#grief is INSANE I was too depressed to feel a THING as a teenager

[very-lost-hobbit]

Some of you have never hopped in the ancient truck that used to be your Grandpa's and accidentally ripped it way too fast down an old dirt road he used to drive every day and wound up rocked with melancholic grief so heavy it aches in your chest for at least an hour after and it shows tbh

[dzpenumbra]

6/5/23

I have a doctor's appointment at 1 PM tomorrow, so I kinda have to do this quick. It's just a physical, hopefully nothing comes of it. I honestly don't really know whether it's worth bringing up mental health shit with them, which seems to be the big issue right now.

I was a bit frustrated this morning, waking up. This whole... no one being able to help me thing. Since I was very young, I had my mom taking me to doctors to figure out what's wrong with me. And, somehow... there was never really an answer... hmm... weird, right? See, in my experience of life, this was very normal. I never questioned the idea of being ferried across state lines as a teenager for scans and procedures and shit as being... abnormal. Even though... it didn't happen to anyone else I knew... even my own brothers... It just never really occurred for me to question that, you know?

That's the insidious part about really difficult things - I don't really know how to word that, honestly... I'm struggling with accurate phrasing. I guess trauma? But like... family shit? And just... environmental shit, you know? Like... how I was talking about how people respond to a cat wanting to play by assuming the cat is being "a dick" or "angry" or something, because they were taught that's what it means, and then shutting it out of the bedroom permanently. You get used to that, it becomes normalized, and you just... never question it. When a cat attacks you, that's what's happening. You already have the answer to that, there's no need to question it.

So... like... me going to doctors is hard. Because there's a really long history there. But also, what I was wrestling with this morning... being told "we can't help you" is super hard. Like... point me in the fucking direction of someone who can, do something! I can't even count how many times I was just told "sorry, can't help you, good luck" and sent off to kick fucking rocks. Doctors. Therapists. "Life Coaches". Vocational Rehabilitation. All the same.

So... again, not sure if it's worth even mentioning that I've really been struggling with anxiety and depression... and PTSD... and grief... and, to be blunt... since I've been shying away from the word a lot lately... agoraphobia. There is definitely phobia attached to me not leaving my apartment, that's indisputable. My therapist and I are addressing all of it, but the plan is... insanely slow-moving, and kinda feels like... Okay. The plan is basically, as far as I can tell, to teach me some skills to try to repair my own self-confidence and self-esteem, and to maintain them properly... so that I can... Get out there and start from scratch. Meet friends, make professional connections, live life. How to do that? Where to go? Who to meet? No fucking clue. Just gonna sit here in my apartment and keep making art and chant to myself nice positive things 5 times a day until I finally get a giant spike of confidence, then I'll... be talked out of going to do something to move my life forward because it might overwhelm me.

Bah. Idk. See, all this over the simple thought: "should I bring up my mental health struggles with my doctor?" The only way he can help is meds and honestly? I do not want to be walking back from the pharmacy through a... what I consider a bad neighborhood... with a fucking controlled substance in my pocket. And I really don't think they're gonna let anyone deliver that shit to my door. And honestly, with how hard it was to get off these things, I really don't feel comfortable voluntarily getting back on them. I don't know, I flip-flop on the idea a lot.

I had this issue with meds when I was on them... the idea of missing a dose or not being able to get a prescription refilled - which happened way too often for comfort - ended up creating more anxiety and stress than not having them. By that I mean... the meds helped reduce how much of that everyday stress and anxiety I felt, but what they don't tell you is that just because you don't feel anxiety and stress, doesn't mean you're not experiencing it. Just because you're anesthetized doesn't mean your body isn't registering pain or damage caused from that, and it still takes a toll. So... I still experienced the everyday stress and anxiety, and the added stress and anxiety of med-related problems. "Did I take my meds?" "Did I miss a dose?" "Did I double-dose accidentally?" "Am I going to have to go into withdrawal because this pharmacy refuses to refill this prescription for whatever reason?" Shit like that.

So yeah. I guess I'm just trying to sort out whether it's even worth bringing up. Because I know for a fact that if I talk to the guy about this the way I'm talking right now? My real voice. The entire appointment will be about that, because I go on forever, and I likely won't leave with anything. That's why I usually let them take the lead and just answer whatever questions they have, unless it's like... urgent.

That said... if I can get prescriptions delivered? I'll have that conversation. It just seems unlikely to me that that's a thing.

Okay... here's thing of the day number 2. I got downstairs today and found my tomato plant... collapsed. It broke my heart. It was like... flopped over at a 90 degree angle. I was on the verge of tears, honestly. I have no idea what happened. It was very cold last night, and... I'm guessing windy? And I watered it last night... And then I wake up and the whole thing is collapsed. The main stem was bent, but not broken... So I scoured the apartment for something to use as a stake. I ended up settling on a plastic coat hanger, which I cut the big long straight section out of, and loosely tied the plant to the stake. And... it actually seems to have stood itself back up over the course of the day. I legit don't know if it's going to survive, but... I think it might! But god did that scare the shit out of me. Poor thing. I remember back when I had a legit raised bed garden and tons of tomato plants (my first garden, which I completely got myself in over my head with...) I had a ton of trellises that I used for the tomatoes. This kit that my brother got me, it's a cherry tomato plant, but it's grown in a big glass jar full of soil. They never once mentioned any kind of stake or trellis needed for this. Now... I'm debating getting something for the chili too. Just to be... proactive.

The good news that goes with that? And why I was so devastated... The tomato sprouted its first flower buds, they're still very very tiny but if the plant recovers well... the flowers should start before too long! And the philodendron cuttings are doing really well. Two of them are almost ready to be planted. I'm just debating whether I want to plant them separately or have them share the same pot. I'm guessing separately makes the most sense. My blackberry seeds have not germinated... unfortunately... I don't know if they still need time or not... but hell, it doesn't hurt to just give it time. So I'm thinking of just giving them another week or something and then if they still haven't sprouted, I'll toss some basil starters in there and get that going.

I'm very excited about being a plant-father. I did do the whole outdoor garden thing one summer with my ex (it was basically just me, tbh), but that felt much more... hands-off. I kinda just let them do their thing, and they did great, even got a bunch of watermelons out of the deal! ... Actually, now that I think about it, I think it was 2 summers. There was... lettuce, onions?, green beans, jalapenos, and a bunch of tomatoes the first year... no, it was broccoli, not onions. But the broccoli, idk what happened, I think bugs got to it. The second year I think was more lettuce, strawberries, cucumbers and watermelons. Hard to remember, it was a while ago.

I am much more... attentive to my plants now, I know them much better. And that is a very two-sided feeling. I love the adventure of getting really passionate about something new and diving into it - it's a huge part of my life, something I am constantly trying to do, always try new things, always learn, always grow - but the older I get, the more I feel that whole... beginner's shame thing. The clumsiness. Making avoidable mistakes. I felt so much more... immune to it when I was younger. Now... it's weird, it feels like a social expectation that if you're an adult, you aren't going to make beginner mistakes... at anything. My family is absolutely an extreme example of that, but I really do think it can just be put onto people by society. Like... I remember at the bagel shop I worked at... If a teenager fucked up, it was kinda expected. If someone over 40 fucked up? Like a simple mistake? It always felt like... "hey man, you should know better." And honestly, that's kinda bullshit on both sides. Don't assume that young people are inept. And engage with them if they make mistakes so that they can learn what happened and how to course correct. Don't just go, "ugh, dumb kid, I'll go fix your mistake, get out of my way." And with older people, don't just get mad if someone is new at something. You can't just magically know how to do things, this isn't the fucking Matrix.

Anyway, just mentioning that because I kinda felt that when the plant fell today. I just... I know it was just a fluke thing, but I kinda blamed myself. Like I should've known better. And I have been a bit reserved about propagating the succulents in fear that I might... "fuck up"... due to inexperience. But, thankfully, that feeling was actually motivating for me. I need to fuck up. I need to fuck up and see that it really is not the end of the world, and learn from that, and move forward. It's so goddamn important to do that. Not to be blind about it, or arrogant about it... like... don't go too far in that impulsive direction... but I need to push forward out of my whole "play it super safe" shit. It is the anti-anxiety. It's me being super scared and saying fuck it and dropping in on a quarterpipe when I haven't done that in over 14 years. I need that. Mini leaps of faith. They are so good for confidence. I just need to be okay with the fact that sometimes, I'm gonna fall, and that's okay. That's why we learn how to fall safely.

It's getting late, tarot time.

Past - XII: The Hanged One, inverted (Opportunity for new perspective, evolution through stillness and stagnation, evolution through sacrifice or loss. The interconnectedness of perspective and sacrifice, and the need to act on them for substantial change. Let go.) Present - XXI: The World, inverted (Dreams and passions being rewarded.  Newfound success.  Reaping what you have sown.) Future - VIII: Strength, inverted (Overcoming fear, mastery of emotions through equilibrium and inner strength.)

Another three inverted cards... XD Yay!!! This time, all Major Arcana cards. Let's dive in, this one doesn't seem... too complicated, at first glance.

The start of the thread is... a blockage or disorder/dysfunction in... finding a new perspective? Maybe being stuck in loss, or stillness? I was going to look for more guidance from other sources on this, but I'm just going to try to work it out myself. The concept of the Hanged One is... as far as I recall... at least in part a reference to a story about Odin, hanging himself upside-down from a great tree in order to... gain great insight and wisdom. It's a literal sacrifice made to elicit a metaphoric transformation, and a shift of perspective. A new way of seeing the world. One of great sacrifice, but the gift is worth the price, kinda thing. So... if that's not working... maybe I'm missing the message? Or haven't fully transformed yet?

That connects to The World, inverted. Which is... the big reward. The culmination of hopes and dreams, goals and aspirations. And... it's also stuck, or blocked, or... something's wrong with it, something's preventing it. Likely that transformation that hasn't finished.

That is connected to... Strength, inverted. Which is the embodiment of a symbiotic alliance between emotions and intellect. Harmony with your fear, an inner strength. Which... is blocked, or gone on the fritz, as well.

So, tl;dr... I'm missing something in my new perspective? A blind spot? Or I haven't finished transforming yet? And that is why my ambition is not paying off. Which, in turn, is causing fear to rule my life and my emotions to run rampant. So... what am I missing? What more do I need in order to transform? ... I drifted off in my head there for a bit realizing the silliness of grilling myself to find what blind spot I have. XD As though pressing harder will make me just magically see it!

Alright, I really need to get to bed. Fingers crossed I can get to sleep in a timely manner and this appointment goes well.

[pitiless-achilles-wept]

Not dead yet!: Marking my 2-year anniversaries

On Sunday I marked my two-year “cancerversary” of my diagnosis and on Tuesday a member of the support group I co-founded (for young women who are stage 4) died. Like me, she had triple-negative breast cancer. Like me, she was diagnosed stage 4 two years ago. Like me, she had exhausted several types of treatment (because triple-negative is a beast) and was looking for the one that would work. She asked me about Saci (Sassy!) and proposed trying it to her doctor less than a week before she died. Nine days before she passed she joined our Sunday cancer yoga group from bed at the hospital to join our meditation exercises. Like me, she remained confident and positive and absolutely refused to give up hope. (Like me, she also wore her hair purple sometimes.)

There were many things that are unlike about us too. She had two teenage children who now don’t have their mother. She was twelve years older than me and had had Hodgkin’s before she had breast cancer--even worse luck than mine, to triumph over one cancer only to get this diagnosis. Unlike me, she wasn’t strong enough for Saci, the only targeted triple-negative line of treatment, because her body had reacted badly to immunotherapy. She was in the hospital for two weeks with somewhat mysterious symptoms all of which added up to her body shutting down. On Saturday she went home with her family in hospice care. 2 days later she was gone.

It’s not usual for things to go so fast. Typically, doctors, patients, and family members all have some advance warning and patients spend a solid amount of time in hospice care. I am sure that people will ask me why it went that way for her. I’m asking myself why too, since it is so shocking and so entirely unfair. The fact that it can happen that way at all is frightening to me as a fellow patient since it’s the scenario of nightmares. That really could someday be me. No one ever wants to think that--and I cannot live my life focused on it either--but it has to be acknowledged as a possibility.

[More below the cut about memories from 2 years ago today and hopes for the future. Also, an invitation to contribute to some writing if you want.]

