#except worse. because he is schizophrenic

[pokeology]

You all love to say things to me like they make any sense at all.

[monstrousgourmandizingcats]

Some books and stories that I think are worth reading in conversation with Yellowjackets

Shirley Jackson, all works but especially The Sundial, The Haunting of Hill House, and We Have Always Lived in the Castle. Jackson might or might not need any introduction in this fandom. The Sundial is her take on doomsday preppers, Hill House is of course her haunted house novel (one of the classics of that genre), and Castle has a female protagonist who makes Shauna look like a plaster saint.

Flannery O'Connor, The Violent Bear It Away. O'Connor's work has some of the most pervasive darkness and brutality of any major American writer (maybe Ambrose Bierce comes close), and the second of two novels that she completed before her death is no exception. (The first, Wise Blood, is also very good; the intended third, Why Do the Heathen Rage?, only exists as a fragmentary short story.) Francis Marion Tarwater is kidnapped and raised in the woods by his great-uncle, who is convinced that Francis is destined to be a prophet. The great-uncle's death commences a bizarre adventure involving auditory hallucinations, sinister truckers, an evil social worker, arson, developmental disabilities, and baptizing and drowning someone at the same time. Content warnings for all of the above plus rape. O'Connor is also a fairly racist author by today's standards--she was a white Southerner who died in 1964--so keep that in mind as well.

Ruth Ozeki, The Book of Form and Emptiness. Teenage protagonist is schizophrenic and also a channel for a genuinely supernatural force; well-intentioned but poorly-considered efforts to treat one of these issues make the other worse. Sound familiar? There are supporting characters who are affectionate parodies of Slavoj Zizek and Marie Kondo. A minor character is a middle-aged lesbian who cruises dating apps for hookups with much younger women. Some people find this book preachy and overwritten, but I really like it and would plug it even if I didn't because the author is someone whom I've met and who has been supportive of my own writing.

Yukio Mishima, The Decay of the Angel. Can be read in translation or in the original Japanese. This is the fourth and last book in a series called The Sea of Fertility but I wouldn't necessarily recommend the first three as particularly YJ-ish; Decay is because it deals at great length with issues of doubt and ambiguity about whether or not a genuinely held, but personally damaging, spiritual and religious belief is true. There's also more (as Randy Walsh would put it) lezzy stuff than is usual for Mishima, a gay man. Content warnings for elder abuse, sexual abuse of both children and vulnerable adults in previous books in the series, forced abortion in the first book if you decide to read the whole thing from the beginning, and the fact that in addition to being a great novelist the author was also a far-right political personality.

Howard Frank Mosher, Where the Rivers Flow North. An elderly Vermont lumberjack and his Native American common-law wife refuse to sell their land to a development company that wants to build a hydroelectric power plant. Tragedy ensues. I haven't read this one in a long time but some images from the movie stick in my mind as YJ-y. Lots of fire, water, and trees.

Leonard Cohen, Beautiful Losers. Yes, this is the same Leonard Cohen who later transitioned into songwriting and became a household name in that art form. Beautiful Losers is a very weird, very horny novel that he wrote as a young man; it deals with the submerged darkness and internal tension within Canadian and specifically Quebecois society. One of the main characters is Kateri Tekakwitha, a seventeenth-century Iroquois convert to Catholicism who was probably a lesbian in real life (although Cohen unfortunately seems unaware of this). This one actually shows up YJ directly; the song "God Is Alive, Magic Is Afoot" that plays in the season 2 finale takes its lyrics from a particularly strange passage.

Monica Ojeda, Jawbone. Can be read in translation or in the original Spanish. Extremely-online teenage girls at a posh bilingual Catholic high school in Ecuador start their own cult based on such time-honored fodder as Herman Melville novels, internet creepypasta (no, this book does not look or feel anything like Otherside Picnic), and their repressed but increasingly obvious desire for one another. The last part in particular gets the attention of their English teacher, whose own obsessive internalized homophobia grows into one of the most horrifying monstrous versions of itself I've ever read. Content warning for just about everything that could possibly imply, but especially involuntary confinement, religious and medical abuse, and a final chapter that I don't even know how to describe. Many thanks to @maryblackwood for introducing me to this one.

Jorge Luis Borges, lots of his works but especially "The Aleph," "The Cult of the Phoenix," and "The South." Can be read in translation or in the original Spanish. The three works I list are all short stories. The first deals with mystical experiences and the comprehensibility (or lack thereof) of the universe, the second with coded and submerged references to sexuality in general and homosexuality in particular, the third with leaving your well-appointed city home for a ranch in the middle of nowhere and almost immediately dying in a knife fight, which is surely a very YJ series of things to do.

H.P. Lovecraft, "The Colour out of Space," "The Dunwich Horror," "The Dreams in the Witch House," and "The Thing on the Doorstep." Lovecraft in general needs no introduction--the creepiness, the moroseness, the New Englandness, the purple heliotrope prose, his intense racism (recanted late in life but not in time to make any difference in his reception history) and the way his work reflects his fear of the Other. These short stories are noteworthy for having settings that are more woodsy and less maritime than is usual for Lovecraft's New England, for overtones of the supernatural rather than merely the alien, for featuring some of his few interesting female characters, and for their relative lack of obvious racial nastiness. Caveat lector nevertheless.

Herman Melville, Moby-Dick. It's Moby-Dick. Once you realize that Captain Ahab is forming a cult around the whale and his obsession with it you can't unrealize it.

[brw]

It's an interesting thing when people are just starting to get into Hank Pym or start reading or watching an alternate take that isn't 616, and they have to justify it to themselves. And I can get why if fandom and the larger comic conscious generally is agreed that he is an abuser, that he's a bad person, or even have acted as if liking him is an offence deserving of a callout, but it is weird and a little annoying see people post EMH clips with "This is the best version of Hank because he's so unproblematic!" or worse still, this post I saw about the new Ultimates series.

And it's frustrating because 616 Hank Pym is a complex and interesting character. And reducing a character with 60 years of history to a 40 year old issue is such a disservice to all the writers who have put so much effort in to exploring him as a nuanced, fully fledged person. 616 Hank's defining characteristics has never been "hit his wife while under extreme mental duress", except maybe the most uncharitable reading of Slott's Initiative series, which is a drop in a sea of different takes and explorations of his character. And I think it's such a shame so many people are embarrassed over this, or have to say "no, dont worry, I like the unproblematic version", because isn't it so much more interesting that good people can do problematic, unforgivable things, but still ultimately be good people at the end of the day? That who you are isn't just made out of your very worst moments, but your very best too? Why do we have to act like a kids show version is the best version of an extremely complex and old character who has been in publication consistently for 60 odd years? And I do like the Earth's Mightiest Heroes cartoon, don't get me wrong–but I don't think we should say that he's better, all because the other version of the character gets reduced to one arc I doubt most people who criticise him for it have even actually read in its full context.

Also, why do we have to lie and say that one of the few explicitly mentally ill, described as both bipolar and schizophrenic superheroes is a domestic abuser when that is objectively not how the vast majority of his comics portray him. They often portray him as flawed, or fucked up, I'm not dismissing that, but it is objectively false to act like it's in any way his defining characteristic. And it shouldn't be ever! I think we have enough depictions of psychotic people in media as being domestic abusers or villains!! Especially in superhero comics!

[morus-god-of-doom]

Swap Underverse Asylum Sans

Alright, I know I'm not on here often, but hear me out.

In the swapped universe where Dream ate the apple, Ink now has Error's job, and Nightmare is trying to stop all of this with the help of a maker Error Sans, I haven't seen much in ways of the other bad guy sans getting swapped counterparts. It seems that having them stay the same, except when Swap replaces Dust or Killer.

But Swap doesn't fit well with either of them, so I think he's more like Cross in the swapped AU, but I digress, he's not who I wanna talk about.

Who I want to talk about is Asylum Sans, or Bandy for short. The little schizophrenic that is obsessed with colorful bandaids, stickers, and sometimes plushies. From what I know of him, his past is mostly a mystery but something happened to his Papyrus, causing him to take on a ghost-like form and hang about the little skellie.

He'd be a perfect parallel to Dust sans, yet being a schizophrenic wouldn't be enough to make him a bad guy.

But what if something happened that made Bandy go off the deep end? Like a certain therapist that recommends putting him on pills to solve the problem of Bandy's schizophrenic episodes. Now, this would absolutely be fine if the pills were correct for his mental illness, but that is not what happens to the little guy.

Instead, they put him on something else; magic suppressors.

From what I have seen, Bandy doesn't use magic in the ward because Mrs. Toriel and Dr. Alphys told him it would be dangerous. He understands that it wouldn't be the best of ideas for him to teleport out of the ward where he can't get the help he needs. So when they suddenly give him little, pink pills, he takes them without question since they had promised him more bandaids if he did.

But they have a negative reaction to the poor skeleton like most things would happen if you take away a person's ability to do something.

Bandy faints due to the effects and hits his head on the floor, causing another change. Of course, Dr. Alphys gives him a check-up and heals the wound, but when the schizophrenic wakes up, his ailment is worse. The new therapist waves it off, of course, giving him a white pill, Bandy's normal prescription, but when the skeleton sees him, he screams due to what he sees in the human, their true intentions.

This would be an everlasting effect as a result of the suppressors they give him with his normal treatment. Anytime Bandy sees someone enter his room for food or check-ups, he stares at them, scooting backward, so they double his prescription.

But what does Asylum see?

Well, he'd see the quote-unquote 'demons' hanging about people, or for a better way to put it, their intentions. Now, with good people like Mrs. Toriel and Dr. Alphys, the demons are small, barely considered a threat in his eyes. Yet when he sees the other doctors and patients, he sees all sorts of monsters, some fusing with their hosts, like when he shrieked upon seeing the new therapist. He saw all of the malice the man had turned them into a creature from nightmares.

