations we should be imposing on our selves & our kids given the increased prevalence of coronavirus in our area. Was avoiding everyone all weekend really necessary? Can we eat takeout food? Should our kids go to school on Monday? What about after-school activities? What about the fantasy baseball draft we were supposed to host next weekend? Or the slew of small children’s birthday parties scheduled for the coming weeks?

Hubs was already planning on working from home, which he does often the last few years after his firm moved to a “hoteling” style office. My work is very flexible part-time & gets done whenever I can fit it in around everyone else’s schedules, i.e. can also take place from home if needed.

Then, today, we got word that all local schools will be closed for 2 weeks. So at least that’s settled.

Now, we’re confronting the challenge of how to go about our daily lives under these strange new circumstances. Namely:

The need for some kind of scheduled routine. We have a first-grader & a preschooler. They are absolutely wonderful, but go entirely bonkers if we’re home without any structure. They’re also in completely different places as far as personality, temperament, & educational needs.

First-grader (hereinafter “6yo”) is kind of a high-strung, type-A, preintellectual. She needs a full briefing about what’s happening every hour of every day. If plans change, she has a million questions about what the alteration entails. (If she’s conscious, she has a million questions, period.) She enjoys so many great activities - artistic pursuits, imaginative play, dancing, & really anything else that involves running around like a banshee - but constantly asks for TV time and/or a snack anyway. Historically, it’s been nearly impossible to set her up with an activity & walk away for more than 10 minutes; she’s just the sort of kid who needs/expects an adult caregiver to provide companionship, guidance, & answers at all times. I’m hoping that having an agenda mapped out for each day will remind her of school & she’ll be more amenable to doing things independently for a relatively short, set amount of time. I can also meet her halfway & do my work at the dining room table while she embarks on a quiet activity. Finally, it sounds like the school district is hatching a contingency plan for remote student learning, complete with daily homework posted online, which is comforting to say the least.

Preschooler (”4yo”) is a rambunctious ball of energy, but tends to be pretty easygoing overall. If left to his own devices, he’ll wander over to his trains or his blocks or even a book & play on his own. The problem, of course, is that when left to his own devices for too long, he’s probably up to no good. His favorite pastime of late has been playing in Hubs’s office, using some old printers & other computer accessories to “build Robot Marty” (a.k.a. the robot that roams the aisles at Stop & Shop). This activity will be mostly off-limits while Hubs works from home - a deprivation that I’m sure will be ill-received & spawn all sorts of disruptive discovery missions, i.e. let’s see what happens when we stick the end of Mama’s headphones into the electrical outlet. Oyyy. My hope is that if I break out some toys he hasn’t used in a while, & a few shiny new (read: held in abeyance since his birthday) ones, he’ll amuse him accordingly while 6yo & I do our thing.

Getting fed. I am really, really nervous about consuming commercially prepared food right now. The chances of contracting COVID-19 from it are small, but it doesn’t seem worth the risk. As it is, I’m a bit of a DIY food purist, frequently eschewing restaurant food for my own creations. I have a whole separate blog detailing my experiences with Whole30, in which I take my appreciation for clean-eating to the max in order to improve my health. Tl;dr I cook a lot of fresh veggies & lean meats & try to minimize the amount of processed foods in my diet. Doing this is hard enough under ~ordinary stressful circumstances, let alone a global pandemic. I’ve already slid into some unhealthy reflexive stress-eating that needs to be curtailed ASAP.

The biggest point with this, I feel, is establishing a meal+snack schedule. Else, the kids will constantly be asking for things to eat, interrupting any hope of sticking to a playtime/learning/physical activity schedule. On certain days spent mostly at home, I feel like all I do is stand in the kitchen cutting fruit, & we will not survive the next few weeks if that’s how it’s gonna be. Granted, this is sometimes exacerbated by my own penchant to use a free minute here or there to chop & roast some Brussels sprouts or eggplant. But there has to be a point at which “oh look, Mom’s in the kitchen” doesn’t automatically translate to “let’s give her something else to do”.

A possible strategy to alleviate this involves cutting a bunch of fruit in advance, portioning it out, & storing it on a fridge shelf the kids can reach, so they can get it themselves. I don’t want to deprive them of food; we just feel that they shouldn’t be eating a constant stream of processed garbage. This is a particular risk for 6yo, who has the metabolism & appetite of a hummingbird & openly fixates on the constant quest for treats.

Dealing with life’s other extenuating circumstances. As others with young children can likely attest, our life is constantly in several different states of flux, limbo, and/or disarray. Some other things we’ve been dealing with lately and/or will be dealing with shortly:

Hubs’s dad is having a hip replacement tomorrow. Several people tried to talk him out of it, but he’s been having terrible sciatic pain for a long time & as long as the surgeon/hospital will have him he feels he needs to go ahead with it. Who will take care of him afterward, & whether/when we can visit, remain uncertain. LATE-BREAKING UPDATE: surgery cancelled. A relief insofar as one variable eliminated.

Last week I definitely herniated/tore something in my abdominal area while pulling the kids in a wagon, & need to see a doctor for that. I’m not thrilled with the idea of being in a highly-trafficked public place, but I also don’t want to put off getting myself looked at & aggravate the injury in the meantime. As it is, I’m trying not to lift heavy things (e.g., our 4-year-old) or spend too much time on my feet, but that in itself is a struggle. Right now my appointment is scheduled for a time at which Hubs has a very important (virtual) work meeting, so I need to reschedule it and/or find someone else who can watch the kids. I’m praying for the former outcome because it begs the question “Who should we be letting in the house?!”

We’re in the early stages of renovating our kitchen. This means that we’ve met with a few designers/contractors about possible layouts & options, inching towards finalizing a plan & selecting one of them to carry it out. It sounds like Hubs wants to move ahead with this process as before, but suffice to say my mental bandwidth is now sufficiently occupied with other shit.

I’m always in the middle of 187 different things, & it feels like they’re all now on hold: purging the house of outgrown clothes & toys, organizing the basement, learning German, catching up on continuing legal education credits,

Processing the fear + existential woe. None of us have ever lived through anything like this. It is fucked up. I try to take comfort in the fact that the isolation protocols are empowering: by staying away from others who might be carrying the disease, we’re taking control of an uncertain situation.

But there’s still so. much. uncertainty. Right now, the kids are scheduled to go back to school March 30th. Then their spring break will start on April 8th, to coincide with the start of Passover (as well as Holy Week & Easter). Last year, we hosted a seder for 18 people. Can we do that this time? I have tickets to one concert (locally) in late April, & to another (abroad) in early June - will either one actually be happening?!

These are, decidedly, #firstworldproblems. But I think I join the rest of humanity in being utterly pissed off & daunted by the whole ordeal. Until another few weeks pass, all we can do is wait. And wash our hands a lot. 🧼 💦 🙏🏼

#covid19 #coronavirus #social distancing #self isolation #parenting #kids

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bbq-hawks-wings · 5 years

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More Hawks HCs!

I feel like the Hawks tag has been a little bare as far as HCs go for a little bit so throwing my hat in once again while I wait for dinner to cook between stirrings.

Finances:

Hawks grew up dirt poor - like concerningly poor. Now that he's rolling in the dough he literally has no idea how he would ever spend it all.

What's more, he doesn't WANT to spend it willy-nilly. He grew up with the mindset that money was a responsibility, not a luxury. He takes his responsibility very seriously.

When he started hero work and immediately shot to the top and saw his checks swell at breakneck speeds, the first thing he did was hire a finance manager to make sure he planted his money into investments instead of burning through it or letting it sit stagnant.

He has a diverse enough portfolio that should he be out of work for good today he still wouldn't need to work another day in his life if he didn't want to.

But now that he's settled he makes a point to donate large amounts to charities focusing on underprivileged families and children in particular.

He tries to keep it under the radar, though. Part of it is him desperately trying to avoid the top hero spot but another part is a genuine sense of humility trying to do what's right.

He actually ended up with a personal procurement staff at his brand consultant's suggestion. People who are clearly paid enough money are often expected to act like it, and he almost caused a scene when he was on a live interview and learned the actual cost of his ensemble that had been picked for him.

He looked somewhere between horrified and absolutely going to be sick (Do you know exactly how many rotisserie chicken dinners that could buy?!?!), but he recovered and got someone else to hold his credit card for him. Now all he does is tell them his tastes in clothes, furniture, etc. and they find and buy it for him so he doesn't have to look at the price tag, and they only get something when he speaks up to mention it.

He has good people, though. They still try to keep costs down for his sake. He still buys all his own food, though.

Still, some habits are just a little more deeply ingrained, and he practically breathes the "reduce, reuse, recycle" mantra. He's often praised for taking care of the planet; but honestly he's just so thrifty deep into his bones it hurts to be wasteful.

He also can't help but resent people (often entitled people born into money) who don't understand how fortunate they are and take everything, especially people, for granted.

Family:

Hawks was an only child (wait and watch Horikoshi throw an enormous family in my face later) and lived with his mother, father, and grandmother.

Gran-gran was his favorite playmate, and the two were thick as theives. She was the one who really cemented many of his key values as a person as well as taught him how to fly.

His grandmother was not a conventionally attractive woman. She had pronounced, almost masculine features; a scowl that could send people running, wild hair, and a long, prominent nose. She looked like a tengu, though the wings on her back also earned her the mean nickname of "harpy" from time to time as well.

Hawks' good looks are thanks to his late grandpa - a guy with a much more bird-like quirk.

Gran-gran was clever, though, and tough as nails! She wasn't afraid to make her grandson earn all his victories in their games, but she was also doting and praised him when he did well or did his best.

God, what he wouldn't do to spend just one more festival with her watching the fireworks again. He misses her more than even he realizes.

Hawks' father did his best to provide for his family, but the financial hardships got on top of them more times than he's proud of. Sometimes it was hard for him to look his family in the eye.

His mother also tried to bring in money with odd jobs, but often ended up sick and having to rest at home. Her telekenesis quirk was what gave Hawks his quirk's competitive edge to it.

Hawks always wanted brothers or sisters, but it was never financially in the cards for them. To this day he loves big families, and the sight of parents juggling three or more children always makes him smile.

If he hadn't been taken away to boarding school for his training and separated from his family, they probably would have bonded even closer and continued to grow again. He'd hoped for that when he agreed to it; but he didn't understand the depth of the situation or the greed/desperation of the Hero Public Safety Commission.

Personal life:

Hawks is too busy for a pet, but that hasn't stopped him from wondering what kind he'd get if he could.

He really does just get along well with birds, so he'd probably get one, but a smaller one that probably wouldn't outlive him. He couldn't do that to the poor thing, nor could he only get one. Bare minimum he would ever get of any pet is two because even if he wasn't as busy as he was he probably still couldn't necessarily give a social bird the time it needed to be happy. Friends are a must.

As much as he loves the personality of the larger birds, he knows it takes a lot of patience to live with them on top of the life span thing, so he'd probably get some parakeets or cockatiels.

He'd be lying if he didn't admit getting chickens has crossed his mind on several occasions.