Today, January 28th, is the 2-year anniversary of my stage 4 diagnosis. In a way, it feels more significant than my initial cancer news. I had four days being horrified, but thinking that I would get through this as a phase in my life. It would be terrible--I’d have a double mastectomy, scorched-earth chemo, radiation, anything to get rid of the cancer--but then it would be done. On the Monday following my first set of CT scans I learned that that was not true. My lungs were full of tumors. (Later, after lots of waiting, MRIs and biopsies, I'd find that my lymph nodes, spine, and liver were affected too. I still have tumors in all those locations, but no new ones.) I wrote a description of getting that news in an email to a friend over the summer, after I had read Anne Boyer’s "The Undying”:

“The worst part about the lung tumors for me was that my dad had gotten a very early flight and I learned the news while he was in the air. My mom told me we could not text or tell him on the phone, that he would need to be with us both. So I drove to Newark straight from the doctor's office. It was in the teens outside and windy as we slogged to the baggage area where we were to meet. I saw my dad in his warmest and ugliest puffy orange down jacket, looking small in it, forlorn and horribly vulnerable. I fell into his arms, thinking at least that airports were such horrible places, so impersonal and banal, that no one would look twice. 'It's in my lungs,' I said into his shoulder so that I would not have to see his face. I was crying into the jacket that somehow smelled of winter cold even though he had been inside for hours. 'Please, Daddy. Fix it, please.' I spoke like a child because, on some very deep level, I think I really did still believe that my father could fix anything. I was embarrassed, though, and so I tried to stem my tears as he put his big hand on the back of my head and said, 'Oh sweetie, we'll get through this. We will.' I knew that really he could do nothing--and that this was his nightmare of powerlessness--and so I sniffed and blinked and I did not let myself cry again until June.”

Two years later this moment seems as if it just happened. The impact of my diagnosis on everyone dear to me, and especially my parents, is one of the worst things about it for me. We all know that there’s only so much “better” I can get, with the current science, and we’re all playing for time while the research moves forward towards something better, something that would make this a treatable chronic condition. I go back and forth, emotionally, on how likely I think that is and how good my position is for the future. Right now, comparing myself to the group member who died, I feel relatively fortunate, even as chemo exhausts me, I lose every scrap of hair that was ever on my body, and I spend half of my days being almost unable to eat from nausea and loss of taste. I feel glad that I was able to get Saci, that my body has so far stood up to the ceaseless trials I have put it through, with four treatments and surgery (and full-time work and living alone etc. etc.). I feel strong, not scared, even as I feel the emotional toll of terrible loneliness from covid isolation, winter, and carrying a sick body through my days alone.

I do not love the “fight” metaphor because so much of having an illness is completely out of your control and I never want to take myself (or anyone else) to task for “losing.” And so instead I will praise my body for enduring. I will praise myself for my enduring also, in both an emotional and physical way. I checked back in on how I was feeling as this anniversary approached last year and was pleased to see how much better I feel about it now, partly as a function of being in a treatment that is (likely) keeping me stable rather than in the midst of choosing another new one. Here is what I wrote back to my group of friends in November 2019, the run up to the one-year mark:

“I’m feeling like I can’t plan and don’t want to celebrate, like I can’t perform “fine” for the people in my life to spare them from the pain I’m causing by not doing better and feeling horrible about it. Perhaps it would help if I let them know that they didn’t need to perform “fine” for me? I understand the desire to protect me from the obligation to take care of them and appreciate it. But sometimes it can feel like I’m the only one experiencing anger or grief or pain, though I know I’m not. Feeling so isolated in my emotional response provides no catharsis for it. Compassion and sympathy function on the notion of “fellow feeling.” If you’re just out here, feeling by yourself, you can’t expect any comfort. As always, I think of the moment in the Iliad when Priam and Achilles cry together over dead Hector. Grief (and you can grieve for many things aside from a death) is something explicitly to be shared.” So I guess I’ve shared it here. I can do that. And I can do another thing, which is to tell you I love you. People don’t really say it enough and reserve it too entirely for romantic contexts. It’s weird--it’s not like we are wartime rationing love! And every time anyone says it to me it helps. It’s an affirmation that I am integral in some way to people’s lives which, in a society that so greatly valorizes marriage/partnership and children, is something I can be in doubt about.”

There are some things I like here, though, and that I would now like to reiterate and invite you, my far-flung friends, to do for my 2-year milestone. Never has the notion of “fellow feeling” in times of grief and depression hit harder or been more important than during covid. In a way, the nation (or even world) was forced into much the same position, emotionally and practically, that my cancer put me in. People are isolated, unable to perform “fine” and wondering if other people feel the same way, or even if any of us can take care of each other at all. I am here to tell you that you can. Maybe not immediately but--sooner than you think--you can. Emotional reserves may be low but reaching out to support someone else can actually replenish them. You do not have to feel alone, or to feel, alone.

And for me, for this milestone and for the cancer-related depression that I certainly do have, I’d like to invite you to help me, so that I can do the same for you. I invite you to write something about how this milestone feels for you (either about me or not), how it relates to all the other insane things going on in the world or with you (not about me at all), how you felt on the original day when I shared my stage 4 diagnosis (definitely about me)--really anything that is on your mind or in your heart.

“Oh great,” you may think, “the English PhD has asked us to do homework!”. But no! It's up to you what you do. Write in whatever form you want, however long, even anonymously. And if you do I will write you back! Not with grades or comments, but with something to connect to what you shared. It is a way to create fellow-feeling; to open up, connect, heal. With me, yes, but also as the group of extraordinary people who have gone with me so far on this hard road. It’s a very different proposition to support someone through time-limited treatment with a good outcome than it is to sign on for whatever comes next. You are all, truly, pretty extraordinary.

Anyone who wants to send a note or reflection can email me or drop a file or post in this Google drive folder. Like I said, feel free to share whatever and do it anonymously if you’d rather. You can also askbox me here (better than DMS) or submit a post to this blog. (I'm taking a chance with open DMs for now...we'll see if that needs to change.)

I am grateful for all of you every day, but especially today.

Love, Bex

p.s. The title of this post refers to the cinematic classic "Monty Python and the Holy Grail," a film my high school self and friends loved. They, along with other wonderful folks. gave me a "cancerversary" cake with "Not dead yet, motherfucker!" on it this Sunday. p.p.s. The average life expectancy for people who get this diagnosis is 18 months to 3 years. Hitting 5 years would be extraordinary. Starting Year 3 is a huge deal and I have every intention of being extraordinary. (Never been average at anything in my life...I either succeed spectacularly or fail epically!)

[hintofcolor]

Things I’ve managed to convince myself are canon:

Dick was born in Romania and spent his entire childhood traveling with the circus not once settling down therefore when his parents died in America (supposedly just another country they stopped in) he was forced to stay there. Meaning dick was an illegal immigrant for a long time while Bruce constantly was trying to use his money and power to get Dick legal without him leaving the country OR anyone finding out

This also means Dick couldn’t really speak English when he moved in with Bruce (this is backed up by him constantly dismantling the English language in the YJ cartoon)

All of the bat kids were bullied brutally in school

Bruce encouraged them to fight back just like Alfred did with him (“never throw the first punch but if get hit make sure they’re the ones that stay down”)

Dick spent a couple weeks in juvie after his parents died and it was the worst couple weeks of his life

Dick had a childhood crush on Wally (who is straight) when dick was 16 he sat Wally down and told him. He told him he expected nothing out of this confession he just hated feeling like he was lying to Wally, Wally understood and was really nonchalant about it nothing changed in their relationship

Jason grew up loving wonder woman and considered her his greatest inspiration in being a hero when he was robin

In return Diana absolutely adored Jason

When Jason got older his respect for Diana only grew and Diana constantly stood up for him, even going as far as (subtly) threatening Bruce a couple times

Jason can’t handle the smell of drugs at all, he always has to wear a filtered mask during drug busts just in case

Jason used to smoke but ever since coming back the smoke just reminds him of the explosion (I saw this somewhere I can’t remember where shout out to you tho)

Jason hates the color green

Tim was severely neglected as a child

Tim learned multiple different languages from all the nanny’s he’s had

Tim is an amazing photographer

All of Bruce’s kids are really close with Selina and go to her to talk or just if they need a break from Bruce and she absolutely adores it

This is one of the main reasons Bruce wanted to marry her

Bruce might be a little awkward and socially inept but he is a good father and loves all of his kids and even tho he might slip up sometimes he would NEVER (I’m looking at you Tim king) NEVER EVER intentionally hurt one of his kids physically or mentally BECAUSE THAT IS EXTEREMELY OUT OF CHARACTER @ ANY WRITER WHO HAS MADE BRUCE A JERK GOD LEARN YOUR CHARACTER JEEZ

Damian is a phenomenal artist and is considered a prodigy

It is something he keeps to himself however

Both Dick and Tim have gone and worked under Selina during thier robin days for a few weeks

The only person who is close to Dicks level when it comes to acrobatics is Selina

There are days where you are only allowed to speak in your native tongue to help Everyone keep up their language skills (Tim speaks Filipino dick speaks Romani Jason speaks Italian Stephanie speaks Portuguese Damian speaks Arabic bruce switches Cassie speaks Chinese) these are the days duke feels like slamming his head through a wall

All of the bat kids have green lantern shirts

Tim has a habit of stealing clothes from literally anyone

Tim prefers tea over coffee

Ace and Titus are both trained service dog however Titus is Damians specifically while Ace is trained to alert Alfred of Bruce and to alert Bruce of Dick Tim and Jason

Bruce is think about getting another dog for Cassie steph and duke because he doesn’t want to overwhelm Ace with 3 more people

Nobody in that spoiled family except for Jason and Alfred can make ANYTHING other that ramen cereal and toast

Dick is insanely healthy because that’s how he grew up in the circus AND the manor

Bruce once lit the refrigerator on fire trying to cook. No one knows how. He denies he ever did such to this day

Dick was considered a heartthrob as a teen and actually was featured on vogue in native dress and took the opportunity to talk about his culture

Vickie was fuming but so was Lois

Dick dresses like Harry styles. Convince me otherwise. I dare you.

However his go to look is a Hawaiian short tucked into black skinny jeans and black converse

Just like Selina everyone in the batfamily has a tendency to confide in Dinah

No homophobia sexism or racism is allowed in the Wayne house hold if you display any of the following you will promptly be kicked out. It has happened before

Cassie has punched lex Luther in the face at a gala

Bruce laughed

Cass has also only worn sweats and a sports bra to a gala

Cass is a ballet dancer and likes teaching her brothers the moves she has learned

When Bruce came back from the dead and found out the justice league thought Tim was going insane with grief and didn’t do anything about it he yelled and screamed for a solid hour. Then he went silent. for weeks he didn’t say a word. It was the most terrifying he had ever been

Duke hangs on to the fact that he is the only meta allowed in Gotham with absolute pride

All the robins check in on the kids from the ‘we are robin’ movement every now and again just to make sure they are okay

Adults are terrified of the bats however children love them

Every member of the batfamily has been called over by child screaming out their window only to spend the next hour helping said child with their homework

Batman makes sure he is approachable to children he wants them to feel safe enough around him to ask for his help no matter what

That has led to him: 1. Patching up stuff animals 2. Calming down imaginary friends 3. Giving opinions on important matters such as which color is the best 4. Helping with homework 5. Trying to be persuaded into convincing the parents not to make broccoli anymore. It’s his favorite part about putting on a mask

Teenagers tho a little more hesitant also approach him with a little more serious matters and more for advice. (How can I help my friend with depression? How can I help my anxiety? I think friend is doing drugs how can I help. I don’t think these are good people I’m hanging out with but now I’m too scared to stop)

However if teens catch any bat sitting on a rooftop close to their windows they ask more stupid type of questions

“Hey nightwing how do you ask out a girl?” “Red hood I’m trying to write this book so hypothetically how long does it take some one to bleed out?” “If I payed you would you take my physical for PE for me?” “How good do you think you would do on the pacer test?” “Can you tell my little sister to shut up, she’ll listen to you?” “How much do I have to pay you to scare my friend?”

Talks between people and the vigilantes from rooftop to window happen a lot and it is always the highlight of the patrol. They like that the people of Gotham trust them.

Jason was brought back via whatever that superboy reset was (I’m still a little fuzzy, sue me) clawed his way out of his grave and then found by Talia. He was then but in the pit for his head injuries. Making it easier for the shadows to manipulate and brainwash him into hating Bruce. However that’s the only thing they manipulated him into. Jason didn’t go ‘insane by the pit’ and his thoughts and stances on killing are his own. And the way Bruce handles Jason being back is what made Jason continue hating Bruce even aged the brainwashing ‘wore off’

The day his dad died was what Jason considered the best day of his life

Dick is extremely intelligent and was considered a child prodigy (this isn’t a headcanon this is actually canon some of y’all just forget and need to be reminded)

Dick loves math (also canon)

Jason can sing. Like really really well.

Theater Nerd™️ Jason Todd

Jason is scared of thunderstorms

Damian is afraid of heights

Lady shiva absolutely adores Tim

They have all been arrested a few times each for varying reasons when they were teenagers

If Alfred or Bruce yell one thier full names the other kids will cover for them but ONLY if they use the full name other wise it’s every man for himself

I know this one isn’t batfam but I think kon playes the electric guitar and has a really unique punk-ish vibe type singing voice (think hobo Johnson)

Dick has naturally curly hair

[tylerwritez]

I was hit in the head with a brick today.