Now, as we know with most bodies, they will build up a tolerance if exposed to negative factors. So over time, Bandy's body slowly adapts to resisting the suppressors, causing them to increase the dosage until it eventually stops working on him.

But Bandy still acts docile on his prescription, right?

Wouldn't you know it, one of the employees forgets to order the medicine that Bandy so desperately needs. It would take 2 days for the emergency order to come in.

No big deal, right? Bandy is always friendly to people, even before the new 'prescription', surely nothing bad will happen, right?

Well, Milo Murphy's law states that anything that can happen will happen.

On the second day, Bandy sees the bad Therapist and finally snaps. The suppressors on his magic had ceased working since his body had too much of it. It needed to be expelled.

And what better than the man who had started the torment?

It was all a blur to the skeleton, but it was bloody and brutal. The schizophrenic came to when he had cornered Dr. Alphys and Mrs. Toriel. A bloody pair of scissors in one hand, and a sharp bone in the other. He stared at the weapons before giggling, a manic grin on his face. Asylum knew a lot now, and the two women in front of him had let the therapist do whatever.

So, he finished the job before skipping off to the medicine cabinet.

He needed answers.

It would be quite a sight for the next victim, the person who delivered the medication. Seeing bloodied halls, corpses and dust everywhere.

And just like that, the deliverer would fall by Asylum's hands, and he gets the prescription he needed. So a win-win for him.

I feel like Swapped Dream and Ink would stumble upon the AU by chance and find Asylum playing with the corpse happily.

It's just a thought I had though, just a simple idea since I was bored. Just wanted it to be recorded a bit.

[himedanshicult]

before making pronouncements as to what "the majority"/"of people" think, its good to keep in mind that the average person is politically schizophrenic. my trump supporting blue lives matter dad would regularly tell me all the times police locked him up on BS charges because he was a poor dude at the wrong place at the wrong time, how police always make things worse, to never trust a cop, always be careful of what i say to them, to never let my guard down and generally just never call them because they wont do anything anyways. i remember having a convo w a coworker he went from "these outside agitators are ruining things" to "yeah these pigs need to die" in a matter of 5 minutes. people are always more complicated than you think. an overwhelming majority of americans oppose violent revolution, except when violent revolution broke out in 2020 and a majority praised the violence while millions took to the street to show their support. you talk to many, if not most of them now, they'll say we cant have violent revolution, maybe in 2020 we took things too far. but what will they do if it happens again?

[faeriekit]

Kk so they’re named Robyn (tentatively) and are gender ???

Basic backstory is that they were cloned from Aquaman and Superman DNA because Luthor was going the surf n turf route, stabilized by ectoplasm that just happened to come from Danny. Robyn got the important water-breathing gene from Aquaman, as well as his eyes and skintone. This makes them stand out next to the milk white Superman and Connor. Then they got aged up and the first of a few rounds of Quick Learning where they basically got all that knowledge stuff forcibly imprinted on the brain. Unfortunately they had a schizophrenic break from the stress. Why? Because I’m schizophrenic and we need some good rep. This makes them “defective” and need to be Terminated.

Unfortunately, they don’t die all the way.

incoming:

2) "Anywho the “termination” plan didn’t go too well, and there was a nice little slice of time where Robyn is able to just. Break out fairly easily because there didn’t need to be much security. Considering they thought she’d expired.

In better news, they roam around awhile, and fate (cough Clockwork cough) conspires to have them tumble head-long into a temporary portal to the Ghost Zone. Their obvious disorientation and ecto-signature almost being exactly Danny’s has them escorted somewhat politely to the throne room. Cue the whole

Danny: a secret daughter! Wonderful. Do you have a name?

Robyn: I’m not a girl and I haven’t decided yet

Danny: fair. Let’s get some of the green stuff in you, you look a little worse for wear

Robyn, who considers that things could t get worse than the lab: sure"

3) "One last anon for the night because I just remembered one of the important bits! Robyn has the fangs and blood hunger, but has no idea that this is abnormal in any way, and if Danny has any say in it they’ll never think it is. This causes Danny great concern when Connor is discovered, because if one kid from a source has the hunger, there’s a good chance that the second one has it too. Except he doesn’t have ethically sourced blood smoothies to snack on."

There are a lot of great ways to take your OC, congrats, but I am absolutely not over surf n turf

[prophetmuhammad]

Had the weirdest hybristophiliac dreams last night. In the first one I met a guy in the woods and hit it off with him but then he tells me he's committed multiple murders in the woods and now he's living in them instead of with his parents to avoid being caught?? I'm like okay that's evil but somehow I instinctively know you won't hurt me.

Then it just keeps switching between a nightmare where I call the police on someone who's confessed to murder to me and they get away with it and, like, a love story???

I don't remember much other than I believed the guy in my dream was James Holmes who committed the colorado movie theatre shooting except in the dream he was even worse because he didn't have schizophrenic delusions driving him to kill and then give himself up he was just a straight up serial killer and rapist of women???

Dream me seemed to be self aware about how fucked it was though, ended up at some event chatting to some girlies like oh my god girlies my boyfriend is literally James Holmes what the fuck is wrong with me I'm sorry women but I love him😭

Like why did my brain even pick him to focus on?? He's not even a serial killer he definitely didn't rape women and leave them in the woods😭😭😭 I woke up like wait was that real... OK it wasn't James Holmes but did I meet a murderer in the woods??? Do I have an irredeemable mans??? Oh no wait it was a dream why do I miss him

[imarawbu]

I accidentally ran into some of my past life the other day.

The house we bought last year is very, very close to my ex in-laws place, my dad's house is also very close as well and this is one of the best (but expensive) places to live in my city. He is aware how close but it's not close enough where I'd run into anyone.

Anyways, I opened Nextdoor for the first time in awhile and the first post I see is my ex MIL selling a bunch of stuff, apparently they are cleaning out the garage.

Long story short, I found out their eldest son, my ex's brother is getting married in February. I assumed someone was getting married because they don't clean stuff up like that. Someone sent me their engagement/ wedding ceremony video and I couldn't help but watch it. I saw everyone for the first time in 3-4 years, (except his brother, I'd never met him in person). Well, my ex looks like literal shit. He became massively overweight at the end of the marriage, he has not lost any weight and as this video was from a year ago, he's pushing 35. In the video he looks high and out of his mind, which with his condition, this is normal. But what hit me most was he had aged sooo badly his drug use and smoking has dissolved all his good looks, especially in comparison to his brother. His brother is a year older- and looks my age. All the photos I had seen of him he was extremely overweight and although a foot shorter looked, identical to my ex when they both have beards. Before my husband was the one who knew how to dress, do his hair, clothes, and other grooming. His brother was the awkward looking one. In the video, the few shots he was in he stands out, not just because of his height, but because he is dressed in black (everyone else is wearing neutral or white colors), hair is disheveled, crazy eyed, and clearly not present in reality.

How the tables have turned. The irony is also not lost on me how my ex husband is or at least was a very talented photographer and editor, someone else did all their wedding photos and videos.

My ex is literally evil, part of it is mental illness as he has done so many drugs for so long he has destroyed his brain and behaves like a paranoid schizophrenic. When he's on drugs he is full out paranoid and very violent. I have had no contact with him in years and have no intention of finding out how he is and I don't care. He is incapable of getting his life together, living on his own, or holding a job- he cannot even remember passwords or where he put his lighter last without it being a conspiracy. He will be living with his parents until he ends up in jail, they pass way, or he dies.

I feel sorry for this woman as I was in that family and the family isn't that much better. There was a lot of domestic violence in the house as it's a cultural thing, it was made worse by my ex but his brother would still get involved and yell at him though the phone and threaten to fly there and beat him up. His brother lives 3 hours away and them getting married will likely have little to do with dealing with my ex husband because I'm sure his brother would never let his future wife be around him for long. On top of being a generally bad person in every way imaginable, my ex husband is a creep and pervert, which his brother knows better than I do. I was pretty shocked he was willing to have him there for this.

My husband used to bully him relentlessly over the phone and text while demanding money from him saying things about how he is less of a man than him because of his various sexual exploits and telling me inappropriate things about his brother while his brother was on the phone. I know stuff about everyone that I should never know and my ex had no problems telling his family, especially his brother, stuff about me that's not exactly appropriate as well to humiliate him. Everyone in that family knew the extent of the abuse he put me through, they heard it or saw it first hand, or knew about it after I ran away from him multiple times and they all talked me into going back (not so much his sister, she ignored me most of the time, which is another issue). One time my ex showed me texts where he was taunting his brother and his brother responded with saying he knew about what he had done to me (this was in regards to a physical attack) and some other stuff.

When stuff got really bad, I confided in my cousin, who turned around and decided to message his sister (I don't know how she got her name or information) and told her basically everything, I'm fairly sure she also messaged his brother (however he didn't call his mother to complain about it like his sister did).

I was very close to my former MIL, she liked me very much, even to the point of telling his brother that she hopes he married someone like me, as initially everyone was extremely hostile to me, especially him.

It also bothers me that a few months ago, someone using a unique name my former MIL uses on her social media, liked a video from my honeymoon. The app lists this person as "someone you may know" most likely meaning it's someone with my phone number in their contacts. I know she never deletes a number, and this is confirmed as she butt dialed my dad last year. This account isn't connected to her phone number but I'm 1000% sure it's her and it freaked me out for weeks and still does. I remember I walked into the DMV (just happened to be the one where she works) to change my first name after getting the court order. She saw me, I had not seen or talked to her in months, she pulls me out of a three hour line so glad to see me, does the name change stuff for me, talks to me some. I leave a few minutes later she calls me back and apologizes that I need to come back because she forgot employees can't do stuff for friend or family members. She wanted me to come back and she would get her coworker to sign everything instead of her. She was apparently so shocked to see me she forgot the rules of her work place apparently. So her checking up on me makes sense. Not sure why she liked the video though, she would know I know who that is...