If he had to pick a fuzzy buddy, though, he likes ferrets. When they're not bouncing off the walls full of energy, they're out cold for a good snooze. (That's the life!)

Learning how to play an instrument is also on his bucket list. He knows it's so basic, but he would love to pick up the guitar. He doesn't expect to be any kind of amazing musician and his singing voice is less than stellar; but he'd just like to be able to play some of his favorite tunes for himself from time to time.

He's an easy person to like, but he is not easy to love or live with. Much of his darker personality traits come out the more time he spends with people. They aren't "evil" traits, by any means, but much more like survival mechanisms developed by the lifestyle forced on him that are clearly unhealthy the longer you look at them.

Like his instinctual need to control any given circumstance or interaction. It's not something he does out of malice; but it becomes obvious if you look close enough. He doesn't feel like he has agency over his own life, and people on all sides are always trying to take advantage of him.

He also ever so subtly changes his persona depending on the situation and company present. It's such a habit at this point even he doesn't realize he does it. We've seen before that he can expertly read a room and react accordingly.

Hawks is also used to putting up emotional barriers between himself and people with potentially meaningful relationships to him. Whether consciously or not, since losing his family he's afraid of losing people important to him again.

This poor man is also unbelievably touch starved. His childhood was filled with affectionate hugs and roughhousing as it was one of the few things they had in spades. Now, not only is he alone in the middle of a VERY "hands-off" society, he has his public image to manage as well.

Someone get this guy a therapist, seriously! He's too close to the situation to realize how precarious and easily compromisable his mental health state is, but on all sides are people that would discourage him from seeking therapy because it could be considered as being "weak" where mental illness is stigmatized.

Hawks has only been truly furious once in his life as a adolescent. It was terrifying for everyone there at the time as he completely let loose and lost control in the heat of the moment. He tries to keep himself reined in since then, but as with many other things doesn't realize he may be making it worse by bottling up his frustrations and shoving it down.

That isn't to say he's incapable of deep, meaningful relationships - romantic or platonic - but the amount of firm patience and persistence needed from the other party nears sainthood. He craves those relationships and NEEDS them, but he's deathly afraid of losing them as well as being vulnerable and taken advantage of.

If he got even just one or two people that could truly love him unconditionally like that, that would be enough for him to completely reprioritize everything. His hero's heart was born out of love and uncertainty about tomorrow as a child; and Commission or not he would have become a hero in the end anyway. As a grown man, that kind of love would drive him to be a force to be reckoned with the kind that would make his past accomplishments pale in comparison.

To be clear, a good friend or a lover would not "fix" him, but would certainly help and encourage him make the time and space he needs to examine and work through his own issues he's let bottle up for so long. There just isn't much pushing him to do so while he's as isolated as he is.

(I've made myself really sad now...)

He's a generous friend and lover, though, once he allows himself to open up. Though from an outside perspective Hawks really doesn't need much - just patience and time and attention - to him it's everything, and he'll do nearly anything to show his gratitude for it.

(That's a little better)

That turned out way longer than anticipated, but here ya go! I promise I'll get back to writing (haven't forgotten those kiss prompts!) soon. I have a commission and a painting to finish, but now that baby takes regular naps I can finally take time for me again!

#hawks #hawks mha #mha hawks #hawks bnha #bnha hawks #hawks hcs #she writes

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viktcrr-alt · 4 years

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MAXENCE DANET FAUVAL / NONBINARY — don’t look now, but is that viktor samuels i see? the 24 year old visual arts student is in their senior year and he/they are a rochester alum. i hear they can be observant, ingenious, reticent and dependent, so maybe keep that in mind. i bet he/they will make a name for themselves living in garcia row. ( james. 20. est. she/they. )

LAST INTRO WOOOO !! u know what to mf DO !!

TW DEATH, HEAVY GRIEF, OVERDOSE / DRUG ADDICTION, HOSPITALIZATION, HYPERSEXUALITY, RELIGION MENTIONS, MENTAL ILLNESS

a e s t h e t i c s

old tvs and their static, worn tapes, horror movie screams, spilled ink, a sculptor’s hands, clay-stained, chicken scratch handwriting, messy notes, messy hair, scoffs and eye-rolls, bruised knuckles, sore throats, funeral homes and a crying preacher, shattered ceramics, knife fights, high ledges, vertically-striped pants, red lights, the moon shrouded in clouds, cigarette butts.

general info !!

full name: viktor phillip samuels

nickname(s): icky vicky :/

b.o.d. - jan 2nd

label(s): the black hole, the crepehanger, the impious, the opaque, the tempest, etc.

height: 6′0″

hometown: rochester, new york

sexuality: uuuhhh god … probably pan tbh

stats

biography !!

okay so … born and raised in rochester, new york to the well known samuels family. preacher father, a mother, a twin sister born 15 minutes before him - aka tatiana samuels, who died back in january.

kinda … grew up as a really awkward, quiet kid? like … just didn’t really interact with other kids super well, preferred being alone and like … digging up bugs in the dirt. only friend was like … his own sister.

grew out of this as they got older, instead sort of … becoming a bit of a dick? to compensate for years of awkwardness? will bite the hand that feeds him. was a full on nuisance by middle school. tatiana was not, at least, noticeably.

has always been a fan of darker materials, y’know - grim and creepy, morbid shit. big fan of tim burton ever since he was a kid, which isn’t … a good look for a preacher’s son, but he’s never really felt ~in~ with the rest of his family, anyway.

drew disturbing pictures as a kid probably tbh that prompted one or two or five phone calls home 2 assure everything was fine.

has always been really … good at art, in general - from drawing to painting to playing with clay, that’s always been viktor’s Thing.

aNyWaYs. being tatiana’s twin brother was kinda hard sometimes. tatiana and him were near opposites besides their same mean-spirited trait. she was better in the public than he was, but viktor was arguably more talented than tatiana. they both loved each other deeply and found each other as competition for their parents’ attention - a rivalry, of sorts.

high school is when viktor really started to act out - started extreme, like losing his virginity in their church and vandalism around the neighborhoods. faked being possessed in the middle of sunday service. almost had an exorcism performed on him, probably.

the only redeemable trait was like … his sheer talent with art. was in a 3d art AP course, specialized in sculpting - could pretty much create anything he wanted with enough dedication.

because his parents would be focused on disciplining him for his antics, tatiana could sneak away and get away with stuff easier. so like, y’know, that’s on the bright-side of things.

never been particularly motivated to do much - wasn’t planning on attending lockwood but his parents kinda … did and sent in his application for him b/c they were Not on board with him Wasting Away (wanted him out of the house asap)

actually pretty smart !! just doesn’t like … want to apply himself ever. double majoring in english and visual arts because they’re like … two of his only interests :/ plus he wants to write and illustrate his own series of children books with a style similar to tim burton’s

he’d been experimenting since high school but college is where he really started to like … crack down on himself and figure himself out. was out as pan & nonbinary by his sophomore year of college, just … not to his family, necessarily. thinks tatiana always knew, but didn’t … really use it against him, blessedly enough

always felt like the whole twin - connection thing was … both wack and also not-wack? sometimes it felt believable but sometimes he had no idea what was going on in tatiana’s head. but he felt oddly transparent to her, always - like he was predictable to no one but her.

( TW DEATH, GRIEF, OVERDOSE / HOSPITALIZATION BEYOND THIS POINT )

but when tatiana disappeared - it was like, like viktor knew. the moment she had been kidnapped - felt something deeply wrong in his gut. and when tatiana died - viktor felt something cut so severely in him. he knew, he always knew exactly when. he couldn’t put his finger on how - but he knew. even when everybody else held out hope for her to be found - he knew.

went on a bender around the same time, had always struggled w/ drug addiction but it got worse the longer tatiana went without being found.

( also struggled heavily with his mental health, too ?? has manic and depressive episodes. will fixate on a sculpting project for six months and then purposely knock it off the table and destroy it in the matter of seconds once it’s finished for. no fucking reason. impulse spends A Lot. )

when her body was found, viktor went off the rails. ended up overdosing and being hospitalized where he spent the next like … however long months … until they deemed him better.

has been back since the beginning of fall semester in an attempt to finish his senior year - mostly out of his parents’ insistence that he did, because he very much did not want to.

is still dealing with a lot of trauma & grief, which was only amplified with dean lockwood’s death - causing him to spiral and be unpredictable with his mental health. some days are good, and some days are very bad.

personality !!

the human embodiment of a gremlin, fed after midnight. a goblin, if u will. one of those cats with a narrow head and big ass ears. that’s him.

b i g horror & halloween enthusiast. loves the old campy horror movies. probably has an abundance of masks from different movies. dresses like a grimy millennial beetlejuice more than he should. love those vertically striped pants!

fashion alternates between e-boy (would b tik tok famous if he were like … 17), millennial beetlejuice, and like … goth in a crop top and sweatpants. big fan of crop tops. big fan of sweatpants.

he can be fucking mean. petty, aggressive, instigator. will literally spit in ur face or no reason. kind of person who’ll stick his gum into other ppl’s hair. other than that he’s like … pretty okay. he’s not always mean, he’s just a dick like … 70% of the time lmao

i mean yeah okay he’ll call someone a stinky bitch for no reason except He Feels Like It And Believes It. it’s fine he’s fine, we’re fine.

despite the fact tht he’s probably getting into fights whenever - considers himself 2 be a lover n not a fighter but that’s just because he Fucks a lot. kind of uses it like a coping mechanism, like he’s this big fancy carnival show that’s like ‘come one, come all! fuck the dead girl’s twin brother!’ may have a problem w/ hypersexuality but it’s nothing he’s fully. aware of.

the preacher’s whore son, basically

like i said he’s pan & nb, switches between he and they pronouns but like … he has such a fragile grip on his identity that u could call him ‘dog-faced bitch’ and he’d turn like hey wassup :)

vastly impulsive, like i’ve mentioned … destroys his own creations 4 the fun of it, spends all his money on useless shit, will cheat on someone bc he feels like it. screams into the night sky frequently, like a cat in heat.

i mean he also creates useless shit for no reason too. spent six months sculpting a hollowed out tree the size of him and then took a sledgehammer to it.

dramatic fuck. used to play the organ at the church like … when no one was looking after him and service was about to start. just these creepy as melodies. would do the same thing at home on his keyboard w/ the organ setting whenever he got grounded until his parents took away his keyboard sadjfkg

won’t talk about his time away b/c it’s not rly anybody’s business but ofc nothing is sacred to the watershed app, y’know, nothing’s private.

still like - he absolutely refuses to talk about tatiana’s death and like, his mental health or his addiction (he’s fallen back into it tbh but it hasn’t gotten bad again … yet) or like … anything involving his own emotions

will literally just change the topic! abruptly, no warning, asks about the jonas brothers instead.

that being said he’s obsessed with tatiana’s death. tatiana was very much a rock for him, kinda dependent on her in a way? just … being there, y’know, kept him grounded.

so he obv became a shepherd bc he wants to know Everything there is abt the app, wants to be deep inside it, wanted to know Who Exactly Killed Tatiana and like … not saying he wants 2 commit murder but :/ yknow. he’s very upset.

emotionally unavailable while also like crying twice a day.

will tell you straight up what he wants from you, no bullshit, no beating around the bush - just blunt. if he wants to just fuck, nothing else, then that’s that. if he feels deviation he’ll ghost in like. less than a second. kinda awful like that! feels no shame.

but like … also is emotional ?? as shit ?? it’s confusing. he’ll cry on a whim and then flip u off if u try to console him or like. ask him anything. will bite you.

he goes to therapy but he generally fucks around and wastes most of the time until the therapist threatens to like … idk what therapists r allowed to threaten. to send him off to another therapist? idk.

likes being intimidating but like … not with his body or nothing ‘cos he’s a TWIG, but like … uses his love for horror n creepy shit to his advantage. has an abundance of fake blood. has channeled the energy of jack nicholson and used it on tatiana’s boyfriends before.