Its Monday, October 18th, 11:30. Jacob didnt show, he had a busy day, so I invited my bestie Elle over and she came at around 6pm and we hung out and baked brownies. It was fun, but our brownies didn't rise cos we neglected to add baking powder. I walked them to their bus stop in the dark... I was tbh worried they would die or soemthing... in the area I live recently theres been a murder and a few rapes of young kids happening when it got dark. But in the end I left them there and headed home, and they got home safe so it turned out good. I got monster for us at around 5pm but she didnt drink hers, so I have an extra for tommorow >:D they're the strawberry lemonade rehab kind, so they're 25cals each, which isnt bad at all. I had a lot of anxiety while I was waiting for Jacob to come over... I guess because I was uncertain about how the day was going to pan out. But it improved significantly after I confirmed Elle was coming over... proabably becos I knew for certain that SOMEONE was gonna hang out w me.

See? Even days that start off depressing, with you smoking alone in the cold, can end up happy. I think the therapy session at 4pm improved my mood quite a bit though... it felt like I was hit in the head with a brick... but in a positive sense of the phrase. I I soemthing important.

You see, for as long as I've felt pain about my past, I've had this self doubt. This feeling that I was making up my pain, that I was delusional, that I was insane, that nothing bad ever happened, that if it did, I should just get over it and let the past be the past.

The thing is, obviously stuff MUST'VE happened, if even today I cry to mention it. So my feelings were validated in a sense. I realized that how I feel is valid, and REAL, and it's okay to feel this way even if everyone else has moved on. Even if those events are in the past, they still hurt me, so it DOES matter!!!

It doesnt even matter who's fault it was. I can stop worrying about that. No matter who caused it, it's my responsiblity to do work to fix it. And really,,, my parents didnt do that on purpose.

So now I just need to let go of my emotional pain!!! And stop mourning!!! And I feel like I can do that, now that I KNOW how i feel is okay!!! Sorry for the excitement. I'm just optimistic. I'm happy and i could cry from happiness to have the life I have right now. I have such a happy life on a beautiful earth with lovely music and good kind friends who care about me and like... I have a therapist??? My parents got me a therapist??? It's like people are FINALLY listening to me,,, and I dont really feel as much need to cover up my obvious illness/issues.

It was very validating to me. The therapist asked questions, which I answered as honestly and clearly as I possible could... I even mentioned my past shoplifting and current nicotine addiction, because she said the stuff there stays there.

But the most validating part is... well, I've ALWAYS felt that the way I felt emotion was not... right. Too strong, too wild, too... inappropriate. This, added on to my anger issues as a child and later, my constant grief over my past... compared to others, I mean. I always felt SOMETHING was wrong with me. I could never really quite put a finger on it. But then the therapist,,, listened to what I had to say regarding that... and after the whole session, decided that she wanted to assess me for 1 thing (ofc she didnt tell me and I didnt ask, probably because i didnt want to go into the assessment with bias of any kind) but she wants to assess me for something, discuss the results of the test, and then send me to a PHYSICIAN, like a DOCTOR, like a DOCTOR like who usually deals with PHYSICAL illness??? The word she used was "pediatrician"... but I'm a teenager LOL, not a child (the prefix pedo,pedia, means "child", for example, a PEDOphile is a child-lover... so a pediatrician is a doctor who treats children... I get what she means, but I really dont see myself as a child anymore 😅)

Anwyays, she said she wanted to send me over to like a DOCTOR to discuss this... this feeling that something was wrong with me.

This means... THIS MEANS IM BEING TAKEN SERIOUSLY!!!!! finally, someone who doesnt dismiss my ABNORMAL emotions and grief as "teenage hormones" or something of the like. I just. I'm happy that finally, people are listening to me! And taking me seriously! And caring about what I have to say regarding my feelings! And I can talk a bit more freely about this shit :) it's nice. I mean, I obviously havent reached the level of 100 PERCENT HONESTY with my parents, but I can at least still say more than I used to...

It's all falling into place yknow? I'm happy I didnt kill myself. I'm happy I pushed through to get to this moment.

I'm listening to my old vocaloid faves, and I think that's also helping boost my mood.

this, combined with the fact that I didnt grossly overeat today, makes for a pretty good day!

My therapist also said

1. Write about my grief... a letter to my parents. What I wish they would've done. And then tear up the paper and throw it out, or burn it up. I said that I'd done that already, but i felt like I could never say everything I needed to say, or even AGREE on the FACTS of the shit I was saying! But like... now I can sorta agree on the facts, since I know how I feel is valid and not fake. It's real! And I know now that if I need, I can write it out more than once!!! If I forget something, I can just write it out in addition, separately. And even if it helps me feel a LITTLE bit better, its better than nothing.

It's so easy to hold onto negative feelings. It's very hard to view things positively, or with happiness... like, okay. Happiness is clear, potable water. Sadness is dirty, gross water. Even a little bit of dirty, gross water mixed in with the clear, potable water, will spoil it all.

When you have clear water, it's easier to make it dirty than it is to make dirty water clean.

It's easier to ruin a good mood than it is to lift a bad mood, basically. So when discussing SAD things, it's hard to frame them positively, and once you start crying from sadness, it's very hard to stop crying and feeling that sadness and that PHYSICAL pain in you.

A good thing I can do is think of things I like about myself (I am adaptable and can adapt to almost any given situation, I am stylish and dress cool, I am able to face my fears (social interaction, Allioli our gecko, birds, heights) and things I'm grateful for (I live in a safe place with no war and clean water and I have food in my house and I have clothes in my closet and I have a computer and a phone and two dogs and a best friend and a few good friends actually) see? It forces your mind to, instead of looking for more bad, look for some good. Idk tho. I'm trying. I'm trying everything, because this is mostly up to me. If I really wanted to, I could ignore the therapists advice and keep being sad... but that wouldnt help me heal. Healing is hard. Healing is as much (if not more) my responsibly than anyone else's.

If I want to get better, I have to at least TRY.

One more thing... one thing that I found most helpful, more than just listing positive things, was breathing in, holding it... and then when you breathe out, making a sound to let your frustration out. And after doing this quite a bit, it feels silly, like, it feels stupid, right? So you kinda start laughing.

The best remedy to sadness is laughter, and not that sick kind of laughter you get when you realize how absurdly sad and pathetic you are... I mean REAL laughter, when something is genuinely, not ironically or post ironically but GENUINELY funny.

Maybe that should inspire my next MTG card (for art class I am painting MTG cards).

Anwyays, after that, you just, wave your arms around, wave your head around, jump even, just AAAAAA GO CRAZY AAAAA GO STUPID. let it out.

That reminded me of back when I used to have more energy more often, I would put on music and DANCE in the dark at night like a crazy person and put on musicals and shit. It is a good thing to get energy into you and get it out.

I sound. so fucking stupid right now. I'm sorry guys... I dont really feel normal right now. I'm happy for the first time in maybe a whole week, like really happy in a way that I know won't end until at least morning. And I'm not used to it. And it's making me act stupid and optimistic and dumb and like a little kid. I just feel good about this whole thing. The idea of talking to a DOCTOR, getting my dad to take me to a DOCTOR, is FUCKING SCARY but... it's a sign that I'm being taken seriously.

Soemtimes I say the wrong thing, or dont oxmmhnicate accurately. But overall it was chill, even though I couldnt really accurately communicate my level of suicidality, I'm pretty sure saying "soemtimes I want to do it but I never will and I know that feelings are temporary" is kinda the same as saying "I dont want to do it", right? Either way, I'm not about to risk having my parents told that I'm suicidal over some little communication like that. We get the IDEA. Lol.

I did sort of attempt suicide once, but I didnt go through all the way with it. I downed maybe 4-6 pills? I did take over the amount I should've, and I got a horrible stomachache (probably my liver since it was advil) but I didnt die, go to hospital, or get any sort of damage. So I think i stopped just in time to prevent real damage. I think if I had even take one more advil, I wouldve been in hospital, just because of the pain I was in. And I read online that the way you die from it is extremely painful, can take weeks, doesnt work half the time and leave you alive, but with permanent liver failure/damage and like... it just didnt seem like a good method, so I stopped.

I honestly cant even fucking believe I even considered suicide over an argument with my mom. Jesus.

See, I can't handle adults angry at me. Even in the slightest.

The mourning and grief is insane, dude.

.... maybe I WILL get that stupid doll.

No... my parents cant afford it. But if they could, maybe I'd get it. Because that stupid BOY doll is very much a partial embodiment of the things that made me upset as a child.

Shit, now I'm remembering my teacher was mad at me for wearing headphones in class and listening to music and said to take em off kinda sternly and i legit broke down crying. Wow. See? The GRIEF... I downplay it because it feels stupid to me. I was never beat or anything. So why be upset? But it's there, the pain is there. That pain is... this whole blog. "Jude" and "Jesse" and "Owen" and "Father" and all that shit.... the drawing of a child being eaten by Jesus... the deer in the forest, that's all that pain... me trying to deal with it.

I just dont get why it hurt me so bad if it was, realistically, such a small slight. I think that its some intersection of the reaosn I'm going to the doctors, and my parents shortcoming... which I DONT blame them for! I was their first child, and I came out fucked up. What were they suppsoed to do? they didnt know better.

Soemtimes it feels like it wasnt fair. Like, maybe I DESERVED parents and teachers who DID know better. I was just a child. It hurt me really badly. I ditched classes to cry in junior high.

But that's me being mean. Sure, every kid deserves the best they can get... but this is the best I could get. Simple. It's still good! I have lots of things I'm thankful for. Life cant be perfect. And I have to be thankful for my pain. It makes me a man. Ariel said that pain and discomfort makes you stronger, shapes you. Any kind of discomfort is good for the person to grow strong. I think this is especially applicable, as a boy becoming a man. You need pain, discomfort, anxiety... to become strong man. So in a sense, I am thankful for my pain, because really, what would I be without it? Another annoying blond hockey boy named Hayden or Brody or Reid... no thank you.

Man this is so cringe. I really just pulled the "not like other boys" card huh.

I'm just trying to cope, okay? It's a crazy amount of pain. I might go to the doctors!!! Soemthing is wrong. I think that's the best news I've heard all week. Soemone else believes me that somethings wrong. An adult!!!

It's really something else to be able to cry in front of adults without being guilt tripped or yelled at or getting in trouble of some sort.

I'm gonna cry for my past self now. All this talk of him, I cant help myself but cry. He was ripped apart. That child, he was destroyed.

....

I feel guilty saying that knowing that I read an article where this kid was SEVERELY abused... I saw the pictures of this kid... in the cold, shackled, beaten, starved, held in stress positions, verbally abused, made to do horrible things, splinters in his lips... I feel bad saying that I had it bad when there are kids who are actually beaten and shit. Man. I'm so cringe. Im so terrible I should kill myself. Im a fucking faggot. Jesus.

.... but I wouldnt say that to my friend.

............ idk. Idk anything.

Well... I FELT destroyed, let's just say that. I FELT defeated.

But I wasn't >:)

Idk where I'm going with this... peace out yall. I love yall, I'm bout to sleep and cry.

[adhdeancas]

Sunset Sound: Gallows Pole

In the midst of the Lawboy shitposting, a Sam-centric chapter to see what he got up to after Dean went to hell. Special thanks to my bro @friedchickenangelwings for keeping me in check forever and always, I wouldn’t be able to do this without you.

Sam sobs. He can’t help it; he can’t do anything else. His big brother’s body is impaled on the post in front of him, the ground is littered with beheaded bodies, and two little boys are crying outside somewhere in the dark. And he can’t stop crying.

“It’s not okay. It’s not!” 

He tries to take back those words that had made his brother leave, but Dean's chest doesn’t shudder back into life, and it won’t. It hangs there, heavy and lifeless, and it always will. Dean is dead. 

And for what?

When Sam’s head starts to pound from the tears, he finally takes breaths to calm himself. Common sense floods back into his head and overtakes his grief, and he pulls Dean’s body off the stupid rusty nail that killed him. He lowers him to the ground and closes his eyes, because he can’t bear to look at his dead stare any longer. 

He doesn’t want to leave the barn. He knows he has to, but he doesn’t want to leave his brother there all alone. That’s what Dean had always been most afraid of: being alone. He stands frozen to the spot for more minutes than he should, trying to reason with his grief. Finally, finally, he wins, and he turns around to see his breath in the air before him. Sam immediately gasps, another desperate sob coming from nowhere, because the night isn’t cold enough for that.

“Dean?” He screams it. “Dean!” It’s gotta be him, Dean’s a ghost, Dean’s here, Dean’s trying to talk to him. “Dean!” 

“No, I’m sorry, Sam.” Kevin Tran flickers to form in front of him, pity and sadness in his eyes. “But Dean’s okay.” 

Sam rubs his eyes. He thinks for a second he’s hallucinating again, that losing Dean for real broke down all the sanity he’d built over the years. “K-Kevin?” Though he didn’t know it was possible, his stomach takes yet another plunge, like a boulder has just been dropped on him. Kevin’s incorporeal form shakes into being the thought once more that he did that, his hands killed Kevin, he’s the reason Kevin is a ghost. He’s in a room with the corpse and untethered soul of two people he loves and two people he watched die.