Anyways, this has very much disturbed my mental health as it always does when anything related to my ex husband comes up. I basically fall into a black hole of wondering why, and needing to know things, and everything starts coming back to me from that year and a half I was with him- which I guess is pretty proportional to the extreme level of trauma from the abuse I experienced.

My current husband also knows about all of this. He has zero sympathy for me and what I experienced, tells me I deserve what I got after running away to be with him and not immediately leaving after I knew how bad he was. When this stuff comes up, he likes to tell me to go back to him or asks if I want to go back and live like trash. One of my biggest regrets was ever telling my husband what my ex husband did as he thinks it's a game to threaten me and tell me how much worse that makes me, which was one of my greatest fears ever after this happened.

[wingedpizzachopshop]

Pagal samjha hai kya?

There have been moments when I've witnessed someone conversing with themselves as if someone else were standing next to them.  "What is wrong with that person?" was a question I frequently asked myself. "Why is he talking to himself?" you may wonder. "Is he losing his mind?"  "Why is he acting in this manner?" The question "Is he schizophrenic?"  "That person needs some mental health assistance." In light of the fact that schizophrenia is a severe mental disorder that has an impact on a person's thoughts, feelings, and behaviour, I began to question, "What is the meaning of schizophrenia?" The person has trouble distinguishing between genuine and imagined events, thinking logically, expressing thoughts, or acting in a suitable manner. Schizophrenia seems to be very unreal until you see instance of sorts which dont let you think otherwise, A person close to you only can make or break the belief of the same. My perspective towards the word changed completely after I did have to read about what it was due to circumstances in my personal sphere. Schizophrenia is a serious mental disorder in which people interpret reality abnormally, in some combinations of hallucinations, delusions, and extremely disordered thinking and behaviour that impairs daily functioning, and can be disabling. An example of this might just be what i need to express to fell better about what I face everyday and every second of the day. Imagine having a person harm their health in turn of someone else’s doing, mind you we cant make sense of what the explanation is provided for the practices that lead due to this 3rd “entity” that uninvitedly entered our lives with no context of even if they are really a part of it. Blame game and the tit for tat to feel better, being pissed of and frustrated, feeling attacked and helpless, surrounded by only enemies is the invoked feeling of the victim of the disorder. Can I really lend a hand to help only to keep the relationship together or will that be denied too? Will the helping hand be thought of as something that is again an attack to the relation and to their behaviour? It is always a very sad feeling to have the exclaimation of a loss at all time’s in any possible solutions that you might come up with because the brain is so strong and deteriorating which leave’s no wiggle room of negotiation within this relationship except hoping that time will make everything better. Every step or every conversation might lead to a breakdown of both the people since one wants the best for the other and the other can’t help but listen to it’s inner voice out of no choice as well. If denied the want of the inner voice there’s a knocking demon who is ready to ruin everything within a moment in the exchange of words. Does this mean that 17 year old me would give up on everything? No, you stick through it with the most brightest hope after every incident that occurs due to it because you grow so much more and learn how to treat someone a bit better everyday. But do you realise what you need to do instantly? Again no, it take’s the most eldest or the more experienced to guide you along the problems or what you might be doing wrong because human’s dont accept or mention their flaws unless told so. So to tackle, the help you can give in an indian household is to stay there and keep the fort strong as much as you can and empathy goes a long way. Medically getting the treatment is tough to accept here and often termed as “pagal samajh rakha hai” whenever it involves the brain, which again speaks that you dont support the person and make’s everything worse. So avoidance of triggers is also what is necessary. Without these everyone goes through these feeling of isolatation and helplessness which make’s it tougher for making it through the day.

[sillybert]

did i tell u guys that today i was told that the weeb guy who fucked with me was the reason my relationship with someone i cared for a lot ended?

[katelynnwrites]

pairing: Spencer Reid x f!Reader

warnings: mentions of mental disorders, blood, injuries as well as nightmares

word count: 1178

summary: Spencer has ways been insecure about your relationship and things finally come to a head after a particularly hard case for him

Febuwhump Prompt: ‘I wish I had never given you a chance’ (Day 27)

If someone were to ask anyone who knew Spencer Reid to describe him, they would probably say he was ‘cautious, smart and socially awkward’.

Hell, if you were to ask him to describe himself he would probably say similar things. He was well aware of his differences and constantly wondered why you loved him the way you did. As fiercely as you did.

Spencer was sure that one day you would come to your senses and leave him. It was only a matter of time before you realized that he wasn’t what you wanted. That he wasn’t good enough for you, because you deserved so much more than this.

Till then, he was determined to cherish every last day he had with you because he loved you with everything in him.

******

The job you two work is by no means easy. It meant you had to see the worst of humanity. Every single day. Some days were worse than others, certain cases more personal.

Today’s case involved a schizophrenic holding a room full of people hostage and you could see the toll it took on Spencer. Cases like these were hard on him due to his sensitivity of his mother’s condition.

Throughout the day, as the case goes on, you watched as he got quieter and quieter. He fidgeted with his pens more frequently than usual, needing something else to focus on even for a small moment. As much as you wanted to help him, talk to him, you knew that sometimes Spencer just needed space. Especially for things like this.

So as reluctant as you were, you gave him his space, knowing that he would talk to you when he was ready. That he’ll come to you if he needed it.

When the case finally comes to a close, the schizophrenic is successfully detained and a majority of the hostages unhurt. The one exception suffered a serious gunshot wound and was immediately raced to the hospital.

The car ride back to the hotel the team is staying in for the night is tense. Everyone can sense Spencer’s tension and Elle casts you a worried glance as you split up to your rooms.

Your boyfriend’s room is next to yours and you’re so worried about him that you’re barely able to suppress your desperate ‘Please talk to me.’

He doesn’t look at you as he enters his room knowing that if he so much as glances your way, his resolve will crack and he would lay everything on you. And if he does so, he’s very sure that you would immediately leave him because who would want someone as problematic as him? As anxiety riddled as him?

These thoughts continue to plague his mind as he collapses on the bed, too physically and emotionally exhausted to even change.

The moment he falls asleep, the nightmares start. You’re looking at him with cold eyes, saying, ‘I wish I had never given you a chance. Why would I ever want anything to do with you?’

Spencer can literally feel his heart breaking and his breaths come faster and faster. His chest rises and falls but he just can’t seem to get any oxygen.

Somewhere off in the distance he can hear screaming, pounding and panicked words.

The darkness is closing all around him and he’s spiralling, down down down.

******

He gasps, bolting upright on the bed. His hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat, his back sticky with it too.

‘Spencer! Spencer baby please open the door!’

Before he can comprehend the possible consequences of his actions, he’s throwing himself off the bed and opening the door. He collapses into your arms, shaking all over, his breaths coming fast and hard.

‘Oh love.’ You kick the door shut, gently pushing the both of you into the room and onto the bed. Tears are falling uncontrollably down his cheeks and you hold him closer, as tightly as possible.

‘I’m s-sorry. I didn’t want you to see me like t-this.’ He chokes out.

You rub circles into his back as he muffles his sobs into your shoulder.

‘Spencer what are you talking about? I always want to be here for you.’ You’re confused, wondering where all of this was coming from. Yes today had been hard on him but for him to completely break down like this? Whatever it was bothering him had to have been doing so for a while.

‘Spencer? Whatever it is, it’s okay. I’m here.’ You soothe.

‘No it’s not!’ He cries, sobbing even harder.

‘You don’t deserve this. You’re so perfect Y/n. So completely perfect. Y-you deserve better than me. You deserve someone who can give you more than m-me.’

You’ve gone so still, pressed up against him. Spencer can’t seem to calm down, sure that your silence means that this is it. He’s too much for you. He knew that one day you would reach your limit and finally leave him. This has to be it.

You’re quiet a moment longer before you pull away from him. Spencer tenses up even more and you gently take his face in your hands.

‘Spencer Reid, you listen to me right now. You are everything to me. I love you so much. So incredibly much. I want to be with you. I want to be here for you. Through both the good and bad.’ You pause to take in a breath, wiping some of his tears away with your thumb.

‘As to me deserving better? No one else loves me as much as you. No one is as brilliant, as kind and as loyal as you. It would be impossible to find another man as good as you out there. You’re a genius who can do anything you set your mind to and yet you choose to use it to hunt criminals. You choose to save lives even if it means risking your own.’

Spencer is speechless, completely blown away by your words. He blinks up at you, scanning your face for any evidence that you’re lying. He’s profiling you and you let him, needing him to see how sincere you were.

‘You’re, you’re not going to leave me?’ His voice is timid, so unlike his usual one that he hardly recognizes it.

Wrapping your arms back around him, you kiss him tenderly before shaking your head.

‘Baby, when are you ever going to realize how much I love you? I’m never going to leave you unless you want me to, okay?’

Spencer inhales sharply. He takes you in again, the raw honesty in your voice. The way love is oh so clearly shining through your eyes right now as you look at him. He wonders how he could have gotten so incredibly lucky to have you entrust him with your whole heart.

He kisses you lightly on your head, pulling you impossibly closer to him.

‘I’ll always want you here.’

You lean up to share another sweet kiss with him before eventually settling more comfortably into the bed and he falls back asleep again, blissfully free from the nightmares, wrapped gently in your embrace.

:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:

Febuwhump Tag List:

@febuwhump

[titularkilljoy]

Black Coffee

Summary: Spencer had changed since prison. And no one seems to be able to help.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader

Warnings: Strong language, mental health struggles, angst

Author’s note: Inspired by this post. Also, this is my first time writing for a fandom. So, don’t be gentle. Be brutally honest. 

Spencer was different these days. On that much, everyone could agree.