( also a big fan of sfx makeup, has dabbled in it)

probably chases kids with a chainsaw (w/o the like … chain … or w/e … so it’s not actually Dangerous) around halloween

he’s generally never doing good, both mental health wise and morally.

would probably steal candy from a baby for the fun of it.

i don’t know if there’s a good to him, deep down, and i don’t know if he sees any issues with himself either !! nothing really breaks through to him anymore, the only person who ever really made him stop and Think about his actions was tatiana.

kinda introverted, recluse type who doesn’t rly like most people or going out, but he’ll go to parties if it means he’ll be high as shit.

pretty observant. likes to analyze people even though he’s probably not … fully right.

wanted connections !!

he lives alone currently but like … ex - roommates where viktor was just. a nightmare to live with.

feel like a lot of enemies is also a possibility !! viktor’s messy.

people that like … knew tatiana. dated tatiana, even, and viktor would pretty much try to intimidate / scare them at any given chance :/

close friends of tatiana too

people who hated tatiana but liked viktor. people who hated viktor but liked tatiana

people who take pity on him and he Hates it viciously and vocally.

a band of hooligan gremlin kids who do drugs and fuck shit up around town like they’re edgy teenagers even though they’re all early to mid 20s.

the girl he lost his virginity 2 in high school lmao … a distant memory

fellow rochester locals, from church or school or whatever

exes from the past !! good terms and bad terms, but i love bad terms a whole lot mainly b/c viktor’s a jackass.

don’t know if he’s soft towards anybody but we can try. we can Try.

friends, old friends, new friends, bad friends, good friends, close friends, frenemies, etc. etc. all of it

hookups !! so many hookups. fwbs, one night stands, whatever.

uuhhhh god. i don’t know. im so sleepy rn. people in the same major or similar majors.

maybe a ride or die.

people he’s a bad influence on / an enabler towards / all around toxic for them / each other.

people he’s fought !! people who’ve seen him get into random fights and were like ‘uh wtf’

fellow shepherds !!

literally anything im not picky.

#huntingtonintro #death tw #grief tw #overdose tw #drugs tw #addiction tw #hospitalization tw #hypersexuality tw #murder tw #religion mentions #mental health tw

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viktcrr-archive · 4 years

Text

MAXENCE DANET FAUVEL / NONBINARY. — viktor samuels is really making a name for themselves as a tier 3 shepherd. i think that he/they are studying english + visual arts in their senior year at lockwood, living in peregrinis. originally from rochester, new york, viktor is known to be observant & ingenious, but can also be reticent & dependent. — james / 20 / est / she/they.

3/5 !!! once again ... little edits

TW DEATH, HEAVY GRIEF, OVERDOSE / DRUG ADDICTION, HOSPITALIZATION, HYPERSEXUALITY, RELIGION MENTIONS, MENTAL ILLNESS

a e s t h e t i c s

general info !!

full name: viktor phillip samuels

nickname(s): icky vicky :/

b.o.d. - jan 2nd

label(s): the black hole, the crepehanger, the impious, the opaque, the tempest, etc.

height: 6′0″

hometown: rochester, new york

sexuality: uuuhhh god … probably pan tbh

stats

biography !!

drew disturbing pictures as a kid probably tbh that prompted one or two or five phone calls home 2 assure everything was fine.

has always been really … good at art, in general - from drawing to painting to playing with clay, that’s always been viktor’s Thing.

the only redeemable trait was like … his sheer talent with art. was in a 3d art AP course, specialized in sculpting - could pretty much create anything he wanted with enough dedication.

because his parents would be focused on disciplining him for his antics, tatiana could sneak away and get away with stuff easier. so like, y’know, that’s on the bright-side of things.

( TW DEATH, GRIEF, OVERDOSE / HOSPITALIZATION BEYOND THIS POINT )

went on a bender around the same time, had always struggled w/ drug addiction but it got worse the longer tatiana went without being found.

when her body was found, viktor went off the rails. ended up overdosing and being hospitalized where he spent the next like … however long months … until they deemed him better.

stayed out of school until very recently b/c he just … didn’t want to go back. didn’t want to deal with it. didn’t want to be known as the dead girl’s twin. but then his mom kinda just was like ‘u go back 2 school or god so help me’ n he was like FINE.

so ya !! viktor’s back after being gone since tatiana’s body was found. that’s it, that’s him, a lil glimpse of his life.

trying to finish his senior year b/c he … obviously left before he could.

finding out that it was george who killed tatiana has ultimately ... caused viktor to spiral. his lows are some of his lowest, his highs are ... very high, but very bad. unstable & unpredictable in his actions it’s ... a whole thing :/

personality !!

the human embodiment of a gremlin, fed after midnight. a goblin, if u will. one of those cats with a narrow head and big ass ears. that’s him.

fashion alternates between e-boy (would b tik tok famous if he were like … 17), millennial beetlejuice, and like … goth in a crop top and sweatpants. big fan of crop tops. big fan of sweatpants.

i mean yeah okay he’ll call someone a stinky bitch for no reason except He Feels Like It And Believes It. it’s fine he’s fine, we’re fine.

the preacher’s whore son, basically

i mean he also creates useless shit for no reason too. spent six months sculpting a hollowed out tree the size of him and then took a sledgehammer to it.

won’t talk about his time away b/c it’s not rly anybody’s business but ofc nothing is sacred to the watershed app, y’know, nothing’s private.

will literally just change the topic! abruptly, no warning, asks about the jonas brothers instead.

that being said he’s obsessed with tatiana’s death. tatiana was very much a rock for him, kinda dependent on her in a way? just … being there, y’know, kept him grounded.

emotionally unavailable while also like crying twice a day.

but like … also is emotional ?? as shit ?? it’s confusing. he’ll cry on a whim and then flip u off if u try to console him or like. ask him anything. will bite you.

( also a big fan of sfx makeup, has dabbled in it)

probably chases kids with a chainsaw (w/o the like … chain … or w/e … so it’s not actually Dangerous) around halloween

he’s generally never doing good, both mental health wise and morally.

would probably steal candy from a baby for the fun of it.

kinda introverted, recluse type who doesn’t rly like most people or going out, but he’ll go to parties if it means he’ll be high as shit.

pretty observant. likes to analyze people even though he’s probably not … fully right.

connections to the victims !!

tatiana samuels / his twin sister, other half - the only one able to control viktor.

george craig iii / close family friends ... they could appreciate each other, when viktor wasn’t being an outright asshole.

hana williams / ‘friends’ with benefits, their relationship was rocky at best but she was a good lay. have often fought due to their clash in personalities and viktor’s history with christoph.

christoph wainwright / an ex-hook up, an infrequent occasion whenever christoph wanted to tick off hana. viktor was often on board, never the one to consider others’ feelings.

wanted connections !!

he lives alone currently but like … ex - roommates where viktor was just. a nightmare to live with.

feel like a lot of enemies is also a possibility !! viktor’s messy.

people that like … knew tatiana. dated tatiana, even, and viktor would pretty much try to intimidate / scare them at any given chance :/

close friends of tatiana too

people who hated tatiana but liked viktor. people who hated viktor but liked tatiana

people who take pity on him and he Hates it viciously and vocally.

a band of hooligan gremlin kids who do drugs and fuck shit up around town like they’re edgy teenagers even though they’re all early to mid 20s.

the girl he lost his virginity 2 in high school lmao … a distant memory

fellow rochester locals, from church or school or whatever

exes from the past !! good terms and bad terms, but i love bad terms a whole lot mainly b/c viktor’s a jackass.

don’t know if he’s soft towards anybody but we can try. we can Try.

friends, old friends, new friends, bad friends, good friends, close friends, frenemies, etc. etc. all of it

hookups !! so many hookups. fwbs, one night stands, whatever.

uuhhhh god. i don’t know. im so sleepy rn. people in the same major or similar majors.

maybe a ride or die.

people he’s a bad influence on / an enabler towards / all around toxic for them / each other.

people he’s fought !! people who’ve seen him get into random fights and were like ‘uh wtf’

fellow shepherds !!

literally anything im not picky.

#wshintro #grief tw #death tw #overdose tw #addiction tw #hospitalization tw #hypersexuality tw #religion mention #mental illness tw

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loreweaver-universe · 5 years

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I’ve had a couple of people express confusion about the fact that I hate this kid so much more than the genuinely gross asshole creep Kawazu, so let’s go on a tangent and talk about someone I hate talking about in any way, shape, or form: Christine Weston Chandler.

And boy howdy should you stop reading here if you don’t like hearing about this creep, because--not joking--my autistic ass has nightmares about her.

CWC is the autistic author of the infamously awful webcomic Sonichu, wherein a Sonic/Pikachu OC has adventures in a utopian town populated by other Sonic character/Pokemon fusions. It’s poorly drawn, even more poorly written, and would have been consigned to the heap of innocently terrible internet fancomics except for two things.

First, Sonichu caught the attention of 4chan.

Second, Sonichu held the attention of 4chan, because Christine is the walking fusion of the worst social stereotypes of autistic people and basement-dwelling neckbeards.

We’re talking about someone who once walked through a crowded mall trailing a paper heart on a string, “fishing” for a true love. Completely seriously. Someone who has been banned from several places for creeping on people and given restraining orders multiple times if I recall correctly. Someone who would sign off the end of Sonichu chapters with a completely serious “Remember, stay straight, kids!” That’s just a small sampling of her antics--which she completely unironically thought were normal behavior, mind you--and that’s not even getting into her squabbles with 4chan.

4chan mocked CWC, as 4chan is wont to do. CWC responded directly, attempting to refute their mocking jabs as if you could argue with trolls in any kind of successful manner. When they ramped up their mockery in return, she ramped up alongside them, eventually culminating in trolling wars with such highlights as tracing her dick to prove it wasn’t weirdly shaped and devoting an entire section of Sonichu to a trial of her biggest and most vocal trolls that ended with their torture and violent deaths.

God, this is just the tip of the iceberg. I spent a couple nights voraciously reading up everything I could on her back when I stumbled across this walking nightmare in college, and have regretted it ever since. If this account sounds vague, it’s because I’ve blotted out and aggressively avoided anything to do with CWC in the last five years or so because of what she does to me psychologically. Talking about her tends to give me panic attacks, actually, but since Paranoia Agent episodes seem to be the Loreweaver Talks About Mental Illness Power Hour, let’s lay this out.