As if sensing all the ways Sam is shaking apart, Kevin nods and starts to reach out before realizing it would be no use. “Yeah, Sam, it’s me.” 

“But- w-w why?” Sam curses his voice for failing him, curses the shaking that sobbing left him with, curses it because he needs to be strong now. For Dean. “Why didn’t you help us?” A ghost would’ve been a great thing to have in a fight! A ghost could probably, I don’t know, push Dean away from a deadly-sharp hook on the wall? If Kevin has been here, why- “Is Dean in the veil? Can he hear me? Dean!” 

Kevin throws a gust of air in his face to get his attention, and it hits Sam like a slap. He looks back at the ghost, wideyed. Kevin looks apologetic. “I don’t have a lot of time, but you need to calm down. Seriously.”

“I can’t calm down-”

“No, Sam, you need to calm down.” Kevin looks upward nervously, as if he’s expecting to see some big figure raise the roof of the barnhouse up and peek down at them. “I’ll explain, but first thing you need to know is: Dean’s dead. He’s in heaven, and he’s in trouble.” 

---------------------------

Sam drives the Impala at exactly the speed limit, eyes dried to the point of aching. Dean’s wrapped body is sprawled out in the back seat, and if Sam just glances in the rearview mirror he can almost pretend he’s just passed out. Just had one too many shots of Cuervo and conked out so his little brother can drive. Sure. Whatever gets you through the night. 

Dropping off the kids was easy. Traumatized kids don’t say much, don’t ask too many questions, and they’ll forget the shellshocked stranger that saved them soon enough. Either that or he will haunt their nightmares, but Sam can’t help that. He can’t help anyone at this point, covered in dirt and blood and exhausted. He drives out to the middle of the forest anyway, Kevin’s words on a loop in his head. 

“You have to be normal. Chuck can’t want to watch you at all. So just play into his game. Pretend to only care about Dean, get out of the life, settle down.”

Sam had frowned, Eileen instantly springing to his mind. Surely he can care about her, right? “But-” 

“No, Sam, I’m sorry. Dean told me to tell you that Eileen… it’s just too dangerous. He likes you two. He’s gotta hate your life so much he doesn’t want to see it. It’s gotta bore him.” 

So Sam burns his brother's body in a forest alone, with only Miracle for company. There’s a dagger in his chest that tells him he’s betraying everyone he cares about, including Dean. Dean wanted a big funeral. He wanted his whole family there, not just his brother and a dog. And Eileen. There are three unread texts and a missed video call from Eileen already. Apparently Kevin hadn’t visited her yet. To let her know. 

It doesn’t take Sam long to leave the bunker. It just feels like a punch to the gut at this point. That table over there, carved with their family’s names, that’s where he and Dean swore they’d be free. They swore they’d get everything they wanted and everything they deserved. And now Sam has one pillow on his bed and an empty bunker full of the possessions of dead people. 

He knows there is a plan. He knows that. And it should comfort him, but it doesn’t, because he still has to live his long, boring, lonely life without the woman he loves or the family he misses or the brother he mourns. Time on Earth is torturously slow. 

The small things make the ache in his heart just a little lighter. He finds a job he likes, teaching history and the classics to teenagers. He remembers his old English teacher, and he tries to be that to kids that need it, kids that remind him of Claire or Jack. He gets to see Jody and the girls once every few years, a risk that he knows is worth it because it keeps him going. He can’t see Eileen. It would hurt too much. They both agreed the one time they called. He keeps learning ASL anyway, and he tells the story of him and Eileen meeting (slightly modified) to the kids in his class. 

He finds a wife. It was one of the things he put off, but after three years he knows he has to get on with it or he’ll get depressed. He needs someone, even if she is boring and too-nice and entirely too gullible. She’s nice and he’s good to her, but he can’t love her because she’s not real. Not in the way that Eileen is. She might as well be a blurred out mother figure action doll, for all she knows. And he hates himself for marrying her, when she deserves someone who finds her boringness interesting, but he knows this is what Chuck expects. He expects Sam to marry a nice woman and have a kid named Dean and grow old always hurting for the old times. Oh, and Sam does. 

He’d rather be back in the pit with Lucifer than this domestic djinn dream, but he reminds himself every day that someday they’re going to get rid of Chuck and then he’ll be able to live. Dean too. Cas too. And Jack. Sam’s going to kill that son of a bitch if it’s the last thing he does, living or dead. And it looks like it’ll be dead.

His fiftieth birthday has come and gone when Kevin finally comes back. The lights in Sam’s classroom flicker and go out, and then Kevin is there, chest heaving. He runs to the chalkboard and picks up a piece of chalk, and Sam’s talking as he writes. 

“Kevin, how’s Dean? Any updates on what’s happening in heaven? Is Chu-Jack okay?”

Kevin turns around, irritated, until he sees the look on Sam’s face. “Yeah, listen, everything is… fine. We’re working on it. Look, the important thing is that you get these ingredients-” he points to the chalkboard, “and perform the spell. But listen, it’s gotta be next week. Friday. There’s a full moon, it’s… you gotta make it happen.” 

Sam’s eyes bulge. “Friday? Kevin, what the hell, a little notice would be nice! How am I supposed to get-” he looks past him to the hastily written ingredients. “These ingredients are insane! It’lll take me weeks just to fly around the fucking world to grab them!” 

Kevin throws his hands up, looking almost as stressed as Sam. “Listen, man, we’re doing our best up there! Time is fucked up and we’re trying to be sneaky and it is a lot of pressure!” he finally takes a deep breath, which seems to help. “I’m sorry, I know it’s too much to ask, but we have no choice. Call a witch friend for the ingredients, summon Rowena and let her in on the plan. It’s Friday or never.” 

He flickers out before Sam can even reply. Apparently the stress and talking like that took too much out of him. Sam’s left alone to say “Sorry,” to an empty classroom. He sits down heavily at his desk and runs a hand through his graying hair. 

He copies down the ingredients and the spell and it’s then that he knows he definitely needs help. Luckily, he knows who to call. 

The phone rings so long Sam thinks about hanging up, but he picks up just before he can. “Sam!” Max sounds winded, and the first thought that enters Sam’s head is not appropriate for the occasion. 

“Hey Max, you got a second? You’re not…” busy? Jesus, Sam is blushing.

Max laughs. “Nah, you’re good, man. What’s up?” 

God, to speak to someone who understands his life again. To really get to talk to them. “Uh, it’s kinda not the kind of thing to talk about over the phone. Can I drive to you?” 

---------------------------------------

“Hey, Rowena,” 

Sam’s natural state is apparently social awkwardness now. Dean would say that had always been true… No, not the time to get sidetracked with that sad shit. He shuffles his feet again and adjusts a candle, waiting for Rowena to appear. He’s fifty fucking years old. He’s fine.

“Hello, dearie.” 

Sam grins at her, but is once again met with the sad eyes Kevin always gives him. “Fuck, can everybody stop with the dead brother horrible life shit?” She doesn’t look taken aback, no that’s not Rowena. She looks more like a school principal that just got told off by an 8th grader, surprised and a little offended. Sam softens a little bit. “Sorry, I just- listen, I get it, okay? My life is fucked up and it’s all a lie to beat God, I know. Can we move past that and get back to the saving the world stuff?” 

A slow smile spreads across Rowena’s face, and she pats him on the cheek. “There she is. Hello, Samuel.” 

Sam rolls his eyes. “Hi Rowena, how are you?” 

“Oh, just dandy. Tamped down a few ne’er-do-wells, not a problem. Being worshipped every day is hard work, but I manage, somehow.” 

“I’m sure. ‘Jack’ giving you any trouble?” 

She waves a dismissive hand. “I’ve barely seen the boy since he took over. Apparently he’s much more interested in watching his little short films in heaven than anything down below…” Sam’s got a question on his lips but she waves that away too. Too little time to explain the intricacies of eternal family drama that heaven is currently. “It doesn’t matter. I have free reign, which means I can pop in for our little soirees.” 

Sam nods, grateful that that’s true at least. He hands her the list of ingredients and the spell and watches as she studies it. “Problem?” 

“Hm. No, I can do that.” She looks up brightly at him. “I’m the greatest witch of all time, Samuel. I’m more worried about how you will accomplish it.” She looks down at his summoning ritual and bends down to correct a chalk mark with her finger. “You’re a wee bit rusty.” 

Sam scoffs. He’s missed this. “Yeah, yeah, I know. I called up my friend Max, Max Banes. He’s going to help me out.” 

“Max Banes? Hm.” For a second, Sam thought he saw something flash across Rowena’s face.

“What?” 

“Nothing.” She shrugs it off. “I’ve heard of the witch, that’s all. He’ll be good help for you, I’m sure. Now, Samuel, if you’ll excuse me… Underworlds to run and all that.” She steps away, but Sam stops her before she can disappear again.

“Wait!” He hugs her tightly. She only resists for a moment before she returns the hug, a light tap on his shoulder. “Thank you, Rowena.” 

“Of course, Samuel. Until next time.” 

She’s gone with a puff of smoke and Sam is left hugging air.

tag list (ask to be added or removed):

Tag list: @dochunterwitch  @justonecitizenoftheearth @gnbrules @purpe @castiel-is-a-cat @alienapparatus @damian-janus-pendragon

[im-a-book-kinda-dude]

Every time I read a section of any Scarlet and Ivy book

I'm hit by how messed up their childhood is. They're traumatised. They're just kids at the start of the series, not even teenagers, and debatably that's the worst book for them, trauma-wise. Because sure, in other books they nearly get murdered, but at least they have eachother. In the first book, they're separated, dealing with super messed up stuff either completely by themselves (poor Scarlet. I really need to go into full detail about how terrible her stay at the asylum was, but it was bad) or mostly alone, with only one person perminantly supporting them (Ivy has one person supporting her in a mess of triggers and horrifying realisations, and that person is also a literal child). They're not doing well at all. And to make matters worse (because it can always get worse) their home life sucks. Words cannot truly express how much it sucks, but in short summary: their step mother is abusive and their dad is neglectful. They haven't had a happy childhood. Before they go to Rookwood, neither of them have any friends but eachother.

How separated from everyone else must they be, to have no one else they trust at all?

Scarlet and Ivy are their only comfort in a terrible upbringing, and when Scarlet goes to Rookwood, she's bullied, and feels alone, and alienated, and lashes out. And then she "dies". She gets sent to an insane asylum and something within her dies. Scarlet cannot deal with the insane asylum, with being told she was off it, that everything she knows is wrong, and it breaks her. When she gets back, she's a different person. And Scarlet has always been a bit cowardly, a bit self-serving, too ambitious and not skilled enough, afraid to face the consiquenses of her actions (switching the tests so she gets into Rookwood, because she knows she didn't revise and Ivy did), but now it's so much more than that. Scarlet is terrified of being punished, terrified of people, anxious and on-edge, but she also lashes out more, acts out more, "I'm me I'm me I'm me". Scarlet is also brave in the face of physical danger, and protective, but when she comes to it now she's almost suicidal in her sacrificial actions, she needs to prove that she's who she thinks she is. Scarlet's whole identity as a person got erased, and she's trying to claim it back, while also ignoring her trauma, and, suprise suprise, it's not really working. Scarlet has a volcano full of traumatic memories, and they're erupting out of her uncontrollably, and she's so scared, but she's so angry, too.

And when Scarlet "dies", things go from bad to worse for Ivy. She could deal with her sister bring away, with having to look after her aunt, but Scarlet being dead? It doesn't compute. Scarlet was Ivy's rock, and her rock is gone forever and she's drowning (have I ever explained how much Ivy is linked to water? Because like. It's a lot.) and Ivy can't deal. She gets lost in her grief, drowns in her sadness, and she's so very close to just laying down and letting herself die. But she can't. Because she needs to look after her aunt (and while it's terrible she's her aunt's caretaker, at least it gives her a reason to live. Ivy doesn't- she doesn't really have a lot of those, at the start of the book) and so she cannot die. So Ivy disconnects, mentally checks out, starts not processing her emotions, and gets stuck in the denial stage of grief. And that's gotta be a horrible experience for a literal child, to be so depressed, and so traumatised. And Ivy is traumatised by Scarlet's death - quite badly, in fact. Because to her, Scarlet was dead for almost a year. She was dead. And Ivy's response to that was to basically go through an emotional shut down, and so now, with Scarlet being so self destructive in trying to save everyone, she gets very worried, and very stressed out. The thought of Scarlet getting injured terrifies her, she cannot go through her death a second time. Ivy has this huge ball of sadness that she's locked away, and enough traumatic memories to fill a ferry, and together they cause her a heck of a lot of misery, stress and anxiety.