Everyone on the team walked on eggshells around him now, myself included. It wasn’t that we didn’t want to be there for our friend who had just gotten out of a three-month stint in prison; it was quite the opposite. All of us were waiting with bated breath for an opportunity to help. None of us wanted him to bottle up all his frustration and end up throwing books at the bureau walls again. As it was, he refused to acknowledge it or talk about it, and as a result, we all talked around it, trying to profile him without making it too obvious; trying to help him without him catching on to the fact that we were trying to help him. All in all, it was a Herculean feat. Every time he detected the slightest ounce of what he deemed to be pity, you could see his hackles raise, and an impenetrable barrier would form around him. That was incredibly unpleasant for everyone involved.

Spencer and I had been close, once. Extremely close. We had confided in each other about everything. I think he had always appreciated the fact that I never treated him like an all-knowing alien or a socially awkward little brother. It probably helped that my feelings for him were far from brotherly. But he didn’t need to know that.

Regardless, our close bond seemed to be a thing of the past. I had been there to welcome him back to the outside world on the day he was released. My heart was fuller than it had ever been, with love and relief and grief, and I had thrown my arms around him without a word. He had been stiff in my embrace for a few seconds before I felt the familiar warmth of his arms clutching me tightly. I had sighed deeply. I had missed his touch.

Since then, however, he had shut himself off. I had tried to give him space, to let him resolve those issues , which he clearly did not want to speak to me about, on his own. When that didn’t seem to work, I decided on a more hands-on approach.

For a week, I had been trying to muster the courage to follow through on that decision. But every time I tried to broach the matter, the emptiness of his gaze and the rigid set of his shoulders would stop the words in my throat. I felt like I was trying to speak to a stranger. Worse than that– I knew how to deal with traumatized victims and witnesses. Spencer was neither of those and both of those at once. Besides that, he was the ghost of my best friend. Every conversation felt like trying to breathe new life into a relationship long gone dead and cold.

Right now, he was alone in the break room. On the surface, he seemed to be going about his routine like a normal person. But to the trained eye, it was horrifying. Because he was pouring himself some coffee. A black coffee. With one sugar. Knowing him like I did, the sight was bleak, and it spurred me into action.

I set my shoulders and walked into the room. He lifted his head and nodded at me in greeting. I sidled over to the counter and set my gaze firmly on the pot of coffee as it if contained all the secrets of the universe. He leaned against the counter, staring at the opposite wall while blowing on his coffee. I cleared my throat. There was a palpable tension in the air. Maybe it was just me. He certainly didn’t seem bothered. I, however, was choking on it.

“Spencer,” I tentatively began, “I was thinking, maybe we should talk?”

I cringed at my own words even as I said them. I’d spent a week working on this and the best I could do was some sitcom staple dialogue?

Spencer’s eyes darted over to me, brow furrowing in curiosity. “About what? Is this about the case?”

“No. No, it’s not about the case.”

That seemed to be the wrong answer. He heaved a frustrated sigh and rubbed a hand over his face.

“(Y/N), we really don’t have time for–-“

Another deflection. Except this time, I was expecting it, and wouldn’t accept it.

“Yes, we have time, Spencer. We’ve apprehended the suspect. We saved a victim. Today we’re doing paperwork”, I pointed out, “and this is definitely more important than paperwork.”

“If this is a personal matter then we shouldn’t be talking about it here anyway,” he said in a clipped tone. He was getting defensive.

“You’re right, Spencer.” That took him by surprise, and I was rewarded with his grudging attention.

“You’re right. This conversation shouldn’t be happening here. Except, you’ve been dodging my calls for a month. You pretend you’re not home when I show up at your apartment. You won’t even say a word to me that isn’t about work.” I let the frustration I felt bleed into my words; he needed to know this wasn’t a profiler’s attempt to poke and prod at his psyche. It was just me, and I wanted my best friend back.

“I’ve been busy,” he hedged, but there was a trace of guilt in his eyes. He had never liked seeing me hurt, after all.

“Don’t lie to me, Spencer,” I practically begged, “You’re shutting me out. I know you’re struggling. It’s so damn obvious that you’re struggling. I just want to help you. I hate seeing you like this.”

“I’m not asking you to! And I don’t need your help,” he spat with a scowl. “I’m not struggling. I can do this job just as well as you or anyone else on the team can, if not better.”

The sting from those words was overshadowed by my incredulity. “Are you serious? Spencer, this isn’t about the fucking job!” I cried in frustration. “This is about you. I care about you. You’re in pain, and I don’t understand why you won’t let me help. You used to tell me everything.”

He let out a dark chuckle, placing the mug back on the counter and standing up straight. For the first time in what felt like forever, he stared right into my eyes. Except I would have given anything not to be on the receiving end of that stare. It was so full of malice and bitterness; it was so unlike my Spencer.

“You’re so fucking transparent,” he began in a low tone, and my eyebrows shot up in surprise. Spencer wasn’t usually one for expletives, especially not at work.

“You claim to be worried about me, but you’re really only worried about yourself. You’re lonely, and you can’t form a real connection with anyone. Now that you don’t have me as your emotional crutch, you’re projecting those issues onto me. Typical.”

My jaw dropped against my will. “Spencer, that’s not fair,” I managed to whisper around the lump in my throat. But he wasn’t done yet. Nostrils flaring, he towered over me menacingly.

“Oh, it’s not fair. What isn’t fair is you trying to jeopardize my already precarious position at the FBI by bringing this kind of petty drama into my life. Not everything is about you.”

“I never said it was!” I practically yelled, shocked into anger.

“Yes, but you clearly think it is. You’re not actually worried about me. You just want things to go back to normal. You want me to be the old Spencer again. Sweet, naïve Spencer who would have gladly let you string him along for his entire life. Admit it.”

“String you along? What the fuck are you talking about? How about the other way around? And it’s fucking rich that you’re accusing me of not being able to form a meaningful connection when you’re the one who’s so scared that we’re going to reject you that you’ve completely shut us out. Your fucking family who went through hell and back to get you out. We don’t care that you’re not the same Spencer. No one expects you to be! But I’m sick of all of us talking around the big fat elephant in the room and I’m scared I’m going to find you drugged up and dead on the floor of your apartment one day!”

We were right in each other’s faces at this point, and I was breathing heavily. Surrounding us was a pregnant silence. Spencer’s face had settled into an unreadable mask that I desperately tried to decipher anyway.

Finally, he spoke. His voice was cold as he delivered the killing blow.

“I told you I didn’t want to talk about it. So, I’m not going to talk about it. That’s my decision. You’re not entitled to my confidence, (Y/N). Not anymore. Just leave me alone.”

Every word was well enunciated, and I knew he meant them. He was done with me. When he stormed out of the room, I collapsed back against the counter, trying to call out his name but my vocal cords refusing to cooperate.

I didn’t know how I felt. When your body suffers a massive injury, it numbs you for a while, to protect you. You often don’t even realize you’ve been hurt. But after the numbness fades, your entire body feels like it’s on fire. I supposed that was as good a way as any to explain what was happening to me at that moment. Something so monumental and world-shattering had just occurred that I was being given a few moments of numbness as a reprieve, before the pain would inevitably consume me.

I remained rooted to my position for uncomfortably long time before I realized several pairs of eyes were focused on me, trying and failing to be subtle at it. Overcome with a sudden wave of nausea, I rushed to the restroom. Splashing some cold water in my face, I stared at myself in the mirror.

Well, I thought, that backfired pretty spectacularly.

I closed my eyes and came to the grim realization that prison had left some indelible scars on Spencer. We had all been turning a blind eye to it–- we’d been hoping against all odds that Spencer’s endlessly resilient innocence would be preserved, even in the face of solitary confinement and selective memory loss. After all, the man had literally died and been resurrected, once. He had fought a drug addiction all on his own. He had been parenting his schizophrenic mother since he was a child. He was strong. If anyone could come out of this intact, we had reasoned, it would be Dr Spencer Reid. Being faced with clear evidence to the contrary was a bitter reminder that life always managed to snuff out light and goodness wherever it was found.

I kept my head down on my way to my desk. I made it halfway before I heard Hotch call my name. Garcia was at Morgan’s desk and she offered me an anxious, pitying smile. I didn’t want to acknowledge it. I turned and met his sympathetic yet firm gaze squarely, summoning a confidence I did not feel as I took the detour into his office. What other choice did I have? Life had to go on.

                                ___________________

The next two weeks were tense, to say the least. Spencer and I could barely stand to be on opposite ends of the briefing room with each other. Hotch, perceptive as always, was gracious enough not to pair us up on either of the two cases we worked in that time. I threw myself into the gory details of case files and victimology, refusing to address the fact that I felt like I had lost a limb. I couldn’t succumb to that. Not quite yet, at least. Spencer, for his part, remained inscrutable, although I noticed Morgan and Emily trying to talk to him on more than one occasion. I appreciated their support, but Spencer had made himself very clear. There was nothing anyone could do.

I was dead on my feet when we finally wrapped up the case in Seattle. Derek Morgan needed to learn the meaning of the word “no”, because he still dragged me to some pub I can barely remember the name of. The memory loss could probably be attributed to the blackout drinking I embarked on that night. I drank, downing whiskey shot after whiskey shot until I lost my inhibitions and started giggling and singing along tunelessly to the music, then I drank some more until I felt comfortable enough to dance, and then I kept drinking until I hit the stage where I started sobbing. I usually knew to cut myself off before then. That night, though, my senses seemed to have left me entirely. To curb the sobbing, I drank some more, and that was about the point where I blacked out.

I woke up the next morning in a hotel room, ruing the day I was born, but there was an unopened bottle of water and some aspirin on the table, next to a note from Emily saying she was downstairs with the others. I gingerly caressed my forehead, groaning, before forcing myself out of bed and into the day.

The dark sunglasses I wore did little to make me feel better, and the teasing from Morgan about my alleged shenanigans the previous night did even less to that end. I boarded the jet with a grateful sigh, relieved that I could just curl up and go to sleep.