I am autistic. I was diagnosed with Asperger’s Syndrome at age 21 prior to it being merged with the general autism diagnosis, and that retroactively explained SO much about the way I acted as a child and growing up--the stuff that was in retrospect sensory issues or my having the social skills of a dry clam, for example. (One of the primary defining traits of autistic folk, as far as I have experienced, is that we simply don’t come packaged with the mental software that absorbs, processes, and replicates subtle, situational, or nonverbal social cues and language that neurotypical people have installed right out of the gate.) As a child, my only diagnoses were ADHD and Oppositional Defiant Disorder; the doctors at the time didn’t even think to think that somebody as evidently “functional” as me, with a high tested IQ, could be described as autistic. Medical understanding of autism has come a long way since then, but growing up, all I knew was that other kids thought I was weird, and that I got interesting reactions out of them by playing it up and taunting them about it.

That all changed when I was a little older than Yuichi.

Heading out of middle school, I was upset that people didn’t like me--what wasn’t to like? I was so much smarter and more fun than any of them--and lamenting the cruelty of the world when I got to thinking.

It’s a long story and this post is already getting long, but the short version is that I figured out the whole “If everyone you meet is an asshole, you’re probably the asshole” principle, and then dedicated my teenage years to mentally beating myself up if I stepped out of line from how I thought a neurotypical person would act. I didn’t know the words “pass for neurotypical” at the time, of course, but I wrapped myself tighter and tighter around those vague and nebulous rules until I started to crack under the pressure. I developed chronic depression and an untreated anxiety disorder, and that little voice in the back of your head? The one that lists out every embarrassing thing you’ve done when it’s three in the morning and you’re begging your body for sleep? That was on full blast, all the time.

I am who I am today because I forced myself to learn how to understand and appreciate other people, but I did it in such a damaging way that it was essentially chronic self-harm...and when I see other people who don’t understand the lessons I whipped myself with all those years, who act not just in socially clueless ways but in actively creepy ways or condescending narcissistic ways, that voice in the back of my head starts shouting again about how terrible I am and how many mistakes I’ve made.

Every time I come across CWC in a discussion on the internet, this happens. Every time. I’m having kind of a rough time typing all of this out, actually. CWC is the worst timeline version of myself. She’s emotionally stunted, narcissistic, arrogant in spite of her incompetence, and most importantly, at least when I last looked into her seriously, was completely incurious and unwilling to consider self-improvement. She is my worst self-loathing made flesh, and my emotional reaction to coming across people that embody the worst aspects of myself, the ones I’ve done my best to purge over the years? It’s high-strung, turbulent anger.

In the same way that I see a lot of who I could have become in CWC, I see a lot of who I was in Yuichi--the smugness, the arrogance, the self-importance, the condescension, the narcissism. Unlike Kawazu, who has underdog elements and actually is shown working and struggling for his goals to some extent--and whose job is literally to ask questions and investigate things--Yuichi is just...an ass. THAT is why I react so much more violently to him than to Kawazu. Kawazu is regular, mundane awfulness; Yuichi is a dark mirror of myself.

Man, that sounds pretentious, doesn’t it.

Anyways. I’m gonna go take a quick break after typing all of this up. Whoof. That’s why I dislike the kid so much, emotional reactions, self-loathing, yadda yadda. See you in a couple minutes for the rest of the session.

#paranoia agent #noiabloggin #bloggin #noia03 #paranoia agent episode 2 #yuichi #kawazu #sonichu #christine weston chandler

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mandeebobandee · 5 years

Text

I said I’d write a post with my experience with mental illness and here it is. I put it off for a while because I wasn’t sure how personal I wanted to get, or if anyone would be interested, but hey. It’s been bouncing around in my head for a long time, and if this helps me or anyone who might come across it, I suppose it’s worth it. I’m going to put a read more here so that this doesn’t kill people’s dashes, since I have a feeling this is going to end up being long and rambly, but...here we go.

I’m not actually sure when my first symptoms showed up. It’s possible that I had some form of mental illness almost as far back as I can remember? I remember being in preschool and having a fear of wetting my pants for an entire day, and no matter how hard I tried I couldn’t seem to get the thought out of my mind. In first grade, I remember being seized by a fear that I would start swearing at the top of my lungs in the middle of class. I didn’t, but it popped into my head, and that felt bad enough. A couple of times in 2nd/3rd grade, I had difficulty falling asleep because I couldn’t stop worrying about trying to get to sleep, and I would keep repeatedly counting out how many hours of sleep I would get if I fell asleep right then, and if it would be ‘enough sleep’.

So yeah. I always was a worrywart, it seems like.

I feel like I should note that I went to Catholic school from kindergarten through 2nd grade. I should also note that I’m fairly certain my experiences with religion shaped some of my first experiences with mental illness. This is not to say anything against anyone who is religious - I respect you and your faith. However, certain things I learned through religion...didn’t exactly help me, with how my mind worked.

In Catholic school, confession is a thing. You go in front of a priest and tell him your sins, and he gives you a way to seek penance for it. Usually repeating a certain prayer a certain number of times, or something along those lines. I dunno, it’s been a LONG time since I’ve actually done it. I’m agnostic now, so I don’t exactly go to church.

The reason I bring this up?

My experiences when I was younger MAY have qualified as mental illness. I’m not 100% certain. What began near the end of 3rd grade? There is NO doubt about that.

It was Good Friday 1998. I was 8, soon to be 9. The reason I brought up my religious background is this - a religion related discussion precipitated my heardfirst dive into obsessive-compulsive disorder.

I’m pretty sure the comment was relatively harmless in hindsight, my mom making a comment about how Jesus died for our sins or something like that. All I know is that I suddenly found myself besieged by an overwhelming guilt as I thought about everything ‘bad’ I’d done in my life. Saying bad words, sneaking candy when I was 4 years old, all of it kept jumping to the forefront of my mind, and I felt like I had to confess it all to my parents as it came to my mind. I’m not sure how long this lasted...probably only a couple of weeks, honestly, but it wasn’t fun.

Also, the weirdest things became concerns of mine at that point. I had to make certain not to stick my middle finger out too far, or else I was afraid that I’d accidentally flip someone off, which I knew was bad. I didn’t want to say words like ‘wash it’ because...well, the end of the word wash combined with the word it sounded like ‘shit’ and ‘oh no bad word!’.

...I hate to say it, but this was only the beginning.

My mom and I were praying at one point at night when a really bad thought popped into my head. I was terrified, because what if it came true because I thought it while I was praying? And I didn’t really want to talk about it with anyone, because it was so horrible that I didn’t want anyone to know about it.

This continued for much of fourth grade. I was afraid I would hurt my mother. I didn’t actually want to, of course - I recognize now that these were what are known as intrusive thoughts, but there aren’t many nine year olds who know that now, let alone in the late 90s when I was experiencing all of this.

I recall being afraid to even touch knives, if that tells you anything.

I would also pray. By this point I recognized that what I was doing was ‘weird’, so I found ways to hide what I was doing. I would go into a room by myself and go through my routine, or I would do my daily ‘prayer’ in the shower.

...here’s why this was an issue.

I wasn’t just saying a quick prayer. I had an entire script memorized, that had to be said exactly the right way or I’d have to repeat it all over again. And it wasn’t a quick script either. And I often WOULD have to repeat it all over again. I recall at least one point where my parents actually made a comment about how long I spent in the shower, and the water grew cold with how long I spent in there. I didn’t tell them why, because I knew it was weird

That particular phase reached a boiling point one night when I was watching The Lion King. Here, I feel I should note that The Lion King was my favorite movie when I was younger. It came out when I was 5 years old, and I was Simba for Halloween in kindergarten. I had Simba and Nala stuffed animals, a Simba windbreaker with matching pants (yes, windbreaker..it was the 90s, okay?) that I took my school picture in, a Lion King casette tape, Lion King sheets on my bed...

You get the picture.

I bawled my eyes out during that movie, and while yes, I did often cry at certain scenes in that movie, for obvious reasons...this was different. This was almost hysterical crying, and my parents knew there was something wrong. They managed to finally coax me to admit my fears, and that seeing Simba accused of what happened to Mufasa in that movie was...well, it was a little too close for comfort.

Talking to my parents helped. I still had worries, of course, but my next big flare up didn’t happen until 5th grade.

Once again, the thing that set it off should have been something that didn’t affect me. It wouldn’t affect most people.

A girl in my gym class cut her knee on one of those rolly scooters that you’d sit on and roll around on in gym class. Obviously not the greatest thing, but you wouldn’t think it would be something that would set someone off...would you?

Ahahaha. Yeaaaaaaaaah right.

To preface, some of this was due to ignorance on my part. I was 10, I didn’t know the details as to how the disease I was so afraid of was transmitted. I only knew that you could get it from blood, and there was blood on the floor in gym class. So then I started worrying that I might have gotten it on my shoes. Then, that anything my shoes touched could have gotten something on them. Then my clothes. Then...

You, uh, get the picture.

I was afraid that anything I touched would give me AIDS. X_X Again, I KNOW now that it doesn’t work that way. I also know that even with other diseases, those pathogens eventually DIE outside of the body, so you don’t have to worry about your shoes being contaminated with the same virus two weeks later. But, again, I was 10. I actually learned shortly after this the truth of how AIDS is spread.

Anyway, this was one of the points where my OCD was most stereotypical. I washed my hands constantly. Obviously my parents noticed, and they tried to poke and prod into WHY I was doing this. Once again, my shame and fear and recognizing that what I was doing was ‘weird’ led me to hide the truth to some extent. We’d watched Johnny Tremaine in class and my dad mentioned that after he watched that movie he’d been afraid that his hand would get disfigured like one of the characters’ in the movie’s hands did. So I claimed that I feared something similar, and that was why I was washing my hands.

I’m pretty sure, looking back, that he probably didn’t buy that.

6th grade came. My mom had surgery. My best friend had diabetes. Neither of these were their fault, of course, but both I’m fairly certain had an impact on my already anxious mind. I started worrying that I would develop diabetes like my friend had. Now, I was old enough at this point to understand that diabetes wasn’t contagious, so at least I wasn’t worried about contracting it from my friend. I was, however, afraid of contracting other diseases, so...yep, the hand washing continued. We also happened to have this lovely book of illnesses from the 80s that my parents bought with an encyclopedia set way back that I spent way too much time reading. Actually, reading that became one of my compulsions. There was an entry that I would read through every night before I went to bed. The same entry.

My mom wound up in the hospital with chest pains a couple of weeks after surgery. They sent her home with a diagnosis of acid reflux. It was 2 in the morning and they took me to a side room to see if I could get some sleep. I couldn’t. We were learning about the plague of all things and I couldn’t get the idea that plague bacteria could be lurking anywhere in that room out of my head, so...yep. Didn’t get to sleep until they released my mom out of the ER at 6 or 7 in the morning.