[frenchibi]

top 5 books

Hello friend!!!! This is areally really tough question bc I read so many different genres and have SOMANY FAVORITES so I’m going to cheat a little bit… I’ll give you Top3 or 4 (I have no impulse control) for several genres so you’ll get more than 5total but not like.. an inordinate number of books, ok? xD (Who am I kidding I’mgoing off the rails, no apologies)

Fantasy

The Name of the Wind(Kingkiller Chronicles Book 1) and sequel(s) by Patrick Rothfuss. Has beentalked about loads in fantasy circles and I have nothing to add other than“this is the best fantasy book I have ever read, and probably in the top 3 ofbest books I have ever read, period.” The style blew me a way, the characters are fantastic, the system of magic/power in this world is the coolest I have EVER SEEN and… yeah. I’m invested.

Howl’s Moving Castleand sequel(s) by Diana Wynne Jones. Y’all remember the ghibli movie? This isthe book this is based on and it is way, way better than the already fantasticmovie. It is ridiculously charming and witty and lovely and I recommendeveryone read it. You will not regret it. This is my ultimate comfort book, if that makes any sense.

Good Omens by Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett – a hilarious bookabout the apocalypse with absolutely amazing characters and incredible styleand wit. We’re getting a TV series this year and I am beyond stoked. Pleaseread this. It’s… just… yes. British fantasy is SO GOOD.

Honorable mention: Die Stadt der TräumendenBücher by Walter Moers. Theremight be an English translation of this, but honestly I only recommend you readthis if you can read it in its original German – I’m not gatekeeping, it’s justthat so much of its brilliance relies on in-depth knowledge about German culture,history and language and it’s inevitably gonna lose that in translation. It’sone of my absolute favorite books ever and it pains me I can’t share this withmy English-speaking friends :/

YA

The Knife of Never Letting Go (Chaos Walking Book 1) by Patrick Ness. It’shands down the coolest YA book I have ever read and it doesn’t even… feel likeYA at all, more like sci-fi? It could just as easily have gone in the “experimental”category and I don’t wanna give too much away but… the typeface of this book ispart of its charm? Different characters have different fonts and shit? Definitelyread a physical copy of this. Also, the narrator is illiterate so he writeswords by sounding them out – and I know that sounds like that would bedistracting but trust me it’s fantastic??? Please please PLEASE give this atry.

The Watchmaker of Filigree Street by Natasha Pulley. Y’all want a good queerstory that’s not romance-heavy but instead has intricate worldbuilding and really cool magic? Pleaseread this, you will not be disappointed. This is a more “adult” version of YoungAdult Fiction and I absolutely love it.

A Darker Shade of Magic by V.E. Schwab. Is this fantasy, actually? Probably. Does it haveissues? Yes. Is it still a very fun ride with a cool magic/power system? HELLYES. Also the characters are a bit older, which works very well. It’s like YAafter you’ve kind of outgrown YA.

Murder/Mystery

The Strings of Murder (& sequels in the “Frey & McGray” series) by Oscar de Muriel –listen, the main character is a little SHIT and that’s absolutely fine? Themysteries are kind of convoluted but not in a distracting way, it’s just a funseries with fun characters that I really enjoyed!

The Seven Dials Mystery by Agatha Christie (and honestly pretty much everything she has everwritten) – I have nothing to say about Agatha Christie that has not been saidbefore :’D

Phantom bySusan Kay. Now this is kind of also a drama and it’s been a while since I’veread it so idk how well it fits into the murder/mystery category but it’s aboutthe Phantom of the Opera before he became the actual Phantom (or rather, thepath to how he became the Phantom), and I have endless love for this verydramatic and mysterious and misunderstood character so… yeah :D

Collections of Short Stories

Topics About Which I Know Nothing by Patrick Ness. Yes, this is the author of “ChaosWalking” (see above), and this is a collection of a VAST variety of shortstories he has written, all of which are insanely creative and so, so fun??This man has an insane imagination and I love it, instant recommendation toanyone honestly.

Dear Life byAlice Munro – another one that I read a while ago and don’t remember that muchabout, but I remember absolutely loving this book, and that it’s one of thebooks that made me want to read more short story collections :D

The Refugeesby Viet Thanh Nguyen – an interesting bit of perspective, this book centersaround different characters who are Vietnamese or of Vietnamese descent in theUnited States. I loved how eye-opening it was tbh?? I love reading books byauthors from cultures vastly different from my own and this was wonderful.

Poetry/Experimental

Milk and Honey / The Sun and Her Flowers by Rupi Kaur – two collections of very personaland touching modern formless poetry that honestly blew me away. I’m not a bigfan of classic poetry, or poetry in general, but these two books are justincredible.

Good morning, Good night by Lin-Manuel Miranda – a collection of Lin’s “good morning”/ “goodnight” tweets that, idk, give me hope for humanity? Ideal for perusing if youneed cheering up and just an all-round wholesome book to own.

Ella Minnow Pea by Mark Dunn – a “novel without letters” I wouldn’t know where to placeexcept under “experimental” because its premise is basically… an island thatslowly bans more and more letters from everyday use? It’s told in the form ofletters between the characters and it’s just… such a FEAT of writing, the waythe author forces his characters (and himself) to get by with fewer and fewerletters of the alphabet? Fascinating, from a writer’s perspective, and anabsolute recommendation!!!

Sleeping Giants (Book 1 of the Themis Files) by Sylvain Neuvel. This is a sci-fi book,but it’s under “experimental” because, well – it’s told through interviews. Iwas a little confused/put off in the beginning by this style, but the jaw-droppingstory pulled me in and hooked me. It’s a sci-fi EPIC… don’t get too attached toanyone because the apocalypse is coming for them all - and you’ll be at theedge of your goddamn seat. This is a fantastic series.

Drama

The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini. Honestly, anything by Khaled Hosseini, unsurpassedauthor of dramas that will rip your heart to shreds, and you’ll never be thesame after reading them.

Everything I never told you by Celeste Ng. This is one of those books that will never leave you afteryou’ve read it. It starts with “Lydia is dead. But they don’t know this yet.” –unravelling the mystery and consequences of the death of a Chinese-Americanfamily’s teenage daughter in gut-wrenching detail. A family story that willleave you sobbing on the floor but also filled with such profound hope forhumanity – I don’t even know. This book eviscerated me.

Homegoing byYaa Gyasi – the story of two sisters, one a slave and the other a slave-owner’swife, and their descendants. A family history of choices and consequence thatis… raw and personal and a very, very important book.

Home Fire byKamila Shamsie. The story of a British-Pakistani family – more specifically,the story of three children whose father was a terrorist. I am weak for familystories, and this one is politically charged and relevant and gut-wrenching aswell.

Novels/Fiction

The Hours byMichael Cunningham. The first book I read in a stream-of-consciousness style,and I still really enjoy the plot of it, too: The story follows three women;Virginia Woolf writing a novel in the 1920s, a woman reading this novel in the40s, and a woman basically living the plot of this novel in the 90s. It’sfascinating, really? I highly recommend it.

The History of Bees by Maja Lunde. Another story told in three time periods – a man whoinvents a new type of beehive for beekeepers in the 1800s, a beekeeper whosebees are dying in approximately present day, and a woman 100 years in thefuture who pollinates plants by hand because all the bees have vanished. It’s…fascinating, again, and a really good story. I also feel like it was quiteeducational? I enjoyed it a lot.

Small Great Things by Jodi Picoult. Technically this is a drama too (but shh) – it followsa black delivery nurse who is charged with a serious crime after an incidentinvolving the baby of a White Supremacist couple. It’s an explosive topic butit’s handled with a lot of nuance? Reading this book will frustrate you greatly,but I think it’s… idk, important? It shook me.

Eyrie by TimWinton. I have never seen depression portrayed more accurately than in thisbook. I was highlighting passages on almost every page – also the style ispretty cool? Snappy? Sharp? I’m not good at describing it but… yeah this leftan impact.

Non-Fiction (listen I knowthese are all by youtubers but hear me out)

So Much I want to Tell You by Anna Akana – letters written by Anna to her sister, who committedsuicide when she was 13. It’s raw and personal and important, stories aboutpersonal growth and lessons learned, about grief and regret and moving on. Irecommend this 100%.

Secrets For The Mad by Dodie Clark. A collection of charming stories and anecdotes and songlyrics and doodles – a book that reads like what watching dodie’s music videos andvlogs feels like. Safe and soft and personal. I love this.

Doing It byHannah Witton – a book about sex education that honestly everyone should read.Hannah blazes through taboos like they’re nothing more than hot air – as theyshould be. (Also, watch her videos.)

Bonus

The Alchemist by Paolo Coelho. I don’t even know what category to put this in? It reads like a fable and it is just... so beautiful and enchanting. Please read it, you will not be disappointed. It’s a story of chasing your dreams and self-discovery and it’s... just wonderful.

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Did I make this entire listas a means of procrastination? Yes. Am I sorry? No.

Listen I have been wantingto blog about books for the LONGEST TIME but I never took the time to because…idk, I am not involved with the book reviewer community on any platform andhonestly I’m intimidated? But I do have a lot of Thoughts so if you’ve read anyof these and want to yell about them with/at me please dm me??? Or send me anask if you want to hear more detailed opinions about any of these from me????

…yeah. Thank you for this question,man. I love books.

Send me “top 5″ of anything and I’ll respond with my favorites!!!

[eliastheflyest]

finished my insane vent art; honestly one my best pieces, as dark as it is. just endless words from a depth of suicidal depression, grief, and rage. but it’s raw and it’s real.

plus i’ve been trying to practice cursive more. a good exercise. heh.

i never understood when i was a teenager why people would cut themselves. made zero sense to me. plus i’ve always been squeamish. something broke in me, though, with my grief. it’s quite a thrill now. I’ve only used it to cope when i *really* wanna kill myself. it gets me high (surprised how much it does) and it clears my head.

obviously not a healthy coping mechanism but at the very least i’m very sterile & smart about it. hitting this new breaking point has me analyzing my habits, my coping, my addictive personality.

Today marks 4 days without alcohol, 3 days without cigarettes, and 2 days sober (i smoked weed one afternoon is all). While i don’t drink in large quantities, i realized i’ve been drinking far too frequently. It’s funny how this sort of thing just sneaks up on you.

my psych nurse and I made a more dramatic change to my meds (we decided that me taking random pills to sedate the panic and cope + cutting myself was kind of an emergency state) and it’s helping a lot. I think wanting to die has just become a baseline for my brain that won’t go away, and i’m trying to accept that and just mitigate the suicidal feelings and thoughts and try to get my general imbalances fixed.

i’m excited about my new therapist; i was super sad my internship newb therapist’s gig ended, but with this new person i feel super confident after just one appt. that’s never happened before. usually takes a few to warm up, build rapport... he’s double certified in mental health counseling as well as addiction/substance use. This fascinates me (because drugs fascinate me; always have always will) and also fills me with a nostalgic joy because my mom was a drug counselor my entire life.

until her stroke a year or so ago. god my life has gone fucking bonkers in the past couple years. what the actual fuck. my husband’s dead, my mom’s in a wheelchair in assisted living... i’ve always had suicidal ideation and now i just really wanna do it. i’m a broken husk of who i was before and not sure when to expect my chrysalis.

on the bright side, i met my current guy at just the right time... he helped me through the whole dying partner end of life shit when i desperately needed help. he’d been there. in fact our stories are so freakishly similar and it feels like destiny that we met. Honestly think i’d have killed myself without him popping into my life. toward the end I was kinda waiting for Will to die so i could just join him.

my william, cancer diagnosis on his birthday, dies 1.5 years later.

his william (went by his middle name but recently learned his actual first name was actually william), cancer diagnosis on christmas, dies 1.5 years later.

life is wild. it’s a rollercoaster and nobody’s fucking strapped in. the people closest to you can so easily fly out. appreciate them while they’re here.