Alas, that wasn’t what the universe had planned for me, it seemed, because moments after I had nodded off, a hand on my shoulder gently shook me awake. I opened my mouth, ready to yell at whoever it was, but what came out instead was an embarrassing squeak.

Because standing in front of me, clutching a Starbucks cup, was none other than Spencer Reid.

He looked different. Different, and familiar. There was no tightly wound coil. There was no steel in his eyes. There was only warmth.

I eyed the cup in his hands curiously. Had he taken to tempting diabetes with his coffee once again? Had this mess all just been one long sugar crash?

He looked immensely sheepish as he murmured, apparently mindful of my piercing headache, “Can I sit?”

I nodded dumbly, enraptured by the sight of him sinking into the seat across from me, his knees almost knocking into mine. Was I just having a really good dream? Was I still drunk?

“(Y/N),” he whispered, and it felt like I’d travelled back in time. To back before our fight, before prison, before Mr Scratch, before Cat.

“I owe you an apology. Several, actually. I– you have to know that I didn’t mean any of the things I said. I was just lashing out. Textbook defensive behaviour.” He paused, watching me. I just stared back at him. I could only imagine what he saw on my face that made him continue even more gently, if that was even possible.

“You’re my best friend. You always have been. And you were absolutely right when you accused me of being worried about rejection. I- I’m not the same, anymore. I’ve never been particularly fond of myself, but now, I don’t even recognize myself.” He sounded miserable, and all I wanted to do was hug him. I stayed put, though. He looked like he really needed to finish what he had to say.

“I feel…darker, somehow. And I didn’t want to infect you with that. I didn’t want to hurt you. And instead, I hurt you more than I possibly could have if I’d just let you help me. I’m an idiot. I’m so sorry, (Y/N), I–“

“Spencer,” I finally interjected, and slowly, deliberately, reached out and took one of his hands in both of mine. “Yes, you’re an idiot,” I conceded, trying to hold back the relief that was flooding my entire body, “but I’ll forgive you. If you promise you’re not going to pull that shit again. I’m serious, Spencer. You’re hurting yourself, you’re hurting me, you’re hurting the team. We need you. I need you”, I said vehemently, and that was as close to a confession as I would get. At least, for the foreseeable future.

His face told me he heard the unsaid, and the dark guilt clouded his face once again. He was remembering what he’d said to me. String me along, he’d thrown out. Steady determination chased the guilt, and he opened his mouth, but I cut him off.

“No. Not now. You need help. You know how I feel about you. But we can’t right now. It’s not fair to either of us.”

He looked like he was going to protest, but I tried to convey as much sincerity through my eyes as I could. We’ll have our chance, I tried to tell him. I’m not giving up on you, so don’t give up on me, I implored.

Slowly, he nodded. For the first time in half a year, my heart felt light. I knew there would be plenty of hurdles to navigate, but for now, the promise of his company in doing so was enough.

“Besides,” I said seriously, “we need to talk about this bad habit of ours.”

The bafflement on his face was familiar, and I grinned, biting my lip.

“Having these intense conversations in front of everyone in the FBI absolutely has to stop,” I clarified, staring at each of the other people on the jet pointedly. They were doing a very good job of looking busy. Morgan had a smirk on his face. I caught his eye for a second, and we shared a smile.

My comment made Spencer chuckle. “I’ll, uh- I’ll let you get back to your nap then.”

“Oh, thank God,” I groaned dramatically, pulling the blanket over my head to block out the dim light.  It served another purpose; as I listened to the soft cadence of his retreating footsteps, it obscured the smile which threatened to rip my face in two. Morgan would never let me live that down.

[youcantfiremebecauseiquit]

idk if u care but crispin gray recently had an interview about his entire career and it kind of changed my perspective of queenadreena…idk if for better or for worse lol. it was weird to see him so dismissive of a lot of his catalogue w katie except for ‘love your money’ just because that was the only remotely chart successful song. i get you want to be able to sustain yourself but jeez him and katie really had a weird back and forth relationship

Sorry i'm replying late, i've seen the interview pop up on Youtube but honestly i was too invested in university shit recently & generally not in the good mood for that but i'm planning to watch. How did it change your view on Queen Adreena, did he say something mean specifically on QA or Katie? I mean i gotta watch it but honestly? Not surprised in the slightest. A few years ago he was asked to describe fave songs he recorded throughout the years and he listed more of Daisy Chainsaw ones than anything else, with Love Your Money as number 1. The differences in their points of view are real something, Katie Jane absolutely HATED Love Your Money, same as Daisy Chainsaw. Kinda apparent he wanted bigger fame but DC dropped fast and QA failed to live up to their predictions.

i had a time when i liked to dig up old Queen Adreena interviews that are lost in the old internet & generally not available for years (which i planned to post on is-she-suffering but my investment in that site is... varied in its intensity). Also that was back in the days when i wrote Queen Adreena book during manic phase and tried to sell it but lost motivation Well since i don't do anything with that knowledge anyway i'll put what i know here as i love fan discussions

So they sure had/have odd back and forth love-hate relationship & that's the reason why their career went how it went. There's been a huge tension between them at some point. I'm sure you know she had a major mental breakdown (probably schizophrenic episode) after Daisy Chainsaw, or even beginning before her leaving, and then she went into isolation and lived with an old woman in Lake District for awhile. She left Daisy Chainsaw cause Crispin didn't want her to come up with her own songs (all of DC was by Crispin except for Lovely ugly brutal world by KJ).

They almost split up as Queen Adreena after Drink Me. The material for The Butcher and The Butterfly was written at different times, originally it was meant to be called Atom Bomb at Bikini but it was constantly delaying and they eventually recorded everything they've got live. So that's obvious right? But i was surprised to find out they were writing songs separately. Some of them (i forgot which though) were written by Katie Jane and Pete Howard's sons band (they're even credited) + some with Melanie Garside, Richard Adams + some other musician. Katie Jane didn't like it. They intended it to be their last album at the time. She also hated live at ICA show but they released it cause they were broke

But that's a digression. I just wanna say that at this point they were done with each other but kept pushing it. Katie had her own art projects and stuff, Crispin started Dogbones with Nomi and i just remember how vaguely pissed at Katie he waas in the interviews. Like he stressed that Dogbones is his number one priority and if Katie wants to do something with Queenadreena, she must wait til Dogbones have a break first or something, and it sounded oddly bitter.

RaCH and Djinn era are just so weird, they had opportunities but let them go in a way. I don't think many people know but they were huge demand in Japan. They entered album charts and were interviewed by 11 magazines and 6 (!)TV stations there (wtf happened to that material i want to know???). But they only played 5 times or less.

Katie said she considers the band dead but they decided they can try to play for a couple more months. But aside from that she 100% lost the interest in the band around Djinn. There's an interview where she says "the overall image is Crispin but the shape will change again at rehearsals". And you can hear it, it’s more blues rock than anything. IMO it's their worst production wise. Instruments are fine but Katie's voice is so badly produced that sometimes i find some songs fucking irritating, cause they didn’t cut out her breaths and the vocals are TOO LOUD, to the point of distorting. As if she stands too close to the mic. The album is fine but it feels unfinished.

And here we come back to Crispin... here's what he said after the QA split:

Why the Dogbones started? “I needed to work more than the previous band I was in was working, the previous band who shall remain nameless, haha… um… Queenadreena. I wanted to work more than the singer of Queenadreena wanted to work… so that’s why it started. Fine by me… but I really like to be in a band, I’m not a solo project kind of guy. The last album (‘Djin’) did come out in the UK, but it was so low key because Katie kind of disappeared so there was little point in promoting it. Personally it’s my favourite by far so it was a shame but there you go… So here are Dogbones, it’s not been an easy ride but we are trying very hard.

Ok so the bitterness is kinda apparent isn't it. I think there were two reasons why they argued so much, first musical differences. Katie at some point lost interest in loud rock music for some years and went the folk way in Ruby Throat. I have a theory that Taxidermy and Drink Me are more influenced by Katie Jane and Butcher and Djinn are more Crispin. During first albums i think Katie more actively took part in music composition and choosing arrangements. She wrote lyrics, melodies but also composed a lot of songs on some little electronic keyboard thing and 4 track (Heavenly Surrender, Pray for me, My Silent Undoing, all Lalleshwari +more). Plus she wanted more peaceful/dreamy sound on Taxidermy than full on rock, Crispin complained about it in some 00's interview, that he'd like it to be more rock. Then there are 2 versions of Drink Me, the original has rough and alt versions of songs (it was sold by Katie and it's leaked on FB and probably YT). Crispin Gray apparently really hated the final Drink Me. Now next album is The Butcher & The Butterfly and it's more standard blues rock, no more crazy dreamy things of previous albums etc., Djinn is even more blues rock but darker. Djinn was his favourite at some point while KJ hated Butcher, not sure about Djinn. So i think they had different views on where they should go, Katie made her weird simplistic creepy tunes (like Lalleshwari) and folk melodies adding that strange things to noise rock. Crispin probably wanted blues & rock.

Other than that, i’m convinced they are bitter exes, lol. There’s been rumours about them dating during Daisy Chainsaw for years, plus Katie had a history of dating band members. Crispin wrote X-ing off the days about her. I don’t know if they dated again in Queen Adreena. Then there’s this interview, timeline is unclear, either The butcher & the butterfly or later:

„Katie writes all the songs herself and often looks for melodies and structure with the drummer. With Crispin - her husband or ex-husband, which is not entirely clear to me - for almost three years she has no longer been in a room. "Sometimes we send him a letter with a new song and that's all we can do. All we have are our lungs and our musical talent and we have to do with it. It is repugnant difficult life, I know most of the time how I should deal with it." But Queenadreena will still remain even exist? "I think so, we are now pretty busy and I see where the ship aground.”