I started fearing heart attacks around this point. I would literally feel for my heartbeat several times a day, just to make sure my heart was still beating.

Christmas that year was...stressful. My mom was still recovering from her surgery, there was family drama, my uncle’s girlfriend had a possible diagnosis of TB so everyone was paranoid of being around him because of THAT, my dad’s side of the family insisted on smoking despite the fact that being around smoke made me feel blah...

Still, that was a walk in the park compared to New Years.

We were invited to a neighbor’s New Years Eve party. Everything was fine until I walked in the door.

I still don’t entirely know how to describe the feeling that came over me. 11-year-old me summed it up as ‘I feel like I’m going to pass out’. I tried to continue as if everything was normal. I didn’t want to disrupt the party. The neighbor’s toddler daughter, who liked showing off for the ‘big kid’, wanted to show me a dance or something that she’d learned.

The feeling didn’t go away. I told my mom I wanted to go home, that I still felt like I was going to pass out.

We made it back home. I remember pleading with my mom to take me to the doctor, because I was honestly afraid there was something seriously wrong with me. The feeling eventually abated, but not without my discovering something quite interesting.

Remember that childhood illnesses book? When I read it, I usually stuck to certain communicable diseases that I was concerned about, or things like the diabetes that my best friend struggled with. My mom was looking through the book trying to figure out what was wrong with me, and started reading a definition that stood out to me. I don’t recall what all it said, and we no longer have that book (as it would be over 30 years old at this point). One thing I do recall was that she read something along the lines of ‘feeling like you’re going crazy or dying’.

It was under the heading of ‘panic attack’.

That New Years was the only New Years I can ever recall NOT staying up until or past midnight.

I ended up getting a fever a few days later, and in the midst of my fever, my delirious mind pounced on my fears and kept asking me ‘what if you really do want to hurt somebody?’ I was shaking uncontrollably, not realizing that I had chills and a fever, and ran into my mom’s room sobbing and telling her I thought I was going crazy. She felt my forehead and told me I was burning up.

You can understand why, when it was time to return back to school after Christmas break, I was uneasy as my mom pulled up to the curb to drop me off. I was afraid that I’d get a headache, or that I’d feel like I was going to pass out again, or any of the multiple things that seemed to be wrong with me recently. Of course, I had to pull up my big girl panties and still go to school, but...I started to become afraid to do things, out of fear that they would ‘set me off’, that something like what happened at that New Years Eve party would happen again.

And it did.

Not right away, of course. I didn’t walk into school and have it happen right away. It happened once in gym class. It happened at a school party. It happened when my parents were driving.

It happened twice in one day, at the beginning of 7th grade. To be fair, though, there were special circumstances that day. One instance was precipitated by a mental picture in my head of a plane crashing into our school, if that gives you some idea. Needless to say, even the adults seemed confused and panicky that day, and given how I was already..yeah, it wasn’t any surprise that 9/11 left me particularly frazzled.

The summer between 9th grade and 10th grade was quite possibly the worst. I spent hours doing my various ‘rituals’ that I had to do each day. By this time, I was already getting involved with online fandoms, and every day before I could actually posted what I wanted to on the Harry Potter forum I was on, I had to post certain posts over and over again. By this point, I more than suspected I had OCD.

I actually mentioned it to someone on the board, who pretty much laughed and said. ‘You don’t have it. If you had it, it would be noticeable’.

...like it wasn’t? Did they think I was posting the same thing over and over again for fun? I was doing rituals until 1 and 2 in the morning for pete’s sake.

This was honestly the pattern off and on through high school. 11th grade was particularly awkward, as it began to affect my grades. Certain readings in American Lit would give me ‘weird feelings’, and I couldn’t bring myself to finish the assignments for them for that reason.

The summer between 11th and 12th grade was when things hit a head. I developed a thing for straightening shelves in stores, and my dad was poking fun at me doing it at one point. I love my dad, but he can be particularly harsh when he teases, and by that point I was already in a bad position.

I burst into tears in the middle of Walmart. Not one of my proudest moments.

That said...it gave me the impetus to finally go to my parents about what was wrong. I knew I’d needed therapy for a few years prior to this point, I’d just never worked up the courage to talk to them about it.

The first part of the conversation actually went how I feared. My parents thought it was like the diseases I looked up as a child and would come into their room telling them I feared I’d get it (...ironically, I did that BECAUSE of this disorder, but moving on).

I left the room crying and began to write out my experience year after year, much as I did here (though probably not quite as eloquently...I was 17 at the time, after all). Once my parents read THAT, they finally realized how much this was impacting my life, and agreed to take me to the doctor.

Not only that, but they confessed that they did similar things. Now both of them admit to having OCD to some extent, and it’s pretty darn obvious that much of my family struggles with anxiety and/or OCD...on both sides.

Sad thing is? It took until the millennials (me and my cousin on my dad’s side) and Gen Z (a cousin on my mom’s side) before anyone actually sought help for any of this. X_X

I’m not going to pretend that I went to therapy and things magically got better. Therapy did help. I stopped therapy when I was 19, because my therapist was about to have a baby. I never went back to see her after that, figuring I was doing better at that point.

Of course, the ensuing decade after that was full of ups and downs.

2016 is probably when things began to get extra difficult again. I began to experience tremors. I would get dizzy/have palpitations. My doctor sent me to see a cardiologist and a neurologist.

They ran their tests, determined there was nothing physically wrong with me. The tremors, dizziness, and palpitations were new manifestations of my anxiety. At some point (not 100% sure when), I also gained a diagnosis of GAD.

Last year, I finally began to see a therapist yet again (the 2017-2018 flu season scared me particularly badly, and I still have a paranoia because of it), and started a new medication. Has everything gotten completely better?

No, but it has improved some from where it was prior to that point. I’m still working on it, and I’ll probably be working on it in some way, shape, or form for my entire life.

But hey, at least I can be more open about it now. And I know that I’m not alone, and that makes a huge difference as well <3

#intrusive thoughts #religion #mental illness #anxiety #ocd

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lovemesomesurveys · 5 years

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Let’s start with you. How are you? Struggling, but here we are. What motivates you to get up every day? My body wakes me up and I finally drag myself outta bed for coffee. Do you have a true best friend? My mom. Do you see yourself as a sensitive person? Very. Have you been upset recently? Mhm.

Do you still leave/receive voicemails? I hateeee leaving voicemails. I very rarely get voicemails anymore. Do you live in your hometown? Yeah. Are you a festive person? Do you enjoy holidays? I love the holidays. Did you/Will you attend college? I did. I graduated in 2015. How many alarm clocks do you use? I’ve been known to just turn it off and fall back asleep, so I have to set several. Do you consider yourself to be an open-minded person? Yeah. Do you eat fruit? I like some fruits, but I’ve never been a big fruit eater. I honestly haven’t had any fruits in at least 3 years, possibly 4. What is your favorite subject to learn about? Psychology. How many meals a day do you typically eat? 2-3 on good days, sometimes just 1, sometimes none. Music, eh? Have you seen any live shows? Yeah, a few. Name three of your favorite bands/artists… I have many. How big of a role does music play in your life? I enjoy music, but I don’t listen to it as much as I used to. Can you play any instruments? I used to play some piano, but it’s over 10 years now since I’ve played. You’re feeling down - do you listen to sad music or happy? I gravitate toward the sad stuff. Ya know, #relatable and all that. If you’ve ever been to a concert, how old were you and who did you see? I’ve been to a few. My first one was when I was 16. The others were when I was 18 and early 20s. Do you prefer music to be meaningful and deep, or purely for dancing/fun? I like both. Is there a song or artist that you secretly enjoy, but don’t want to enjoy? No. I like what I like, I don’t care. If you could only listen to music from one decade, which would you choose? That’s toughhh. I love my 90s, but I like variety of music from different decades and like to listen to a bit of everything, so it would be hard to choose just one. Has your parents taste in music in any way affected what you like? Yeah. We like a lot of the same stuff, especially my mom and I. You’re looking for some new music - what’s your preferred way to discover? Spotify. Do you still own any CD’s/records/tapes? Nope. A few years ago I sold them to a record store. Do you download music for free or pay for it? I use Spotify. We have the premium subscription, so we pay for it. Well, my mom does :X It’s a group plan thing that we have. Do you ever hear a new song on tv that you like and find it? Yeah, there’s been many times I’ve heard a song in a commercial or TV show/movie and looked it up. Speaking of television… (look at that smooth transition!) Do you watch a lot of television? Whether that be shows, news, movies etc. My TV is always on, but it does serve as background noise a lot. I have my shows I watch and pay attention to, and then there’s times I have something on and I tune in and out. Do you watch the news? I watch entertainment news more often, but yeah I watch the regular news like The Today Show or some of our local news sometimes. I get most of news online, though. What about the weather channel? No. I just use the app on my phone. What’s your favorite holiday movie? I love Christmas movies, there’s too many to name. What hooks you to a television show? Drama, suspense, comedy etc. I like all that, just depends on the plot really. How do you feel about adult cartoons? Not really my thing.

Talk shows - boring or entertaining? I watch a few. Do you prefer cable, satellite or streaming? We have satellite and we have streaming services like Netflix and Hulu as well. Have you come across any new shows you like this year? I have a list of shows I want to watch, but haven’t gotten around to, yet. I think the only new shows I’ve watched were The Hills: New Beginnings and I got into Whose Line is it Anyway?, both new and old seasons lol. I used to watch it during its original run, but I recently started watching again because this one channel airs it every weeknight. OH, The Act on Hulu was really good. That was the Gypsy Rose mini series. But yeah, there’s a lot of shows I need to get around to watching. Do you still watch shows that you grew up watching? Yep, a few. What about movies that you grew up with? Lion King and Toy Story are mine! Yep, many. Are you subscribed to any streaming services? Netflix and Hulu. Reality shows - entertaining or horrifying? I watch quite a few, ha. What is the first movie you ever saw in a cinema? I don’t know the very first, but the one that always comes to mind for some reason is Stuart Little. I know that’s not the very first, though. Let’s talk about what you don’t discuss at Sunday brunch… Do you identify with any organized religion? Christianity. If so - is it how you were raised, or have you found your own? My paternal grandparents are Christians and I went to church and Sunday school sometimes with them, but my parents weren’t/aren’t religious. They both believe in God, but they didn’t raise me with any religion. I was actually atheist and then agnostic for most of my life, up until 3 years ago. Do you think that marijuana should be legalized? Yes. If so, would that be for medical use only, or recreational? It has a lot of benefits so definitely for medical/health purposes, but I don’t care if people want to do it recreationally. Pro-life or pro-choice? Have you ever protested or been on strike? No. Is gun control necessary or no? Yes of course. Are you happy with the political state where you reside? Blahhh politics. Why do you feel that way? Have you read the book 13 Reasons Why or watched the show? Both. I read the book in high school or middle school, I don’t remember which and I’ve watched the show. The tv show brings teenage suicide to light in a graphic manner. Should shows like this be available to everyone or could it be a trigger? I mean, I think it’s something that needs to be talked about. It’s a real thing and we can’t act like it doesn’t exist. Mental illness is already so taboo and people don’t want to talk about, so it gets pushed under the rug and there’s stigma attached to it and people aren’t educated on it like they should be. I understand it can be triggering and difficult for people and that’s fine, they don’t have to watch it if they feel they can’t. I also want to note that there were warnings before each episode. Okay, let’s simmer down. Back to happy things. Do you like animals? Yes. If so, do you have any pets? Yep, I have a doggo. (: What is your favorite day of the week and why? * I dont have a favorite day of the wk. They’re prtty much all the same to me <<< Same. Do you have a favorite season? Fall and winter. How do you enjoy nice scents? Candles, wax melts, incense, oils etc. I have a few candles actually, but I never light them lol. They smell great, though. We have a few wax warmers around the house, though, which are nice. I like those because I don’t have use fire. I also like to use some air fresheners, just nothing too strong. Do you live in a large city or small town? It’s medium sized I’d say. Are you happy with that or would you like to change it? I’d like to live in a smaller city, I think. Do you have any children? Nooo. Are there any colors that you think compliment you? Black. Do you enjoy cleaning or find it to be a chore? I definitely don’t enjoy it. What is your absolute favorite food? For the past few months it’s been scrambled eggs with cheese and spinach by itself or wrapped in a tortilla, bologna sandwiches, Ramen, and pizza. If you were any color, what would you be? Gray. Do you spend a lot of time on social networks? Yeah. Books or movies? I enjoy both.