[thesffcorner]

We Are the Ants

We Are the Ants is YA contemporary sci-fi novel written by Shaun David Hutchinson. It follows Henry, a high school student who gets abducted by aliens. The aliens pose Henry with a problem: the whole world is going to end on January 29th, 2016, and he’s the only one that can stop it; he just has to push a button. I’m slowly working my way through the really popular queer authors in YA, and Shaun David Hutchinson had been on my list for a while. I had been avoiding reading his books because I knew they dealt with heavy topics and a lot of abuse, and boy was I right about that. This is one of the most glib and sad books I’ve read in a while, and though that is mitigated by lot’s of humor and a hopeful ending, if you are at all sensitive to topics such as suicide, assault, and bullying, I’d suggest you stay clear of this book. First thing I’ll say is that Hutchinson’s writing style, is an acquired taste. You really have to enjoy this type of sardonic humor in order to get through this book, because especially for the first 100 pages, it’s relentless. We get the story in the form of Henry’s diary, and Henry is a very difficult character to like. He’s mean, he’s locked in a loop of self-loathing, depression, and hatred, and his entire outlook on life is justifiably bleak. As such, so is his humor; he spends a good chunk of the book calling his brother’s unborn child a ‘parasite’, and a lot of his internal monologue is the definition of the ‘too edgy for you’ variety. To give you an example: ”Turn on the news; read some blogs. The world is a shithole, and I have to consider whether it might be better to wipe the slate clean, and give the civilization that evolves from the ashes of our bones a chance to get it right” pg. 18 Personally, I was hooked. A few books have taken me back to what it felt like being a teenager so effectively, and this brought me straight back to the dark days, the endless drudge of school, confusion, hopelessness, feeling small and isolated, and like saying the world is shit and humans are idiots was the smartest thing anyone had ever said. Like Henry I too spent a lot of time pontificating on the futility of life and the universe, on being alone or dying, on the meaninglessness of existence. I did it for very different reasons that Henry, but the memory and effect were still the same. The fact of life is, when you’re a teenager you feel like you have all the answers, and all the adults are just too stupid or too ‘bought’ to see what is obvious to you, and this book really captured that feeling. The plot was not what I thought it would be, considering the premise. The book does revolve around the aliens and the end of the world, but it’s not an active part of the plot. Most of it comes down to Henry thinking about pressing the button, coming up with increasingly insane doomsday scenarios, and asking the characters around him if they’d push the the button if they were him. I found the various answers interesting, mostly in how they were all really unconvincing. I think that’s an intentional choice by Hutchinson, because really when you are in such a state as Henry is, what would be a convincing answer? Maybe you could make the most reasoned, researched argument, but at the end of the day, if you feel like you have nothing to wake up for, nothing will sound convincing. The alien are in reality are just a speculative element that Hutchinson uses as a way to externalize Henry’s internal conflict and mental state. Henry is dealing with a lot throughout the book; he’s dealing with the devastating suicide of someone close to him, with his father leaving him, his bad family situation, and the constant and relentless bullying at school and at home. The sluggers have a lot to do with that, and the abductions seem to be happening to Henry whenever he feels like he’s at an impasse or in a situation in which he needs to make a difficult choice. The main focus is dealing with loss, grief and depression, all of which I thought were presented extremely well, and believable. People deal with loss in different ways, and when it comes to suicide, especially the kind where the person leaves behind no explanation, no note, no last words, it’s almost impossible to conceive of a future where that specter wouldn’t haunt you for the rest of your life. Henry, his friend Audrey, and the person’s mother all blame themselves for the suicide, and the book in a way agrees with them; it was everyone’s fault and no one’s and the lack of concrete blame is infuriating and insurmountable. Henry especially tends to blame himself for pushing people away, and he feels like he wasn’t enough to keep the person alive. He’s obsessed with finding out why they’d done it; for someone who spends paragraphs talking about how nothing happens for a reason, how patterns are just in the human mind, and how life is meaningless and nothing matters, he is determined to find the reason behind the suicide, ignoring everyone who keeps telling him that the reason won’t bring the person back. It’s easy to see why Henry would blame himself; he’s someone who’s been dealt a really bad hand in life. I too was pretty badly bullied, especially in middle school, but it was nothing compared to what Henry goes through. Some of the scenes were so unsettling and so brutal I genuinely was sick reading them. What the characters in this book do to Henry goes beyond mere bullying and crosses into criminal assault, and I was glad that the adults and the police got involved, even if ultimately they were useless. It was at least a little comforting to know that though Henry felt like he was alone, there were people there for him, even if he didn’t see it. However, while I was glad the adults were present in the book, I don’t think they handled the situation appropriately. For example, Henry’s brother Charlie says and does some awful things to Henry, and there wasn’t ever a point where he’s called out on what he’s done, or a moment where he’s faced with the consequences of what he’s been doing to Henry for his entire life. It’s clear that Charlie loves Henry, but the way he treats him is not healthy or right, and he should have been held accountable, especially for the part where he blames Henry’s assault on Henry. The bullies too, don’t quite get what they deserved. Though it’s in a way realistic that they’d get away with things, the fact that Henry so easily forgives, especially one of them really didn’t sit right with me. Sure, there are always reasons for why people act the way they do, but what that character does to Henry is unforgivable, and goes way beyond simple growing disagreements. I’m not sure the message of forget about the people who made your life a living hell for years is necessarily the best one. The only other thing that annoyed me in the book, was how perfect the ending was. I think, especially considering how sharp and unflinching the story had been up until that point having the romance work out, and having no consequences come to Diego after what he does was a bit unrealistic. I am grateful that this book had a hopeful ending, but I just think it was too easy. Let’s talk about the characters. Everyone in this book felt and read like a fully realized person, and I loved that. We don’t have many characters, but the ones we do, especially Henry’s family were well developed. I loved how close Henry was to his Nana, and she was probably my favorite character. She has dementia, but she’s never used as a ‘burden’ or obstacle for the other characters; she’s a fully fleshed out person, and the surprise Henry throws her was so touching, it made me tear up. Audrey was a welcome presence in the story, and I liked her a lot, though she does suffer a bit from only girl who is Henry’s peer in the book. I liked that she had a lot of personal struggles, outside of Henry, but I found that they weren’t handled very well. She has a lot of backstory, but none of it plays a part in her relationship with Henry once they make up, and I found that she was unrealistically patient and wise for a teenager. I can absolutely say the same thing for Diego; there were many scenes where I was shocked to see him act so maturely around Henry, which just isn’s something I think teenagers would do. I’m also not gonna lie; Diego reminded me too much of Andrew from All For the Game. Not only do they have very similar backstories, his relationship with Henry was pretty reflective of that between Neil and Andrew. I thought he was fine as a character, but he did suffer a bit from manic pixie dream love interest. Finally we have Henry. I both loved and loathed Henry. He was one of the best written characters I’ve read from, which also entails all his flaws. He reminded me a bit of Mila from Undead Girl Gang; he’s confrontational and mean to everyone around him, in an attempt to deal with and hide the pain he’s still processing. The bullying that Henry endures in this book was beyond something I thought people experience, but I absolutely believed it would happen. It was both weird and nice that at least it didn’t revolve around his sexuality, not that what it does revolve around is any better. I can’t imagine what it must feel like to lose someone the way he has, and I though the dull, ever present grief he feels fully through every page of the book. It’s not about saving the world really; it’s about Henry finding the strength to save himself from his own depression, and I really, really appreciated that Hutchinson has Henry get on medication and go to a hospital. The state he’s in isn’t anything he can handle himself, and I’m really glad that he was allowed to seek out help. Overall, I really loved this book. It’s a difficult read, in spite of the sardonic tone and humor. If you think you can handle the subject matter I think you should give it a read; I can definitely see why people love it so much, even though it isn’t perfect.

goodreads

[storiesbyjes2g]

Chasity Mumbach

Chasity is Derek’s younger sister and Jonathan’s other “little” cousin. She still lives in their childhood home in Willow Creek next door to Derek. Her daughters are Cayla and Kaelyn (thanks, MCCC!), and she works at a retail store.

Background

Chasity’s story is a little bit of a mess. It began happily similar to her brother’s. She took her job as the annoying little sister very seriously, throwing his toys into the pool and putting trash in the fish tank. Occasionally, she’d push him into the pool. She was a mean little thing, but it was all fun and games to her.

Her grandfather’s insanity got passed down to her in her teen years which made the Mumbach household even livelier. Between that and the teenage hormones, Chasity found life to be largely unbearable. She’d rant and rave to no one about everything. Her mother suggested she begin journaling to iron out her feelings, and it mostly worked. She wrote day and night and found the practice to be therapeutic. One day, if she ever got the courage, she’d clean up her writing and publish it hoping to become a bestselling author. 

Shortly after her YA birthday, her mother died, and it destroyed Chasity. She couldn’t cope and didn’t know what to do with her life. Derek and Jonathan worried about her. Jonathan thought having something to do would help take her mind off things, so he hired her at his first restaurant. She was a basket case at first but slowly came around and did very well. She loved working and looked forward to going to Sky High Cafe every day. Sadly, Jonathan lost the restaurant due to the family drama that I promise we will discuss very soon! Just as her life began to shape up, she had nothing again. The grief she had just learned to deal with pounced on her like a lion leaving her depressed and aimless. She got involved with men who were more than glad to help her feel better. Two of them were the most notorious womanizers around: Paolo Rocca and Lucas Munch. She had babies by these men, and her life was spiraling out of control. Derek didn’t know how to help her and had bought his own house by then. Being alone didn’t help matters, but being a mother forced her into being more responsible. It took a long time for her life to sort itself out, and her children were teenagers by the time she stopped dating losers and got a job. But, she did it and made her family proud.

Personality & Fun Facts

Apart from being a little crazy and a sucker for a flirty smile, Chasity loves to sing and is pretty good at it though its a talent she hides from everyone.

She used to be younger than Derek, but he and OJenn took the youth potion. He tried to convince her to take it too, but she’d rather not prolong her miserable life though she is doing much better.

Chasity loves sweet tea and pan fried tilapia because it reminds her of her mother. It was one of the few things Callie made well.

She still dreams about being a famous author but has basically given up on that happening. She’s more focused on her daughters and making sure they don’t follow her path in life.

[anhed-nia]

BLOGTOBER 10/24/2018: HEREDITARY

I am not ready to talk about HEREDITARY. I tried it when it came out in June, and while I think I hit all the points that were important for mass audiences, I wasn’t really ready then either, to say what I wanted to say. It isn’t because it’s so unusually beautiful, which it is. It isn’t because it’s “the scariest movie ever made”, which it is not, although it intermittently reaches seldom-seen heights of horror. It also isn’t because, contrary to popular belief, it is deeply flawed, with certain understandable markers of being someone’s first feature. It is because it feels so profoundly personal to me, even while I know that this is a not-uncommon reaction to Ari Aster’s breakout debut. It doesn’t make me special that I would take this film about grief, guilt, mental illness, genetic disorder, and irresolvable family friction so personally, but as usual, I have something I need to say about it. My experience with the movie tells me something, not about why we need HEREDITARY, but why we need art.

                                                                         (spoilers abound)

This story, about a woman who recently lost her seriously disturbed mother, and who subsequently loses her also-disturbed daughter to a car wreck caused by her teenage son, has been accused of emotional exploitation by some. HEREDITARY is aggressively harrowing, with interminably protracted suspense, teasingly dense shadows, and a constant unnatural drone that characterizes everything you see, however mundane, as malignantly abnormal. Most audiences may accept this kind of brutality when it is buffered by a fantastical metaphor, as with an EXORCIST or a SHINING. You can scare someone half to death, as long as you reassure them that whatever they’ve seen probably isn’t going to happen to them, even if it reminds them of something that did, or could. If you just make people feel bad, however, they may turn on you. This is Ari Aster’s big mistake, if you want to call it that; I know parents who refuse to watch the movie, due to its infamous scene of violence against a child. It’s easy to see why any reasonable person might want to opt out of this unusually shocking scene, in which young Milly Shapiro is accidentally decapitated while her teenage brother races her to the hospital, after having neglectfully caused her need for a hospital trip in the first place. But, I think it also calls into question the place for and purpose of the artist’s contract with the audience. This concept usually refers to the unspoken promise that a filmmaker makes to his viewers, that whatever happens in the movie, even if it is confrontational, will fall within the bounds of what the viewers basically expect when they buy their tickets. It means something like, when a family-oriented entertainment producer like Disney adapts a Grimm Brothers fairy tale, the audience won’t have to see the huntsman eviscerate an animal to get his ersatz proof that he has killed Snow White, and they won’t have to see Cinderella’s wicked stepsisters mutilate their own feet to try to fit the glass slipper. Part of the problem many people have with HEREDITARY is that Ari Aster’s contract with his audience is a little unclear. It blends psychodrama about irresolvable family issues that can hit way too close to the literal home for any ordinary person, with the unthinkable but entirely doable desecration of the human body, with outrageous supernatural horrors that, while scary as hell, can seem preposterous in light of the more terrestrial torments that have gone before.

To try to be more succinct, which is difficult with such a complex film, my own problem with HEREDITARY is that it contains metaphors for real-world elements that are already in the movie. To go back to the example of THE EXORCIST: Regan’s transformation from an innocent child into a vile self-abusing demon serves as a ready metaphor for puberty, mental illness, addiction, and really anything that turns your loved one into someone you no longer recognize. Writer Peter Blatty sets this up beautifully by using banal troubles like drafts in the house or parental antagonism as agents that weaken Regan’s defenses against the forces of darkness, just as they can weaken the average person’s defenses against depression or alcoholism--the things that warp them away from their best, or at least, most socially acceptable self. HEREDITARY gets itself into a sticky spot by giving Toni Collete a family history of emotional and physical violence, schizo-affective disorder, alienation, and neglect that is as convincing as can be, and then throwing a comparatively flimsy (however great-looking) metaphorical tarp over all that in the form of witchcraft and demonic possession. A similar problem occurs in Boots Riley’s otherwise excellent SORRY TO BOTHER YOU, where he stages the action in a world--our world, however surreally dressed up--that turns on an axis of slave labor, and then he concludes his story with an outsized metaphor for slave labor. I wouldn’t really kick anything in either of these movies out of bed, at the end of the day; I’m just saying that it gets a little awkward when you craft this grandiose metaphor for a legitimately terrifying real-world thing, while that thing happens to be standing right there in the room with the metaphor. 