I always wondered what exactly happened after Djinn, i’ve seen Katie Jane say „i think they gave up on me” while others said she disappeared. Other times CG said there’s no bad blood between them but at the same time there’s been some weird tension.  As of recent i thought they reconnected somehow through the internet and had a good relation but who really knows.s

I get why Crispin gets irritated when people compare everything he does to „stealing from KJ” but honestly, he gave them good reasons, at least in the 90’s. I can believe Starsha Lee singer isn’t copying Katie cause she’s from Brazil or something and she didn’t know Queen Adreena before. But everything else… Crispin’s problem is that he doesn’t know what he wants. He spent 90’s chasing something, tried singing himself, had girl singer replacements and even one KJ copy. Dogbones was ironically his most original non-Katie band, even with all their grunge influences. In a way he wants to be a frontman and at the same time doesn’t. Idk if he’s very controlling, but Daisy Chainsaw shows he valued his songs/lyrics first & in Queen Adreena he had to step back a lot, cause Katie’s condition was she would be in charge of the lyrics. I don’t think he realizes how strongly Daisy Chainsaw issues affected Katie, i mean from her own words you can read that aside from media attention/hate, her being unable to write lyrics had a role in her breakdown. I think she now let go but for years she hated remembering Daisy Chainsaw and she felt kind of worthless cause she was only somebody else’s mouthpiece. I’m not trying to say he’s cruel or anything, but i firmly believe rock lyrics writers should sing their own songs or else there are problems.

They both were writers-composers with different vision and i have impression they struggled a lot while shaping their songs, cause they both stuck to their ideas. Hence 2 versions of Princess Carwash maybe. Katie once said that he „gets terribly upset with her” cause she writes her songs on a simple wind organ and uses a few chord buttons only. Clash of writer ways/personalities/egos and at some point they had to let go.

Maybe he prefers music/bands where he was 100% in control including lyrics (note he wrote/sang some lyrics in Dogbones too). Daisy Chainsaw achieved bigger success US and UK wise as they were offered to play Top of The Pops, and they’re more well liked/remembered by „general alt public”. Queen Adreena however is way more valued as a cult band, with cult following and admiration in UK & France. Most people think Pretty Like Drugs and other QA songs are his best work and he probably finds it irritating cause truth is, he never managed to be more successful than Daisy Chainsaw/Queenadreena. Love Your Money is ironically the least Crispin Gray/DC/QA sounding song in my opinion. I kinda find it irritating that he downplays Queen Adreena cause it was probably his best work in this band but whatever

So yeah sorry for the word spill, that’s what i can think of it right now but as i said, i haven’t watched the interview yet, it’s just this kind of treatment is in a way consistent for him

[goldeneyedgirl]

JaliceWeek21: Day 8 - Powerswap: Variable Stars 1/3

This is the LAST PROMPT. And such a good one, and I was just... stuck. And it’s only half done, but I thought I’d start posting it now to motivate me. 

This started out as a joke and grew feelings and logic and ugh.  

I hope you enjoy it, and I’ll do a round-up of everything I wrote once it’s finished <3

variable stars.

mary alice brandon. 

What did you think would happen?

The panic is an animal scrambling to get out, pushing against her chest and her throat. She tries not to cry, but she’s shaking and she’s heard the screams that comes out of the room at the end of the hall. 

Her face aches, where the orderly hit her to get her to move faster. She’s ice cold - it might be winter, she’s lost track of time - but other than the ugly brown sweater she’s been given, the one that hangs to her knees because nothing fits her right.

“Please,” she asks in a thin voice. When she was little, she had had a lisp. Her mother had called it ‘darling’, but her father wanted her to speak properly. And when she couldn’t, it was better she stayed quiet. She out-grew it eventually, but sometimes, when she’s tired or frightened, she can hear the ghost of it - another part of her old self that haunts her. 

(She remembers her mama wasting away, lying on the chaise in the sitting room, looking like she was fading away. She’d sing and cuddle the new baby, but Mary Alice got a kiss on the forehead and an apology, “I’m so sorry, my darling. I’m so, so sorry.” She used to think that the apology was for dying and leaving Alice alone without a mother. She knows better now.)

They march her into the room, badly lit and tiny. She is stripped of her sweater and helped roughly onto the bed, with the tight sheet and the rubber rest for her head. The doctor looks at her like a dead thing, and her breathing speeds up. She tries to twist the hem of her clothing in her hands but they are quickly pinned and strapped to the bed, her ankles too (the straps are loose, she’s too small for this bed). 

A hunk of greasy rubber is shoved into her mouth so far she nearly chokes; the taste of it is rancid and nausea swirls as she feels the indentations of other teeth, other mouths. She feels like she’s going to faint, everything is so blurry. But there’s a slap to her face and something is fitted around her head and no one has spoken to her, acknowledged her or explained. 

She’s never been so frightened in her life. She’s shaking and the nurse stares down at her with a bored expression on her face, and there’s three blood drops on the woman’s uniform. 

One, two, three. 

And Mary-Alice Brandon screams. 

—

(She was thirteen years old. A ward of the state. A hopeless case. The perfect little guinea pig for the experimental new treatment. Much more efficient than chasing a screaming child around, to force the Metrazol down her throat.)

(They should have waited until she was older, of course. But the doctor’s ego and arrogance were too much, made him too impatient to wait. It wasn’t so much that the future changed - it did, of course - but that the girl who was little Mary-Alice was altered, irreversibly and forever. And that made all the difference.)

—

Three. Three becomes her number. 

It took three men to drag her from home in the dead of night (one broke her arm. How pleased her father must have been that they were in such a large house where there were no close neighbours to hear her screams.) 

She was thirteen - one-three - when they first push electricity into her poor brain. (Unlucky Mary-Alice.)

She gets three shots, morning and night, bruises blooming like ink in water. (They made her head swim and the world soft. They make her stomach twist and her bones ache. They make her words slow and run together. They steal all of her away.)

She has three different orderlies - the one that twitches and is cold as ice (he doesn’t hit her); the one that calls her names and threatens her (he hits and slaps and pushes her); and the one that comes in to her cell at night (he touches her too much, and is always the one that takes her to the bath.) 

Three times a week, she’s marched to the door at the end of the hall and they hook her into the machine and they look at her like she’s something wrong and foul. (She screams and cries and vomits and wets herself. She breaks an ankle because the loops are too loose and she thrashes. They were never fitted to hold a child down.) 

She starts looking for threes. She’s broken two bones, she needs to break another. She sees two doctors who shake their heads and write down notes, and she wonders when they’ll bring in a third. She counts the bites of her food to keep them down, curdled and sour in her belly. She counts her steps everywhere she goes, counts the slaps and pinches and shoves they give her. 

Three, three, three. 

—

The fizz and pop of the machine steals things. It takes her awhile to realise that. At first, it was just time; hours vanish like smoke. Then it was words - she stammers and mumbles and slurs. Then it was memories, what happened before the room.

Then it’s her family, her mother’s face vanishing and her sister’s laughter fading. 

(Someone said sorry to her a long time ago. It doesn’t soothe the hurt.)

Then it’s her full name. Mary-Alice Brandon. Mary-Alice.

Mary. 

Alice. 

(She doesn’t answer to Alice, only to Mary.) 

Then it’s her vision. It goes blurry and dark around the edges, and even when she wakes up in her cot, it doesn’t go away. When she tells someone, they huff and shrug and dismiss it - it stops the pictures in her brain so it is worth giving up her sight. 

They call her schizophrenic, a word that sounds like static, and a lot of other things. She hasn’t mentioned the visions in a long time; what good are they when she is locked up in cell? When she is convulsing in pain and forgetting everything she ever loved, and shivering in the dark? 

(She learns to live without her sight. She relies on her visions sometimes, but mostly, herself. Fingers tracing walls, feet gingerly testing out uneven floor. They let her stumble, and mutter about her blank, cloudy stare. A doctor does examine her eyes, but there is nothing to be done. Perhaps they can prevent this happening to another patient, but for Mary-Alice Brandon, it’s just unfortunate.)

It steals everything except fear. It feeds the fear well, and she knows she’s going to die in this place, hollowed out so that the fear can fill her up. She can see the graves from the window of the laundry, where other patients have died. She has no illusions; those are the dead from the other wards. People who might have gotten to go home again, people who get to eat in a dining room, and take pills instead of shots, who knit for the soldiers and write letters to their loved ones.  

People from the basement ward go on to their next life via the boiler room. She knows the stench of that intimately. 

(Three people come to the hospital one day - a man, a woman, and a child; the day between her sessions. They are very important because she gets an extra bath and clean clothes, and the orderly brings her in a wheelchair. She cannot see them properly, just shadows and shapes in her gaze. The doctor makes them sit behind her as she answers questions and gives her puzzles to solve. She doesn’t know much, and she can’t get her hands to move properly or stop shaking. The man behind her keeps telling the doctor how ‘good’ it is, and she has a grim feeling her failure pleases him.) 

(She’s going to die here, and end up being swept away with a broom.)

—

Three years. 

It takes three years for them to break her, to curdle the fear in her heart to rage. To let hate swell in her heart. She fights back sometimes, learns to bite and scratch. 

(They break her other arm, and there’s the third broken bone. That’s just fine with her, the heavy plaster cast makes a lovely noise against the face of the orderly who won’t stop touching her.) 

She spits and swears and tells everyone the truth. A husband will die, a wife will run away. A child will drown. Debt, loss, prison, she spits her fortunes out with relish, and there are more shots and more slaps, but she doesn’t care.

(She fights like a feral cat when they take her to the room now, fights away from the pain of the device lighting up her brain. It can do nothing more for her, she knows that, than it already has and now they are just using it to cook her brain a little more, until she is soft and pliable like their other victims. She won’t go down like that, won’t let them make her into those people. She gets a few good hits in, and she’s sure they make the machine hurt her worse.)

The cold orderly is the only one who can manage her these days, and she is grateful when she becomes his problem. No more touching, no more hitting. He talks to her in a low, calm voice - “I cannot stop them or any of this yet, little one. But I can try to stop the worst of it.”