#personal #text #survey #surveys

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lottes-ocs · 5 years

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one chapter (first chapter maybe? def towards the beginning though) of my story. i turned it in for a workshop in class (capped at 12 pages double spaced). a note from my workshop document:

“Since this is going to be a longer work, I will likely expand upon Adam’s personal and inner life towards the beginning, so that the breakdown and the subsequent conversation with Ezra don’t feel as sudden. I will definitely add more documents like the emails, maybe therapist’s notes or text messages, and I might play around with POV in some later chapters, however, my plan is for Adam to be the primary narrator throughout.”

also lmk if i get anything egregiously wrong. i do have ptsd myself, but i also consulted 2 of my schizophrenic friends to make sure i didn’t include any details that would conflict with that and also to get details about antipsychotics correct

tw for suicide mentions, mental illness, unreality, some graphic imagery.

[January 21st, 2019 // 9:00 AM] Since I got discharged from the hospital last month, I’ve been grateful to live alone. Granted, it makes the paranoia worse, but I’m the only one who needs to know how often I’ve tried to talk to shadows or woken up yelling at the void. And I’m the only one who needs to know that I, a 30-year-old man, have been sleeping with a nightlight. But look, when my room is completely dark, mirages of my father and Dr. Wronski appear in the corner with their faces peeled off like in an autopsy and they won’t stop apologizing. I tell them I forgive them and they double down, I offer them solace and they weep with guilt, I articulate my own guilt and they articulate what it feels like to die. Only the nightlight makes them go away. Does that all sound stupid? Sure it does, but it feels a lot less stupid when I just need some sleep after another day trying to balance crushing grief with debilitating mental illness with my normal-person job, teaching abnormal psychology. Classes have been back in session since last week, so for a week, I’ve felt like a fish teaching marine biology. Or something out of Mariana’s trench. Ezra walks into my office, looking just a little too put-together for the workday (as usual), perfectly-tailored pants, perfectly ironed shirt, and perfectly styled curls, and snaps me out of my self-pitying daze by setting down a large stack of papers on his desk next to mine. “The anxiety essays,” he says with an imperious sigh. “Was I this dumb in undergrad?” “Probably not,” I say. “You were a little older than them.” “And I actually had anxiety.” He’s made a point of bringing up his own issues since I got back. I think he’s doing it so I don’t feel embarrassed or isolated, but he does love to talk about himself regardless, and besides, the support of one grad student doesn’t outweigh the nastiness of some of the higher-ups. “Do you have any new bits, Ezra?” I try to change the subject to his comedy (he does standup on the side, and I hear he’s not bad). “Eh, nothing good. You look tired.” He brushes me off with forced nonchalance. “I’ve had plenty of work to catch up on.” There’s actually no reason that he should know why I was gone, it’s my business, but he definitely does. Everyone does. I work in the psych department, so the people here know what it means when someone’s witnessed the death of their mentor and is subsequently out for a month with no further explanation than “illness.” “Have you, uh…” he clicks his tongue in thought. “Did you drink coffee this morning?” I nod with an exasperated smile. “Well, y’know, the Keurig’s in the lounge if you need it. And I’m in 522 most of today if you need help. Catching up on work, or whatever.” He drums casually on the doorframe, shoots me finger-guns, and heads down the hall. I like Ezra. He’s my TA now, but we were both in grad school working towards our doctorates together, up until last spring, when I received mine. We’re the same age, and he’s definitely smarter than me (as he is most people), he just started college late. I think it’s very sweet of him not to be a condescending dick to me (I seem to be a popular target for condescending dicks lately) especially because Ezra can muster up a dangerous amount of condescending dickishness when he feels the need. However, I process absolutely none of what he said. I was listening, I was trying to listen anyway, but my head’s not working right, not right now. I really didn’t get enough sleep. It’s a vicious cycle. The hallucinations and intrusive thoughts keep me up, the lack of sleep worsens the severity of the hallucinations and intrusive thoughts. In fact, since I arrived at work forty-five minutes ago, I have kept a mental tally: Sudden and overwhelming urge to stab myself: 3 instances. Sudden and overwhelming urge to stab Dr. Carlisle for looking at me weird: 2 instances (fuck off, it’s not like I’m going to act on it). Sudden and overwhelming urge to break down crying: 45 instances. Rats underneath my desk: Yeah, I don’t know, I called maintenance and they told me they’re fake, so I guess they’re fake, even though I can see them. Hanging woman in the back corner of my office: Don’t mind her, she’ll be gone within the hour. I’ll be sorry to see her go, though. A sense of unreality is creeping in. I try to keep Dr. Beauchamp’s voice in my head, “if there shouldn’t be any real dead people in the room, there are almost definitely no real dead people in the room.” Well, there was that one time, you asshole. No, fuck it, there are almost definitely no real dead people in the room. I reach into my briefcase, desperate for the pill bottle, because I know my thoughts are going to turn into alphabet soup if I don’t do something soon. I split a Clozaril tablet in half and swallow it hastily. I am not supposed to split it in half, and I am not supposed to take more than one dose in a span of 24 hours, and I have a Ph.D. in psychology, obviously I know I’m lowering the efficacy in the long term and increasing my risk of side effects. But at this point, let me die of agranulocytosis if that’s what I’ve got coming. I’ll be out of a job and wasting eleven years of higher education if this shit doesn’t stop. Maybe that isn’t true. It feels true. Maybe it isn’t.

[January 21st, 2019 // 1:30 PM] FROM: Dr. Raymond Carlisle TO: Dr. Adam Collins SUBJECT: Checking in.

Dr. Collins, I sincerely hope all is well. I received word that you cancelled a lecture today. I need hardly tell you that you just had a month off for Winter Break, and two weeks before that for the beginning of your hospitalization. I hardly think an even further extended reprieve from your work is fair, and if you genuinely do, that’s a conversation we need to have. To be frank, Dr. Herrmann and I feel it is irresponsible to allow someone in your condition to continue to work, in the field of psychology no less. Though I do not at all doubt the competence of our colleagues at the medical center, nor your mental facilities, I feel compelled to let you know that if your psychological state continues to cause issues with your work the department might require you to take a leave of absence. While I hope your treatment plan begins to work to its full effect soon, your own safety and the integrity of this department are top priority.

Best wishes, truly,

Dr. Raymond Carlisle Head Professor, Psychology (555) 555-5555

My hands tremble with anger (and hopefully not tardive dyskinesia) as I type my reply.

FROM: Dr. Adam Collins TO: Dr. Raymond Carlisle SUBJECT: Re: Checking In

Dr. Carlisle, all is as well as it possibly can be needs to be. I don’t respect you as a colleague and I believe your total comfort in your new position, which I need hardly remind you is Dr. Wronski’s old position, is quite frankly borderline disrespectful. If it’s irresponsible for someone in “my condition” to continue to work then why do you give a shit if I cancel my lectures? Leave me the fuck alone or I’ll mention you by name in my suicide note. At the moment, it is difficult for me walk by Dr. Wronski’s old office, which I have to do to get to 525 (where that lecture is held). Could I request a change of I was having a panic attack you absolute dick how are YOU allowed to continue to work in the field of psychology when you have NO compassion My new medication has occasionally been making me sick. That issue should be resolved either way after I meet with my psychiatrist next week.