Anyway. It is interesting to note that while the movie seems to have hurt a lot of people’s feelings based on their own contemporary reality, its spiritual DNA has been active for hundreds of years. Witchery has been a handy metaphor for, or even out-and-out "explanation” for, mental illness in women throughout history. (Ok, so it’s been an excuse for LOTS of things that have happened to or around women throughout history, but I only have so much space!) In HEREDITARY, Toni Collette describes her recently deceased mother as being extraordinarily private, having “private rituals” and even “private friends”, which we soon realize were signs of her being a devil worshiper. However, in some ways, mother and daughter are not so different. Where the mother practiced dark arts, Collette is a successful gallery artist. Her hyperreal dioramas seem like metaphorical expressions of her feelings toward her insane and abusive parent, but as we find out along the way, they are entirely realistic descriptions of actual things that have actually happened in her life--including the notorious car crash, but also things like the mother trying to force her breast on her infant granddaughter, which we later learn was part of an effort to implant Milly Shaprio with a demon. Shapiro, who inhabits a Baba Yaga-like treehouse in the yard, is also an artist, crafting twisted-looking dolls out of refuse and carrion, and like her mother, she also has unwitting witchy inclinations, perceiving grim specters and ill omens all around. Notably, no one outside the maternal bloodline perceive these things, and it seems that male members only perceive them when being supernaturally attacked. While Toni Collete and Milly Shapiro both use handcrafted art to process the trauma handed down to them by their maternal ancestor, all three women participate (knowingly or otherwise) in an ancient artistic tradition that, for some, amounts to a legitimate religion--but for many others, especially in the modern world, it is a way of dealing with feelings of impotence and subjugation. A sense of disappointment, worthlessness, and damnation plagues the women at the center of HEREDITARY, whether it involves Toni Collette’s complaint that her family blames her for all of their misfortunes, or her accusing her teenage son Alex Wolff of failing to acknowledge his responsibility for his sister’s death, or his sister ominously remarking that her grandmother’s doting attitude disguised the matriarch’s attempts to control or deform her--”She wanted me to be a boy,” Shapiro mutters, and we’ll find out she specifically wanted the child to be a boy vessel for a boy demon (about which, more later). HEREDITARY depicts a family out of control, who cannot escape the fate that has been devised for them, but who have adopted some interesting, literally artful means of trying to synthesize feelings of power.

HEREDITARY begins to fall apart, not as much because of its indecisive attitude toward fantasy and realism, as because of its last act left turn away from its heretofore cogent discussion of the disenfranchisement of women, and the guilt women live with when they fall short of their clan’s desires for strong sons, good little girls, or perfect mothers who serve their people instead of serving themselves. Make no mistake: Alex Wolff, who delivers an above-and-beyond performance as an average young man who is alienated by his freak sister and unstable mother, is always at the center of the film. The guilt he acquires from being an unwilling murderer is as potent as anything I think I’ve ever seen in a movie. So, it isn’t that this male experience of disappointing your family, and also feeling victimized by their very existence, is absent from the first leg of the story. It’s that when the film finally tries to make sense of itself, by revealing that Toni Collette’s mother intended to offer one of her male progeny as a vessel for a masculine entity that would bring her great wealth...well, it sort of flies in the face of the psychological depths we’ve plumbed up to that point. For one thing, the movie’s title suggests a singular focus on the intergenerational passing-down of trauma and blame, and the collection of damaged women to whom we’re immediately introduced are obvious experts in this matter. It doesn’t quite work when the story vacillates between sympathizing with these doomed females, and then sympathizing with a young man’s fear and loathing of adult women, who he perceives as irrational and castrating. And how is it possible that the profound mystery surrounding the family’s progressive ruin is rooted in something as shallow as money? I tried to develop a theory that it works as the final insult of any familial loss--that death is incredibly expensive to manage, and inheritance can be just burdensome as it is a blessing--but I don’t know, there’s not enough on the table for me to make a meal out of.

Setting aside the idea of sacrificing your son to a money demon, though, one can say that even if HEREDITARY is a little unsteady in its construction, the individual components are solid. And here I don’t just mean compelling, but also, real. This is the reason I people are so bothered by HEREDITARY--that it tells the truth in a much more direct manner than most audiences expect of a supernatural horror film. While that may be an unwelcome experience, it may be more helpful to think of this unpleasantness as a gift that art can give us.  This kind of nasty confrontation with trauma is important for an individual’s personal development, integrity, and self-knowledge. The more demandingly exhibitionistic a movie is, the better chance we have to untangle ourselves from the billowing curtain of metaphor and anthropological generality, and to be purified by the excoriating light of realism--not the artistic genre, but actual contact with reality. 

Here we find my own big reveal, my left turn away from what my previous paragraphs have led you to expect. Let me tell you about my mother. My mother was an enormously popular person. Extremely sharp, funny, fashionable, cultured--all things that help keep one’s private persona in the shadows. A prolific artist, she created hyperreal paintings and drawings from miniatures, like toys and model train props, that represented an exaggerated simulation of reality. Much of her work was about female pageantry, social expectations of women, or the chintzy objects that littered the lives of 1950s and 60s housewives, like kitschy bric-a-brac and tawdry paperbacks. People absolutely loved her for her taste, her humor, her ability to express herself. She did not like me. This was so true that, even without a history of physical abuse, that her peers sometimes say things to me that reveal their awareness of the facts of our relationship, or lack thereof. I hear things like, “Your mother loved you, you know!”, in a tone of voice that suggests that they know this would be late breaking news, without ever having asked me how I feel or what I think. From the earliest age, I seemed to refuse to meet the expectations people have of their children: I hated to be touched, I cried endlessly, I quaked with anxiety and a nameless guilt day and night, I burned with an aimless anger. I could draw, and did so compulsively, but nothing nice or bright. I was acutely aware of sexuality, violence, vanity, and shame. I was no fun whatsoever. Later in life--very recently in life, actually--I discovered that I have two important, inherent qualities: One, that I have a genetic inability to process copper properly, a mineral that is psychoactive and can make you pretty unhinged in large quantities. Two, that I suffer from a form of Autism Spectrum Disorder, a range of mental conditions that have been historically ignored in women, largely because of misogynist prejudices that society holds about essentially-female dysfunctionality. Unfortunately for me, my mother died when I was a teenager, almost two decades before I would find out these things that might have made her more tolerant of me. 

Fortunately, I guess, I think I know why my mother took such an exception to me, and it isn’t all about me. It’s about her mother. My maternal grandmother was also an artist of sorts, but more in terms of artifice. I haven’t decided whether it is fair for me to spill all of the details of a story that belongs to more people than myself, but I will go so far as to say that my maternal great-grandparents meted out trauma and shame in a manner that my grandmother allowed to contribute to her painful estrangement from her sister. For my purposes, what it really did was teach my mother that darkness--any kind of darkness, even darkness that belongs to you and you alone, that you have a right to, that should be yours to process as you see fit--is inappropriate. It is just as inappropriate in adults as it is in children, which she would see very clearly in her mother’s strict orchestration of their household into an unimpeachably pure, Rockwellian model of what an American family should be like. While my mother found her way into the revolutionary world of hippie rebellion and art-making, she never let go of her prohibition against sadness and rage, even in her own child, and I suffered from it until she suddenly, rapidly and gruesomely died of lung cancer when I was barely old enough to drive. Afterward, her mother obsessed over me in a way that was simultaneously scathingly intense and unmistakably impersonal. I looked like my mother, and my grandmother’s identity was rooted entirely in dominating a family, so she couldn’t do without me. I couldn’t let her know anything about myself; my feelings about horror, pornography, death taboos, sexual identity, and media that is out to hurt you, are what make up all that I am, and are the opposite of everything she believes in. With that weight on my back, I had to pretend that we had this archetypal American familial intimacy, even when I didn’t have it with my own mother, even when I hated being touched, even when I hadn’t learned how to receive affection. Early this year, she died at 90 years old from a misdiagnosed colon condition. As my family rushed to her side to say goodbye, we discovered that her shadowy sister had pushed her doctors into lifesaving measures that would have extended her existence into something so horrific that it would have stood up to the ugliest scenes from JACOB’S LADDER, had she not miraculously died before regaining consciousness. As perversely relieving as that was, my ears ring with the sound of her last phone call to me. Intended to be a heartfelt goodbye, it devolved quickly into the woman, completely possessed of her mental faculties, absolutely screaming for her life. It was a sound as chilling as anything from any of the sadistic movies I love so well, and I really heard it, in my real life.

This all would be enough to make me talk the way that I do, but it isn’t all. Recently, my father revealed to me some details of my mother’s struggle with cancer that I had never heard before. Although my mother had been told to go straight home and make her peace upon diagnosis, she and my father plunged full bore into magical thinking. They experimented with hypnosis, acupuncture, reiki, anything that might activate my mother’s internal ability to heal herself. Soon they found themselves in the office of a charismatic self-help guru-type in a neighboring city. Incidentally, this person is now at the center of an increasingly bizarre trial that is slated to begin this January, due to her authoritative involvement with a Scientology-like cult that allegedly maintains a secret inner circle of brand-wielding sex slavers. But anyway, back to my little memoir: It isn’t clear to me what she claimed was the scope of her powers exactly, but I know that she specialized in a form of “healing” that involved hypnosis and carefully selected words, I suppose not unlike a magical incantation. She said to my mother: “I am going to heal you.” The reason she said this so forcefully, was that my mother was the physical double of a previous client of hers; a client who died from the same specific form of lung cancer that plagued my mother; and who lived in the house we had moved into, only months before my mother was diagnosed with terminal cancer. That woman died, we moved into her house, and by pure coincidence, my subsequently sick mother found herself in the office of the self-styled healer who had treated the previous owner of our new home for the very same illness. “God has given me a second chance,” the healer said, “and I am going to heal you.” My mother saw her for several months, until one day she arrived to find a third woman in the office. Astoundingly, the healer described the young coed as having supernatural gifts. The two instantly began terrorizing my mother, screaming at her and cursing her. My mother, sobbing hysterically, begged to know, “Why are you yelling at me?” and they replied, “WE’RE NOT YELLING AT YOU, WE’RE YELLING AT THE CANCER!” When he told the story, of course, my father accidentally said “demon”, not “cancer”, but in any case, they were trying to exorcize her. My mother never went back, and, some might remark, she died.

Naturally, I wanted to tell this story to anyone who would listen to me, as soon as I had heard it. It was one of the weirdest things I had ever heard, and it happened to my family. While some people’s jaw dropped in exactly the way mine had originally, I received some unexpected feedback, too. On some occasions, a dear friend would pause at the end of my story, make a calculated “surprise” sound, and then, very gently, explain to me that coincidences exist, self-hypnosis and group hysteria exist, and I shouldn’t take any of it too seriously. I found myself, not just disappointed, but embarrassed. I wasn’t trying to tell people that I believed my family was cursed by god or the devil, or that we had been molested by some evil sorceress. I was simply trying to say that, somehow...isn’t there some kind of spiritual truth to this? Isn’t it worth remarking on, that my life, my history, had congealed into such an incredible metaphor for itself? Isn’t it so much more compelling than any kind of fiction I could ever have written, any artwork I could ever have created in order to process the exact kind of trouble my family has suffered? Isn’t this just amazing, all by itself, without even the benefit of theatrical interpretation? Of course, the conclusion will be that I absolutely have to give this some kind of theatrical interpretation, or else I will go out of my mind. I’m close enough as it is. But, in some ways, I felt like this interpretation has already happened at the hands of Ari Aster, with his horrific fable about how inherited trauma among generations of women gives way to the machinations of a corrupt cult. People who know me well will realize that I’m still leaving out parallels between HEREDITARY and myself, in this already too-long piece of analysis. But I guess what I’m trying to say for now is that I need HEREDITARY, and we each need a HEREDITARY of our own to put our most unspeakable experiences on a pin, under a spotlight, inside a bell jar, to be examined from every angle and exactingly diagnosed, whether we like it or not.

[staticscreenwriting]

Strong hearts and concrete - Billy Hargrove

Synopsis: Billy is enough.

A/N: I thought this was cute. Enjoy. Gimme feedback if you feel like it :)

“ Love and great buildings will survive Strong hearts and concrete stay alive Through the great depressions Yeah, the best things are designed to stand the test of time Love and great buildings will endure Blue skies and bloodlines are the cure For the great deceptions in a world that's such a blur  “

The room is silent except for the scrapping of the cutlery against the plates. Susan tries to start a round of small talk every once in a while but realises soon enough that neither party currently sitting at this table is particularly interested in taking part. Neil doesn’t care about Billy’s day as long as he didn’t get into trouble and Billy doesn’t want to share any information either. Partially because he knows no one gives a shit and partially because there isn’t really anything to tell.

Surely no one wants to know that he got an A in english literature but told Tommy he got a C+ because apparently guys like him don’t get good grades. They also really don’t need to know that he got a blowjob from Nikkie Collins in the boy’s locker room after basketball practice because that would be TMI and then he’d also have to explain that she slapped him afterwards for moaning a different name when he came.