She lets him help. She is quiet and docile when he escorts her places. She takes her medications and does as she’s bid and it works, a little. She cannot escape the room at the end of the hallway, cannot stop all the slaps, but some of her bruises get to heal. 

(When the cold sets in, he brings her clothes warm from the laundry; he smuggles her mugs of weak tea in tin cups, and swaps rancid porridge for an extra bit of stale bread on her tray. He lies to the doctors that she was ill, and unfit for her ice bath. He makes things a little better for her. In her dreams, she thinks about him falling in love with her, taking her away and marrying her. She doesn’t love him, but she sees her freedom in his kindness, and there are far worse ways to live than quietly married to such a man. If she ever had dreams for her life, the machine has eaten them all away and that’s comforting, because she would hate to realise how far she’s fallen.)

The shock therapy still demands its pound of flesh, and her memory gets worse. He writes her name in big black letters on the wall next to her pillow, but she certainly cannot see it to read it. So he carefully chips it into the wall, where her fingers can feel out the letters.

Mary-Alice. Mary-Alice. She is Mary-Alice.

(Sometimes he reads her things from her file. She’s sixteen years old. She’s from Biloxi, Mississippi. She is a ward of the state with no family - her surname is redacted in the earliest papers, and she is referred to as Miss Smith in all the later ones. She became blind when she was fourteen and a half. She is in the hospital for a laundry list of conditions that are, according to her doctors, incurable. 

She has been here since she was twelve.)

The rage finds a good home inside of her. It wraps around the grief and fear, and it is comforting in a new way. It lays roots to remake her into something else, something she might be, could be. Nothing better nor worse.

Just different.

—

It all goes wrong on a Wednesday. She knows it is a Wednesday because it is a treatment day. It is also bath day, and the day the priest comes round to pray at their doors, too cowardly to venture closer to the insane, the stricken as if they are contagious or tainted, somehow. 

(There are few in the basement that are truly terrible. They struggle and fight because of their fear of the pain, of the suffering, not for any other reason. Most of the patients are soft and dull, drugged and crippled into quiet obedience. There is no reason to fear them, truly. They’re all half-dead, anyway.)

It’s also a dreadful day because her orderly is not here, and they’ve been forced to deal with her alone. Her head rings from the hits she took, her shoulder aching. Her throat is sore and her stomach is churning and she is sick of hearing how God will forgive her and welcome her into His house. She has done nothing that requires forgiveness, her orderly assured her of that.

(She cannot remember his name, no matter how many times he tells her. He tells her it is okay. She will remember one day.)

“Shut up!” she finally screams at the priest, who is hidden in the hallway with his Bible and his sermon. “There is no God!” She means to say ‘here’, in this place, where an orderly held her under the water of her bath this morning to punish her, as she thrashed and struggled. Her chest still aches and she wishes she had drowned. She screams it over and over again, hot tears on her cheeks as her brain and mouth stutter and struggle to get the words out as she means them. 

“God is dead (here)!”

“G-God is dead!”

“God dead!”

She can’t get it right, can’t untangle her words and thoughts to make sense and the frustration and weakness makes her cry harder, makes the words harder. 

It’s the wrong thing to say anyhow, because then another orderly comes, and the priest is yelling at her, condemning her and then there are two nurses and a doctor and she gets to go to her standing appointment early because she’s behaving so badly, her arms bent behind her so she has to hunch over. The priest makes the sign of the cross over her and she spits and screams when one of the nurses slaps her.

(God is dead and so is logic. She never understood why they bathed her before they shocked her; she almost always wets herself, bites through her lip, or gets a nose bleed. She is always a reeking mess afterwards, and they act like they haven’t set her up for failure.) 

She’s hurled on the bed, and held down, and the doctor holds her jaw so tight she knows there will be finger prints on her cheeks. 

“We may have to increase your treatments, Mary, if you do not remember your manners,” he says, a cool and arrogant voice washing over her - he is just a wobbly shadow in her corrupted gaze. 

She manages to spit on him, sort of, and he slaps her too, and jams the rubber mouth guard into her mouth, holding it there and forcing her to choke. She writhes and kicks and no one has tied her down yet. 

They manage to restrain her, and she can feel the doctor’s pleasure as he pulls the lever and the pain…

… it is a wild thing, roaring through her like a fire. It burns like a fire too, and sinks into her brain, her bones, her mind and soul. It cripples her and changes her. It rattles around in her and all she can think is that one day she will hurt this doctor, hurt these people just as bad. She will burn the doctor to blistered flesh, to ragged charcoal, to see how fair and fine such treatment is. She has survived so long with this experimental treatment, with having different voltages, different wires and placements and techniques, without any gratitude or assurance. 

Just the never-ending rolling pain and fear. 

(And she opens her arms and her heart to that anger, that righteous fury, the power, and the creeping fear. It nestles deep and close, finally and indelibly rewrites Mary-Alice and what she will become.)

—

Her speech is nearly gone after. She slurs and mumbles and doesn’t get up off of her cot. It’s over for her, the last flicker of herself realises. They move her around like a marionette; she is just a bunch of loose limbs and dead eyes. They stick her with needles and smile at her, satisfied that she’s finally broken and docile. 

(One step closer to the boiler in the basement.)

They watch her body arch in pain at the shock of an ice bath, watch her twitch and shake with another seizure, ones that have made her their home over the last few years. But these are getting worse, and sometimes there are only minutes before the next one wracks through her. 

(They hurt her, make her body ache worse and her mouth taste like blood.)

Her cold orderly has returned, and he is still kind. He keeps her clean and warm, patiently feeds her dainty bites of inedible food. He talks to her and comforts her. When he thinks she is asleep, he tells her how unforgivable the state in which she lives is; that this was cruel and pointless, and she deserves so much better, so much more. He tells her of gardens and oceans, castles and beaches. He brings a flower, a leaf, some slightly greasy sheep’s wool that he guides her hands over so that she can remember good things. 

(She dreams of a boy offering her a flower; it’s white.)

It’s only after she dreams of the man with the red eyes that she tries to talk again. She sees the man with ruby eyes, his mouth smeared scarlet. She hears screaming, desperate screaming and babbling, and then nothing. She sees her own body, her throat torn to meat, laid out in the surgical room in front of frowning doctors. They mutter and murmur and try to translate the mess of her throat, her broken legs, her cracked and torn nails, the three broken vertebrae. 

Her nudity upon her discovery. 

(Of course, it’s easy to say that the girl was insane, escaping and discarding her clothing getting attacked by wild animals - perhaps she fell, broke her legs and her back and that’s when the animals arrived on the hunt. Anyhow, it truly doesn’t matter. The girl is really a woman, and has been a ward of the state so long that only the very oldest workers recall her full name. She is wrapped up and sent to the basement, nothing more than a footnote in the day’s happenings.)

She wakes up panicking, and the nurses do not like her noise, and so they have extra shots for her, a straitjacket and a stern lecture. She gasps and croaks and tries to explain. 

The cold orderly is there, trying to protect her from the rough treatment but disguised as trying to wrangle her. She tries to tell him, tries to explain there’s a hunter in their midst, a hunter coming for her to start with and maybe others but her head and tongue are muddled, so it just comes out as croaks of, “Red man, red man, red man.”

The shots pierce her flesh and she wails like a child because she doesn’t want to die like that. 

Doesn’t want to die. 

(She just wants to live. Just once. Just for a little while.)

—

The orderly is no fool. 

But neither is the hunter. 

The future ripples and changes once more.

—

Down south, amongst the dust and blood of the Wars, a soldier goes rogue, a Major deserts, and the Lady of Monterrey rages. 

Up north, a family packs their things, ready to move on. Again. 

And in the mud and mire of Mississippi, the girl who was supposed to be Alice Cullen stares dead-eyed into the stars as the venom creeps through her, changing her fate once and forever. 

[janiedean]

now I'm curious what Heidegger did if you're open to elaborating :P

I am always open to rant on heidegger *rubs hands* THEREFORE I SHALL NOW GO ABOUT IT:

now, problem #1: heidegger is SADLY seen as like THE BIGGEST GENIUS GAMECHANGER OF THE 20TH CENTURY, THE BEST, HE CHANGED EVERYYYTHIIING blah blah blah, to which I say: BULLSHIT

and now we go on to the fact that THE FUCKER DIDN’T EVEN FUCKING KNOW WHAT HE WAS SAYING BUT WROTE EVERYTHING IN SUCH A WAY THAT IT WOULD BE IMPOSSIBLE TO UNDERSTAND IT IF YOU DIDN’T BREAK YOUR HEAD OVER IT *and* on top of that his mantra was saying that you weren’t a true philosopher if people could understand what you were saying’, which means that since everyone things he’s a genius WHAT HAPPENED SINCE THEN WAS THAT EVERYONE STARTED WRITING STUFF PUTTING IT IN A WAY THAT THE AVERAGE PERSON WOULDN’T UNDERSTAND and I hate it because that’s how the category got the fame of ‘ah those people thinking about thin air and expressing themselves without making people understand’ WHICH IS NOT TRUE THAT’S NOT WHAT PHILOSOPHY IS ABOUT

when I say the fucker had no clue, I mean that literally he wrote this essay in the thirties then twenty years later he writes a letter to someone else about it and says ‘I RE-READ IT AND I THOUGHT I PUT A BIT TOO MUCH MEAT ON THE FIRE’ translation for I DIDN’T UNDERSTAND WHAT THE FUCK I WAS WRITING

which also adds up with the fact that the moment you actually understand something and dig in deeper in his bullshit you find out IT ACTUALLY MAKES NO FUCKING SENSE/DOESN’T HOLD UP AND I HATE IT