Thank you for your concern, Dr. Adam Collins Department of Psychology

[January 22nd, 2019 // 10:30 AM] I think back to our last faculty meeting, at least my last faculty meeting, in November. It does feel like a while ago, and it’s hard to fathom that Dr. Wronski was still here then. It gets easier to fathom when Dr. Carlisle comes in and takes his seat at the head of the conference table, simply because of how wrong that is. I picture her there instead, how things are supposed to be, how it should have been. I think about how someone should have helped her when they still could have. I really picture her there instead for a moment, her image replacing Carlisle’s. I blink once and she’s gone, and he’s back. As he starts talking, though, I feel a tap on my shoulder and see her behind me for a split second, ephemeral and transparent like the dots in a grid illusion, then she walks away and disappears. My whole body is left feeling cold, sharp, and jolted, as if I fell on a blade without expecting to. I’m filled with dread as I realize Carlisle’s words are simultaneously turning to nonsense and growing louder in my ears, and a high, harsh noise like microphone feedback intertwines itself with his voice. Dr. Wronski reappears in his place again, but she is lifeless this time, blood pooling from her head like it was when I found her, circling her hair in a grim halo. Her eyes are clouded with even more film, her mouth is agape, and I can feel my breathing grow rapid. I squeeze my eyes shut. I know I am in the middle of a meeting; I will not fall apart like this in the middle of a meeting, not when my “mental facilities” are already being called into question. I pinch myself, internally repeating “there are no real dead people here, there are no real dead people here, there are no real dead people here—” “Dr. Collins, are you with us?” Dr. Hermann’s voice pierces through my mantra, entirely unfriendly, entirely accusatory, despite the faux-sweetness she is trying to summon. “Yes.” My voice sounds thin and weak, and blood rushes to my face. I shut my eyes again, since I feel tears prickling at the corners of them. Not fucking here, Jesus Christ, not fucking here, I think to myself. Then I think again about my last meeting, the old hierarchy, the time when I fell asleep at one of these in October after a particularly long night and Dr. Wronski just pulled me aside afterwards and asked if I was okay, and if there was anything she could do. And now the image of her corpse won’t leave my head. It overwhelms me. I don’t see her in the room anymore, but I might as well be back in her office when I first found her body, the first time in my life I had ever truly hoped that I was only seeing a figment of my imagination. The gun in her hand— I try to think of anything else. Anything to keep it at bay. I click my pen repeatedly (Carlisle asks me to stop), I scratch at my wrists and pull at my skin, anything to shift my focus to anything else. Nothing is working. The lump in my throat grows. My heartbeat gets faster, my chest starts to hurt, and suddenly I can smell the blood and rot that permeated the room that night, and I am helpless to stop it— Someone grabs me. I look up to see every eye in the room on me. I can’t breathe, I can’t speak, and I realize I’m in the middle of this meeting, crying and having a full-on panic attack, surrounded by people who already think I’m a headcase. I am sobbing and shaking and unable to steady my breathing and to them it seems completely unprompted at best, and at worst, it seems like it’s because Hermann and Carlisle snapped at me. And even in the midst of my abject humiliation, the image of Dr. Wronski lying in a pool of her own blood is still in my head, still absolutely fucking killing me, and I couldn’t calm down if I tried. I get up and walk out. That’s what fucking happens when I’m forced to try to power through episodes. I could care less what Carlisle does to me right now, I will not stay in there and continue to look like an emotionally unstable baby in front of my colleagues. I go to finish up my breakdown in the privacy of my office, catching a glimpse of myself in a window on the way and hating myself even more at the sight of my own disheveled hair and bright red, tear-streaked face. I sit down and hide underneath my desk, pop another half-a-Clozaril tablet that I try not to choke back up (I’m still hyperventilating so hard I could vomit), and bury my face in my arms. “Adam?” I look up. “Ezra.” I am barely composed, still hyperventilating, swiping at my eyes furiously and futilely. I look away, and I hope maybe he’ll think I’m just sick. I expect him to walk away, pretend that he never saw me like this and just silently let it color his perception of me. But he comes and sits down next to me underneath the desk. I don’t know what to say. “Do you want me to go?” he asks, after a moment. “You don’t have to.” I don’t want to admit it, but I don’t really want him to. Nobody else is this understanding with me anymore. I keep trying to collect myself, barely noticing at first when he puts his hand on my shoulder. “Do you need anything?” I shake my head, still not making eye contact. Theoretically, I’m getting the help I need, and maybe I do need the support of a friend right now too, but I don’t want to trouble him. Besides, I must look pathetic, cowering under a table and weeping, almost comically vulnerable. Hm. “Ezra,” I turn to him, finally, after a few more minutes of whimpering. I know my eyes look crazy, bloodshot to hell. “Can you take me to a mic?” “A mic?” “Yes. A standup mic. I want to see what it’s like.” “Really?” he smirks. “Yes, why not?” I can’t think of the last time I laughed, at least not genuinely. I can’t think of the last time I let myself. My self-loathing has become entirely unfunny, my psyche and my job both absolute nightmares, not to mention the actual nightmares—I need something light. Something just a little bit light. “You would… enjoy that?” “Yeah.” It makes me sad that he seems surprised, though I can’t blame him. I’ve been awfully serious, not even just for the past week or month, but probably since my dad died last spring. He reads my disappointment. “Sorry, Adam, I just… do you like comedy?” “I don’t know. My therapist laughs at my jokes sometimes.” He smiles at that, and I smile too, through dissipating tears. “Well, if you really want to, yeah. The next one is Thursday night.” I nod and take a deep breath. I realize Ezra hasn’t taken his hand off my shoulder, and he is absent-mindedly rubbing circles into my back. Maybe it’s stupid, but I stay as still as I can. I don’t want him to notice that he’s doing it and stop. “Is everyone there funny?” I ask, just to keep his focus. It’s a dumb question. I rephrase myself, “How funny is everyone?” He exhales a chuckle. “Honestly? About thirty people go up every night, sometimes more. They’re mostly shit. Don’t worry, though, there’s plenty to laugh at with the shitty ones.” He proceeds to tell me about the guys who show up high every time and just get up on stage and talk about nonsense (or weed itself) for 5 minutes, the wannabe Dangerfields and Seinfelds and Mulaneys who “never actually managed to glean what joke structure is” (though to be fair, It’s not like I have either), even the bigoted old men still trying with unflinching determination to resurrect “get back in the kitchen” jokes. I am losing myself in his stories, feeling at least marginally more relaxed, when Carlisle appears in my doorway. Ezra takes his hand off my back. Carlisle glances at us with confusion and disgust. “Dr. Collins, if you would please… get up and come see me in my office.” “We’re actually grading papers right now,” Ezra shoots back, in a tone of voice that says “yes, I think you’re stupid.” “Take a break, please,” Carlisle replies, glaring and exiting. I look hesitantly at Ezra, before getting up to follow him. “I do want to come,” I say. “To a mic.” “We’ll talk more later. I should still be here after you’re done facing the wrath of god.” I know I’m about to get chewed out to an extreme degree. Still, I can’t help but grin back at him.

#psychology story

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markrichardson · 5 years

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My Year in Spotify Listening

Like a lot of people I checked out the Spotify year-end summary thingy, and since Spotify is only a certain percentage of my listening, the results were surprising, and I tried to figure out what it meant. In general, I listen to new music via iTunes, if I am sent promos. That only encompasses a certain amount of new music of course, but if I’m sent a download, I tend to use that for my listening all year long. Often, I’m “done with” an album more or less by the time it comes out, but sometimes I’ll keep listening (as w/ DJ Koze this year) and I do that with my promo files. My Spotify listening tends to be a mix of things I stick on a few different playlists based on mood or genre, and they could come from anywhere (but they aren’t usually new).

In terms of my favorite artists (Bill Evans wound up in my top spot, somehow, followed by Joni Mitchell) it was hard to figure out how it’d happened, because I didn’t spend the year obsessed with either. Then I looked at my 100 most played songs, and that did bring back a few things. I’m not sure if the whole list is in order, but the first 5 songs in the playlist are the 5 listed when Spotify gave me my most-listened-to tracks of the year, so I think so? Anyway, that’s what I am going with here. This is how my Top 10 songs show up on the playlist, in order, with one exception: in the middle of the list was Bow Wow Wow’s “See Jungle,” which I already wrote about on Tumblr 8 years ago (and about which I have very little to say now, except that yes I do still listen to this song a fair amount), so I’ve omitted that and included No. 11.

Wussy: “Runaway” This was my favorite song of the year, it has 600 plays on Youtube and 5,400 on Spotify, which makes me a little sad. Technically it’s not from this year—Wussy put this out on a small-release tape or CD-R a few years ago—but I’m still counting it. This is the rare case where the streaming media playcounts tend to match the responses of folks I’ve talked to about this song—I mentioned to 4 or 5 people, and in each case they said “Yeah that’s kind of nice I guess...why do you like it so much?” I’ll try to answer that here.

First I should say that I have no real interest in or knowledge of Wussy. They’re an indie rock band from Ohio, most notable at this point for the fact that Robert Christgau loves them, and has written rapturous reviews of their work over the years, which surely has helped them to achieve whatever small amount of notoriety they have. I checked them out here and there but they didn’t make much of an impression on me. I wish I could remember how I came across this particular song, but I can’t, probably either Twitter or a streaming media algorithm. But I loved it immediately, like, stop-what-you-are-doing-and-listen kind of loved. It just clicked.

The first thing that comes to mind is the chorus: “I love you, let’s run away.” That’s the theme of so many of my favorite songs, I mean, the first album I bought in my life was “Born to Run,” and if you could sum up the first three Springsteen albums in in 6 words, “I love you, let’s run away” wouldn’t be bad. And I think I liked that this song didn’t try for poetic phrasing, just said it in the simplest way possible.

But the romance of a song like this has a shade of darkness to it, and that draws me in even more. Escape is never a long-term strategy. Eventually you have to figure out how to make life work when you’re in the thick of it. So while it’s such an appealing dream to exit the world with someone you’re crazy about, there is a shelf life to that sort of gesture. I relate to this idea of being fed up with everything in the moment and wanting to jump in the car with the only person who gets you, but eventually, the car is is going to need gas. What then?

I didn’t know when I first heard this song that it was a cover, so the immediate impact of it was as a Wussy song. But I learned that it was written and recorded by another Ohio artist that people in the band had known, a woman named Jenny Mae. She died last year. Pitchfork did a news story on her passing. She was 49. And when I found that it was her song, I listened to her version and I loved it almost as much (but not quite), though her take also made my Spotify Top 20. I did think enough of her version to order the 7-inch, which was her first release. When I read about Jenny Mae’s life, the song took on another layer of meaning. She suffered from mental illness and self-medicated with alcohol. And she was described by people who knew her as brilliant and creative and hilarious but also impulsive and self-destructive. Which for me gives a sentiment like “No one likes us anyway / I hate my job / Sweet, sweet are the innocent / I love you, let’s run away” and “40 ounce between your legs/ Shakin up my heart / Turn around and look at me / Light another smoke” a different tint. These are the kinds of things you say when in the throes of a rush of feeling, but they’re not impulses you can safely follow for a lifetime, even though goddammit, sometimes I want to.

Bo Diddley: “Nursery Rhyme” In Richmond early this year I bought an old Bo Diddley album called The Originator. I saw it in a used bin, it was $20, and, it was pure instinct, I had a feeling it was interesting. For me, buying used records, $20 is a fair amount of money, I don’t pay that for something I’ve no idea about, typically. But something compelled me to pick it up. I was intrigued that it had none of the hits I knew. And I took it home and when I put it on a short while later it blew my mind. This surprised me because on the one hand it sounds so much like the idea of “Bo Diddley” I keep in my brain, the one rhythm we know from the song he named after himself, but this was just so controlled, so well rendered, with so much atmosphere. The whole thing is brilliant. I became particularly obsessed with this cut from the record, and then I started exploring the “Bo Diddley” beat in general, reading whatever I could about it and listening to examples. This kind of random deep-dive is the best thing about the internet era for a music fan.

Mulatu Asatke: “Tezeta (Nostalgia” At nights when I hang out with my Mom at her condo in Michigan I play music over a Bluetooth speaker I bought a year ago. My Mom’s default has for a while been to put the television on, but at some point I asked her about playing music instead so we could talk or just hang out, and she grew to like it. Sometimes we’ll chat about stuff, and sometimes she will play Candy Crush on her iPad while I do things on my phone, which sounds distant but is actually very comforting to me. One of the things I’m doing on my phone during these evenings is finding songs to play. It’s quite fun (and interesting) for me to say to myself “What is a playlist that would make my Mom happy?” and then try and figure out what that might be on the fly. She was never really a music person so I don’t have a lot to go on, mostly her age, a story or two about a song she liked, and a vague knowledge of what she might have heard on the radio in my lifetime.

In September, my Dad died, and I stayed with my Mom in her condo for a number of days that month. I felt a strange mix of feelings. On the one hand, he was father, I missed him, I thought about never being able to talk to him again, to not be able to share the things in my life. I thought about the fact that I wouldn’t be able to learn more about his life, my knowledge of which is pretty sketchy. There were all the usual things a person would be sad about. But then there was the fact that he had a severe and debilitating case of Parkinson’s disease for the last eight years, and at times he suffered so terribly. I remembered how on a few occasions he called me while he was delusional, he would tell me that he was sure he was going to die. One time, he told me that he saw someone in the driveway who was going to kill him. Another time, he said that it was hard to explain but that he had been split into two people, and he couldn’t take it, he was terrified. I told him that it would be better tomorrow and he yelled, “I’m going to be dead by tomorrow!” I would get calls like this while I was walking to work in Brooklyn 700 miles away, and I would feel so helpless. And so when he passed, I thought about him during situations like that, and also felt like maybe not he had some peace.

A night or two after my Dad died I was sitting with my Mom, talking, and playing music. She dug out some old photos and we were looking at them, pictures from her in high school that I had never seen. I wanted to see everything, learn every detail. And over that Bluetooth speaker I was playing some random playlist I had found called something like “Jazz for late night.” I wanted background music. And while we were hanging out and talking, this song came on, “Tezeta” by the Ethiopian jazz bandleader Mulatu Astatke. And man, it’s hard to describe, but the mood of this song so perfectly captured the exact feeling I had. The phrase that comes to mind is “bombed out,” that’s the way it seemed, like I’d been beaten up and thrown in a ditch and my ears were ringing and now I was trying to reorient myself after all that had happened. There was a feeling of weariness and sadness but also a feeling that life continues, that we have to gather our memories and keep on. And this impossibly beautiful song captured every bit of that, the one-chord riff moving ahead, in spite of it all, while the sax line captures all the sadness dripping off everything at the same time. I listened to it constantly in the weeks afterward.

Galaxie 500: “Fourth of July” (live) One of my favorite songs by one of my favorite band in my favorite version. This song is indicative of how (as with all songs on this list) when I’m in the mood I can listen to one track over and over. On a couple of occasions in 2018, I listened to this maybe 8 or 9 times in a row, immediately hitting “back” when it had finished. And the thing I was typically listening to was Naomi Yang’s bassline, which to me holds the lion’s share of the song’s feeling. Her bass playing in Galaxie 500 is so incredibly emotional to me, and it was never more so than here.

Pusha T: “Infrared” The one truly “new” song on here.” I didn’t have an advance of this record so I listened on Spotify when it came out and I loved it. And this song in particular seemed so perfect, the carefully constructed rap, executed as if it’s coming off the top of his head, the sample—I listened to this many times in a row on a few occasions, and it also sent me to revisit Clipse, which brought me a lot of joy.

Joni Mitchell: “Carey” Another song about freedom, but here it’s real. Blue is a perfect record but I probably revisit this one more than any other single song because I’m so in love with the production—that bass, that hand percussion...sonically, an album recorded almost 50 years ago simply cannot be improved upon. I remember hearing this one on AM radio when I was very young. It was a single, b/w “This Flight Tonight,” one hell of a 7-inch. I’ve always thought the picture it painted was so incredibly romantic—”Maybe I’ll go to Amsterdam, maybe I’ll go to Rome / And rent me a grand piano and put flowers 'round my room.” Hey, why not! And if Carey is indeed keeping her in this tourist town, we know it’s only for another hour, another day, another week, whenever she’s ready, she can’t be tied down. But then, that’s the future: this night, now, is a starry dome, and we’re alive, inside it.

Arthur Russell: “That’s Us/Wild Combination” Sometimes w/ my favorite Arthur Russell songs you can hear the strain as he creates a new genre trying to get a particular unnamable feeling across. But not this one. Sitting in a room with his friend Jennifer Warnes he made a song that feels as natural as a breath.

Carole King: “Pleasant Valley Sunday” I’m in awe of Carole King’s ability to write songs that sound perfect on the radio. Even if her prime hitmaking years only lasted a bit over a decade, the number of her songs with her name on them that left a huge mark on culture is staggering. Her demo for the Monkees hit “Pleasant Valley Sunday” shows how perfect everything was before the artist who would bring the song to the public got anywhere near it. I found this one on Youtube 8 or 9 years ago and it’s been in regular rotation since.

Hank Williams: “The Angel of Death” In February and March I was doing research my Pitchfork Sunday Review on Bruce Springsteen’s Nebraska. It’s one of my favorite records, and I’ve wanted to write something long on it for years, so spending time w/ it as the winter wound down was an intense pleasure. It’s common knowledge that Springsteen was listening to a lot of Hank Williams when he was writing the album, and when I came across this song, I became obsessed with it. One, the melody sounds right off Nebraska, and “My Father’s House” (another song I listened to a lot this year) especially seems directly modeled on it. But this song has so much going for it on its own. It’s about death and the moment of judgement, but Hank’s melody and phrasing don’t sound frightened. It’s hopeful, a prayer instead of an admonishment.

Guided by Voices: “Motor Away” I’ve loved this song for years but I listened to it intently around the same time I was playing the Hank Williams, when I was thinking about leaving Pitchfork. I’ve never been a big fan of Robert Pollard’s lyrics (though I love many of his tunes), but he second line here is the one I couldn’t put out of my mind: “When you free yourself from the chance of a lifetime.” That’s where I felt I was. Editing this music magazine that I cared so much about was the culmination of a dream that took a long time, a ton of work, and a fair amount of luck to realize. When the chance of a lifetime comes along, you’re supposed to hold on to it as tightly as possible for as long as possible, until someone finally pries it away, which will happen eventually. I knew that. And yet, deep down, I knew that after 11 years, I wanted to try something else. Run away, motor away, drive away. Sometimes a song can give you the tiniest push.

#writing #myfather

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svartalfhild · 5 years

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2018, I Won’t Miss You

A.k.a. I call out this year for all the ways it fucked me over and reflect on a few good experiences.

This year was the first year I’ve ever had a smart phone, which ended up being pretty damn useful, even essential at some points. However, the counterbalance was that I had to go through finding out how to live in a post-school existence, and that was not pretty, because it put me at all new levels of social isolation and uncertainty. I stressed super hard about finding a new job. I ultimately didn’t get one and lost hours at my current job because I thought I was going to be transitioning to a better job at a toy store, but they laid me off only a few weeks after hiring me to replace me with someone with better availability. They said I could stay on as a “seasonal worker” but it’s past Christmas and I haven’t been asked to fill a single shift since they benched me in September, so saying I still work there is kind of a joke at this point.

The good news is, despite the stress of failing to get a better job, I’ve added art as an occasional source of extra income, starting with doing the cover illustration for a short story my mother published earlier this year and later with opening commissions to the online community.

My mental health didn’t have a super great year, though, especially in the first half. On top of the job bullshit and the dealing with not knowing how to live life without school, I was feeling intensely bleak about my existence. I was in an excruciating amount of emotional pain because of things I couldn’t control, and it festered because I had the free time to ruminate about how lonely and dejected I felt. I hadn’t felt quite that bad in several years, actually. It’s hard to compete with the shit I was going through in middle school, but this came alarmingly close.

I think my biggest mistake was trying to force myself to be fine again as soon as possible when it took me a couple years to get past the shit that plagued me when I was 12. I honestly think, though, that there was a little while there from about July to late September when I was coping pretty well. I don’t know what happened in late spring to make that happen, but I was in a state of higher functioning for a bit in the summer.

The sad thing is that here at the end of the year, I am once again struggling with the same shit; I’m just a whole lot better with how that affects my behaviour towards other people now. I do feel like I’ve learned how to better interact with people and shield those I love from the worst of my mental health nonsense. In turn, I think that has greatly improved my relationships and made me less prone to beating myself up over the things I say. Progress.

And hey! I did manage to do some pretty rad things this year, despite all the crap my physical and mental health were hefting onto me. I got on a plane for the first time and traveled by myself to Oregon to be with some of my closest friends, who I’d only ever known through the internet before. We went to a convention together and had a really awesome time getting our asses kicked at AtlA themed dodgeball dressed as our DnD characters. I went through a haunted house for the first time and found out that I’m too rational to be scared by a lot of that sort of stuff (but it was still fun). I got to go to huge bookstore and see a first American edition of Fellowship of the Ring. I think the best part of that whole trip, though, was just living with friends and getting a taste of what life without my family’s control could be like. For once in my life, I trusted that everyone and everything was going to be okay, and for a few days, I was really happy. Because of that, though, I spent a lot of the day that I left crying or trying not to cry. Having so much of what you want and then having to leave it is...really upsetting, as it turns out.

But anyway. I also managed to complete an application to grad school, so even though my whole Find A Good Job plan didn’t work, I still took a step towards some kind of life goal and I don’t have to have a total existential crisis just yet. I don’t have high expectations about being accepted, but I do have some hopes and that’s something I can hold onto going into next year.

A lot changed with my family this past year. Dealing with the wake of my grandfather’s sudden death was a major issue all year that seemed almost handled until my grandmother died just a couple months ago, which threw everything back into chaos and despair. Death and loss have been an awful theme for me this year in general. On top of my grandparents’ deaths, my dad’s best friend committed suicide, and a friend of mine, who I know to have been suicidal in the past, completely disappeared from the internet when I wasn’t looking, and I was unable to track her down to find out if she was okay. Other friends lost people who were dear to them as well. The world was ravaged by increasingly terrible disasters on top of that. Needless to say, my empathy circuits are fucking fried.

Thankfully, life handed me some pretty great distractions from its bullshit, like an awesome DnD campaign and lots of time with assorted other TTRPGs, or numerous video games like Pillars of Eternity II: Deadire, Fallout 4, and Overwatch. Netflix brought me countless hours of enjoyment, and my brother got me to watch all of Stargate SG1 with him, which I wasn’t super into at first, but it grew on me. I started knitting again for the first time in years, because I love knitting scarves for people. I did a lot of fic writing, but it wasn’t really fanfiction so much as additional content for my tabletop games. Same goes for art.

It’s been over a year now since I’ve posted any proper fanfic or fanart, which feels weird, but I think I’ve become so exhausted with the politics of being a fan content creator that I haven’t had the motivation for it. It’s much easier to keep your passion for something going when you don’t hope to attract the attention of thousands of people, and instead you’re making things for a story you made up with your closest friends. The only people whose attention you need to care about then are a handful of people who are already inherently invested.

Of course, that’s not to say that I don’t get sad about my work sometimes anyway, regardless of what I’m creating and for whom. Depression is and has been a real dick this year, and it made me procrastinate on my grad app manuscript to the point where I had to stress years off my life cramming the creation of a 10k word original short story into a single month just before the deadline. I managed it, though, and that’s the important thing.

I don’t know what to expect from 2019 except more nonsense, because there’s always copious amounts of nonsense. Having high expectations, given what the past few years have been like, seems rather silly at this point. I suppose what the new year shapes up to be will largely hinge on whether I get accepted to grad school in March or not. If I do, then it’ll be a year of big change in my life, going away to live on my own in a different state. If I don’t, then it’ll just be More Of Same, still living with my parents, working part-time at a shit food service job, looking for a new job, and tearing my hair out trying to get everything together for more grad school applications.

One way or the other, though, I intend to try to finally get treatment for my mental illness. I am tired of being like this and I’m tired of having my memory and focus abilities steadily destroyed by this shit. If anything goes right next year, let it be that.

#personal

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