I shall now give you TWO examples of that before I move on to the stuff that also made him a literal piece of shit under all senses

now, the essay above was a complete fucking lsd trip about how you could understand the essence of the world THROUGH ART which was a complete mess but like at some point he goes around ranting about this van gogh painting with two farmer’s shoes. heidegger is all there like SO SINCE THESE SHOES BELONG TO THE FARMER/HIS LANDLADY WHO ALSO WAS A *FARMER* YOU CAN SEE THE DIRECT LINE TO THE EARTH and a whole load of other bullshit that hinged on THE SHOES BELONGING TO A FARMER/A POOR PERSON right, so yours truly goes like ‘hey you know what I’m just gonna go read up on that painting so I can bullshit the exam if needed’, I go look that shit up and THE FIRST THING WIKIPEDIA SAID WAS THAT THE SHOES BELONGED TO VAN GOGH AND ANY CRAP ART HISTORIAN AT THEIR BEGINNING OF CAREER WILL KNOW THAT so why??? why??? that makes your entire dumb point FALL DOWN, WHY?????

other essay: heidegger decides to teach us all that THROUGH POETRY YOU CAN SEE WHAT LANGUAGE IS MADE OF, which you say okay fine, he’s gonna use more than one poet to prove his point, right? NO, he goes for german poet friederich hölderlin and nO ONE ELSE, and like you could already argue that if you’re discussing LANGUAGE using *one* poet just from your mother tongue is kind of stupid but nvm that, in the middle of the usual nonsense he goes like OH BECAUSE SINCE HIS POETRY WAS THAT GOOD/DEEP/WHATEVER HE COULD SEE THE TRUTH OF LANGUAGE™ THROUGH IT AND THAT MADE HIM GO INSANE, except that if you know anything about the dude’s life it’s pretty obvious that okay he had a bad mental breakdown at some point but the signs started being seen after his sweetheart died so like......... THAT WAS NOT ABOUT THE POETRY™ IT WAS ABOUT THE FACT THAT THIS POOR GUY ALREADY WAS MOST LIKELY SCHIZOPHRENIC AND THE GIRL’S DEATH MADE IT WORSE like it’s not a mystery so why

and that is just TWO things you can possibly grasp but like being and time is all like that about I’M EXPLAINING YOU THE MEANING OF EXISTENCE and honestly fuck that noise

now you’ll say okay that looks like this dude conned half of the world into thinking he was good but what’s the rest of it bc your vehement hatred of him can’t just be that

WELL POINT IS THE DUDE WAS A DAMN CERTIFIED NAZIST™ WHO WAS ALSO A HYPOCRITE TO  BOOT AND I HATE HIS ASS TO DEATH

now we can start with the fact that he was a pupil of other important philosopher™ edmund husserl of whose work I’m not a fan but who personally I have nothing against, now this dude already planned to leave him his position but WAIT HE WAS JEWISH, what happens when hitler comes to power? he gets laid off ofc and heidegger SAYS NOTHING AND TAKES HIS PLACE AND REMOVED THE DEDICATION TO HIS FORMER MENTOR FROM THE 1941 EDITION OF BEING AND TIME and basically he never said or did shit against the regime and imvho it’s obvious reading his works that he... bought into it, but wait more on that later

on top of that the fact that he was supporting the regime/not doing anything against it and having affairs with his students two of which had jewish ancestry/were jewish JUST FUCKING IRKS ME because while I’m not gonna bitch about the affairs since he and his wife most likely had some... agreement bc his second son was from her lover not his but he recognized him anyway and he had affairs all around I suppose that was fine, but WHAT THE FUCK YOU’RE A PROFESSOR AND YOU FUCK YOUR STUDENTS? IDC THAT HALF OF ACADEMIA DOES IT YOU’RE STILL A PIG ffs

ANYWAY like the thing is that since everyone thinks he’s A GODDAMNED GENIUS (my ass) EVERYONE HAS CONSEQUENTLY IGNORED THAT HE SUPPORTED THE GODDAMNED REGIME EVEN IF JUST AFTER THE WAR HE WAS SIDE-EYED FOR THAT never mind that in some goddamne other essay from the 50s he compared concentration camps to industrialized agriculture and ARE YOU FUCKING SERIOUS, and like NO ONE ACTUALLY SAYS HEY YOU NEED TO STUDY THIS ASSHOLE BC HE’S IMPORTANT FOR CONTEMPORARY PHILOSOPHY BUT KEEP IN MIND THE NAZISM IS STRONG which would be honest naaaaah most people in academia used to pretend he just collaborated and the likes -

until someone published his private diaries a few years ago when it was obvious he was supporting the regime and suddenly 80% of academia was like:

BECAUSE OF COURSE HOW COULD SUCH A GENIUS HAVE AGREED WITH HITLER WELL he did fuck off

and you’ll say okay but why does it piss you off so much? IT DOES BECAUSE THEN I HAD TO SIT THROUGH LECTURES OF PEOPLE BITCHING ABOUT ANCIENT GREEK PHILOSOPHERS BEING MISOGYNISTS WHEN IT HAD NOTHING TO DO WITH THEIR THEORIES AND I WOULDN’T HAVE PRESUMED AN ANCIENT GREEK DUDE WOULD KNOW BETTER while I’d presume someone in nazi germany with a brain functioning would have known better and could have known better, but NO WE’RE IGNORING THAT BECAUSE WE CAN’T ADMIT THAT OUR PRECIOUS GENIUS WHO ALSO IS IMVHO NOT WAS A GODDAMNED HITLER SUPPORTER

AND I HATE THE WHOLE HYPOCRISY OF IT like please I don’t mind studying people’s work when I hate their ideology but I hate people pretending it wasn’t like that just because it would make the dude look bad yeah guess what idc also because 99% of what he said was bullshit anyway

tldr: the asshole was an unrepentant nazi supporter who didn’t really change that much after the war, 90% of his writings is incomprehensible and what’s comprehensible is basically ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME and on top of that he’s the reason why all contemporary philosophers can’t talk in understandable terms by the layman if you pay them to AND why everyone thinks we’re a bunch of stuck-up fucks who spend their time thinking about nothing and I really fucking hate that asshole’s guts and if there was ONE overrated person in the history of philosophy it was this piece of shit and that’s 100% of the reasons why I avoid contemporary philosophers like the plague if I can afford it :)

thanks this was my ted talk I hope you enjoyed it ;) ;)

[gerrydelano]

The anon with VSS & Palinopsia got me thinking about the Spiral in general, and like. I have VSS and condition where both eyes are permanently overblown. I've had insomnia, nightmares, and migraines as a direct result of this. I mean, you got lil rainbow flecks everywhere turning into shapes, turning into more shapes, and WOOP there's a monster gonna get you, except nah. Bc it's all in your brain you doofus. Or, you're looking at one place (or even just one direction) for too long, and now (1/2)

light is acting all weird. I dunno, I got rambly here, but I feel that's definitely something Spiral might employ, especially given that VSS and other eye conditions are really only just getting coverage and understanding. (2/2)

[BDG voice] i’m RONOLOGUING ABOUT THE SPIRAL AGAIN.

for SURE @ all of this. the spiral sort of taking things that do already exist and that are documented and have names and people Think they understand them, and twisting them beyond the scope of that assumed understanding, is Exactly the point i think. or at least, a really interesting thing to explore as being one of its many parts.

it’s a SUCH a compelling idea for the spiral to employ this kind of thing because most things are more effective when based in real experiences? rather, that you could theoretically pass off as an ordinary experience or even a medical phenomenon simply because it’s got a name, there’s a name someone else could give you to rationalize it and you could believe it for a while until it got worse or bled past the outline of the symptoms you WOULD expect if it really WAS xyz condition, etc.

especially if it’s only JUST getting coverage and understanding like you said, like, that makes it sort of a perfect tool imo? because people Don’t Know just enough that it can still be justified as “oh it could still be this we don’t know yet! give it time!” except that it fucking Isn’t and OUGH

that’s terrifying! because by then you’d be wondering, oh shit, if it was never the thing they told me it was/that other people experience, what has it been this entire time? will the time i took NOT addressing it make it harder to make it stop? etc. 

it’s not that the spiral would be responsible for a condition like this but rather... piggyback off the fact that people already accept that it exists (or in some cases deny it!) and then push those boundaries to confuse study of it and people who are experiencing the effects of it/whatever it might be doing to them outside.

if that. makes sense? like i hope it doesn’t sound like i’m trying to Eldritchify an actual thing people experience i am coming from a place of also having stuff go on like this that i also think is really cool to think about through a lens of “how could this being weaponize the fact that this experience already exists” and how much harder would that make it for us to identify what’s just Happening versus what’s being Done to us.

michael’s statement even said that his friend ryan got diagnosed with schizophrenia, when we know that probably wasn’t it, because that’s what ordinary people think is the best explanation for the kinds of things he was reporting. which is not me saying he couldn’t have also been schizophrenic/that schizophrenia is some mystical concept, i mean literally that people cannot conceptualize or accept the spiral and so they assume/insist it is something that is very human, etc.

it isn’t that the spiral just created mental illness/other conditions that disorient people, it’s that it surely targets people who are predisposed/already suffering because they’re already in a place of often times being less likely to successfully get anyone to take them seriously & they’re less likely to trust themselves. saying this as someone with like 9 prof neuro dxs.

the spiral literally leads directly into shit like not being believed by doctors and all that nasty horrendous stuff which it genuinely truly fucking sickening to think about like this is not quite in the same vein, but it still? is? because it could START with the VSS. it could START with thinking it’s just this other more physical problem, and then it gets worse, and then it gets worse, and then you run out of ways that you can explain it, and then you’re alone knowing something is happening when no one else can understand it.

SORRY FOR THE MASSIVE RANT AS ALWAYS i just think this is a really cool thing to draw off of when depicting the spiral for sure! not that it’s cool that it does all these terrible things (i am genuinely sorry you have to deal with this it sounds like a Complete nightmare jdfkbn) but more... it’s a more visceral avenue to take for this Thing that is MEANT to represent this sort of disorienting experience.