He also doesn’t mention that he got a letter from a University. It’s probably a rejection letter anyway and it’s not like even told anyone he applied so there’s not need to tell ‘em about it if it ends up being a failure anyway. That would just prove his dad right in his believe that Billy is a no good asshole. And even if he got in it’s not the most prestigious of all universities so that’s also something his dad will be sure to point out.

So he doesn’t anything and munches down the dry ass meatloaf. Because despite it all, today is gonna be a good night. Because it’s his night, and hers. It belongs to them and them only. Him and (Y/N).

When Billy Hargrove was 12 years old he didn’t know very much about the world or life or death or anything really. What he did know though, was that people don’t miraculously get better and that his mother, despite her constant reassurance, wasn’t an exception to that. She was getting worse with every day and the fact that they had stopped with the radiation wasn’t a good sign either. They were preparing for the end. He was young, not stupid.

He’d spent a lot of time at the hospital, befriending the nurses, figuring out at what angle to hit the snack machine so it ended up giving him two snacks for the price of one, drinking slushies from the cafeteria. And then there was the chapel. He never gave much of a hoot about religion, neither did his mom or his dad. But one time he walked past the open chapel door and there she was.

She was just 12 years old herself, but she was the prettiest girl little Billy had ever seen. She was dorky looking and her hair was a downright mess and she wore a Scooby Doo shirt and jeans with bright pink paint stains on them. And she was there, talking to herself like she was having a proper conversation.

He wanted to walk past this chick, she looked like trouble, looked like a proper weirdo to be honest but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. It was like suddenly 12 year old Billy’s world had found another person to gravitate towards. Like now that his mother was about to leave him, this girl was thrown into his life to keep him grounded. Stop him from tipping over the edge.

So he walked in and they talked. About the weather and the snack machine and the slushies. They talked about Scooby Doo and the Jetsons and Led Zeppelin. They talked about god and how she thought that even if it was all made up bullshit, that talking to a higher power was whack, it didn’t do no harm either. The worst that could happen was that no one heard her and then at least she had gotten her worries off her chest.

And then they talked about his mom and her dad and how they were both approaching the end of the road, slowly but surely. And about how they were both angry and sad and scared and overwhelmed.

And just like that, his life seemed a little less lonely.

It’s been their thing ever since, to meet up every year for the anniversary of their first meeting. To celebrate their friendship and remember their parents, together. For a while Billy had thought that this year they wouldn’t make it, that his move to Indiana was gonna be a problem. That he’d have to face his demons alone.

But once again, (Y/N) came through. The girl had booked a plane ticket even before Billy had fully moved to Hawkins yet. If something is important to her, if she cares about something or someone, there is no way anyone or anything can keep (Y/N) from making things happen. She is a force to be reckoned with. In Billy’s eyes she is a downright saint. A superhero. She is magic.

And maybe it is because he isn’t used to people caring so much about him but her spending her money on a plane ticket only to come see him, is nothing short of incredible to him.

“ Dad, I uh — I’m done. Can I leave ? “

He hates this. Hates that he’s constantly afraid to say the wrong thing. Do the wrong thing. Look at his dad in the wrong way. That’s not how it’s supposed to be, how a healthy father-son relationship is supposed to be.

And yet, that’s the way things are now. How they’ve been since mom died.

Neil chews his dinner. Slowly. And with every passing second Billy’s hands get more clammy and his heart beats a little faster. Tonight means everything to him. He hasn’t seen (Y/N) since they moved to Hawkins and he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do if his dad finds a reason not to let him go. He’s been on his best behavior recently. No fights, no detention, no talking back even when his dad was being a massive dick. Just so there’s no reason for Neil not to let him go out tonight.

“ You done with your schoolwork ? “

Billy knows he doesn’t give a shit about his schoolwork, he just wants to assert his status as the superior man in this house. The one who decides, who makes the rules. Usually Bill would answer with some kind of witty comeback that would surely get him into serious trouble. But not tonight. He will just have to swallow his pride. There is no way he’s gonna jeopardize a night with his girl for a moment of teenage rebellion. So he just nods.

“ Put your plate in the sink. Don’t stay out too late. I expect you to be on your best behavior. If you do some stupid shit tonight and I find out about it … “

He doesn’t end the sentence. Billy knows well enough what kind of consequences he means. He’s had a few black eyes in the last 5 years. If anything, at least they make him look tough. The chicks dig it. Some of them. Not (Y/N), never (Y/N).

“ Yes sir. “

Billy doesn’t count but he’s sure it can’t be more than 4 minutes and he’s out of the house. He called out a goodbye as he walked through the door but got nothing back in return. God, he hates this family.

He’s at the motel in the matter of 10 minutes. Hawkins is tiny but for the first time since he’s moved here that actually works to his advantage. He spots her from quite a distance. Maybe because she just sticks out. This radiant girl in a shithole like Hawkins. Or maybe it’s because he’s so insanely in love with her that he just gravitates towards her. Whatever it is, it doesn’t matter until he holds her in his arms.

She’s standing by the little playground to the side of the Motel. There’s swings and a seesaw and slides and it reminds him of the playground behind her house where they used to meet up when they were just kids. Where they met to grief, to laugh and cry and rant whenever things at home got bad. Where they had their first kiss and where they got drunk for the first time.

Those memories are everything to him.

He parks his car and hurries towards her like his life depends on it. And maybe it does just a little.

She’s in his arms in the matter of seconds and she’s warm and familiar and her hair is soft and smells like apple shampoo and Billy hates himself for being such a sissy but having her close makes him feel invincible. Like finally something in his life is right again.

“ You look ridiculous “ he says and points towards her Happy Days shirt.

“ Don’t hate on the Fonz, Bill. You’re the guy who’s wearing a mullet. “

“ You love the mullet!”

It’s not so much that she loves the mullet. She loves the boy who wears the mullet. Billy, in (Y/N) eyes, is so much more than he realizes. He’s deadly smart, undeniably charming and incredibly loyal to the people he cares about. (Y/N) hates Neil Hargrove for turning him into this shell of himself. This angry boy who doesn’t know how to deal with his emotions. This boy who feels so much but is allowed so little healthy outlet.

“ Good to see you, punk “ it’s as close to an “ I missed you “ as she’s going to get at this point. Maybe later when he’s had some beers and nostalgia seeps in. Maybe then he’ll say it. Because if ever anything has been true, it’s that he’s missed her.

“ You too. “

There’s so much they want to say, want to do. But most of all he wants to kiss her and never ever stop. Only you don’t just go and kiss your best friend even if it happened before. Multiple times. He doesn’t even know if she’s got someone at home, waiting for her to come back. Billy doesn’t think he wants to know.

“ So ? What’s the plan. What’s there to do in this — metropolis. “

He can’t suppress the scoff. If anything, Hawkins was a dirty smudge on the map.

“ You want me to be honest ? “

“ Always “

“ Absolutely nothing. “

“ Then let’s do that. I really don’t care as long as we do it together. “

And his heart makes a little jump. Is this what dying feels like ?

They’re sitting in his car with slushies from the gas station and burgers from that overpriced 24 hours diner. Usually Billy would never ever spend so much money on a fucking burger but today is a special night. He’s got his girl by his side and they’re celebrating the live of his mother and her father. If that isn’t a good enough reason to treat themselves, Billy doesn’t know what is.

There’s Led Zeppelin playing on the stereo and Fleetwood Mac and Abba. All their parents favorite songs. Billy thinks most of them are whack but he still has a vivid memory of his mother making peanut butter sandwiches in the kitchen singing along to Waterloo. He was embarrassed then. Now, would give everything to get that moment back.

“ I uh — I got something I wanted to show you “ he starts. He doesn’t know why exactly he’s so nervous. This is (Y/N), his (Y/N) and whatever the outcome, it doesn’t change her perception of him, he knows this. But maybe that’s it. This is (Y/N) and he wants to, for once in his life, show her that he can be more, can be better, can be enough.

“ I actually got something too “ she mumbles around a bit of her cheeseburger.

“ You wanna start ? “

“ Nah you go first “ and there goes his try at buying himself some time to work up some confidence.

“ Alright “ Billy nods and opens the glove compartment taking out the letter he’s stored there this morning.

“ What’s that ?”

“ It’s a — uh. Well when you told me that you applied to Berkeley I decided to apply for university too “

“ You applied to Berkeley ? “

“ Don’t be ridiculous, I could never get in “ Billy scoffs and nudges her side with his elbow “ no I applied to this tiny college that’s really nothing special but it’s about half an hour from Berkeley and I thought maybe if I get in we could, be closer and you wouldn’t have to buy a plane ticket every year to come celebrate today with me. It would make things easier you know. I doubt I got in anyway but I just — doesn’t hurt to try right ? “

(Y/N) softly touches Billy’s cheek and turns his head a little so he’s finally facing her. He does this thing a lot, where he gets insecure and looks everywhere but at her. She can’t comprehend why in the world he would think there’s anything he could do to make her judge him. She loves him, doesn’t he know this?

And then she realises why he does the things he does. And it all starts and ends with the absolute monster that is Neil Hargrove.

“ Billy, believe in yourself for once. I love this idea of our future. I want to do this with you. There’s no one I’d rather have by my side than you, in whatever happens. But god, can you believe in yourself for once ? You are so much smarter than you let people see. You are fiercely loyal and incredibly protective of the things that mean something to you. I adore you, you know that right ? They’d be stupid not to take you. “

No one has ever told him that, since his mother passed away. He’s just been — there. Like a footnote in what’s supposed to be his “family”. Having the one person he cares about, the one person whose opinion matters to him, tell him she adores him. Billy doesn’t know how to properly process that.

“ Why haven’t you opened it yet ? “

Because he was fucking scared, that’s why. Does he tell her that ? No. He’s sure she can read it on his face but he’s not gonna admit to being scared anytime soon. Not happening.

“ Dunno “ he says and shrugs and they both know what it means.

“ Then let’s do it now ” (Y/N) exclaims and takes the letter from his hands, opening it with a smile on her face.

Her eyes scan the letter and with every second of silence Billy gets more and more anxious. This could be the start of something great or yet another disappointment.

“ You got in ! “ there’s so much in her voice it’s hard for Billy to comprehend. But overall there’s joy.

And Billy himself ? He’s just at a loss for words. A loss for anything pretty much.

This isn’t how his life works out for him usually. Things don’t go his way and good things tend to avoid him.

“ Are you happy ? “

He doesn’t think happy really does it justice. He’s more than that.

“ I — yeah. “

“ Good because uh — I got into Berkeley. Felt like this was a good time to mention it.”

And suddenly the world seems even more bright.

Billy can’t help himself at this point. He knows he shouldn’t he really shouldn’t. But he does.

Her face is so soft and small in his hands as he places a long tender kiss on her lips. It’s been entirely too long since he’s got to kiss her and yet it feels so much like home. Like happiness and all things good in the world.

“ I’m sorry “ he says as he pulls away because you don’t just go kissing your best friend.

But she doesn’t mind, he thinks. He knows, as she pulls him closer for another kiss. And it’s just as good and Billy hopes that there can be, will be, more kisses like this in the future and that they always feel like home.

“ What did you want to show me ? “

“ Oh yeah “ she pulls away for a second and fumbles around in her purse before pulling out an old-ish looking piece of paper.

“ What’s that ? “

“ Our list “

And suddenly his blood grows cold again. They’d made this list just a few weeks after her father had passed away, when Billy’s mom was only a few days from dying as as well. They’d been angry and sad and overwhelmed.

The list, was a creation of all those emotions and the frustration about the fact that both their parents were taken too soon. Taken before they could live life to its full potential.

So they made a list of all the things they wanted to do before graduation.

“ We’re almost done with school. I think we should read it, see what we’ve accomplished. “

What she doesn’t know, is that after all the things they had written down together, Billy has made a little addition. Because 12 year old Billy had serious balls and thought that by now, surely he’d have made (Y/N) his girlfriend. Yeah that didn’t happen and now Billy was screwed.

“ Number 1 “ (Y/N) begins to read “ Go to New York City “

“ Not done that “

“ Me neither, well this is off to a good starts “ she jokes and places a kiss on Billy’s cheek. Just because she felt like it but also because she wants him to know that this doesn’t change how she feels, how excited she is for their future. Because it’s for certain that it’s theirs now. Together.

“ Number 2. Go skinny dipping. Hey we did that “

Billy remembers vividly. He still doesn’t know how he was able to successfully hide that boner but apparently she hadn’t noticed it then. Or maybe she just didn’t want to make things awkward, didn’t want to embarrass him.

“ Oh man, yeah we did. That was a good day “

And it was. He has nothing but fond memories, even the awkward ones he wouldn’t trade for anything in this world. Even the really sad ones seemed a little brighter if she was in them.

“ It was a pretty awesome day “

They go through more points on the list. Most of which they have experience together.

Sneak into the drive in.

Watch a really scary movie.

Eat fast food for a whole day.

Get a driving licence.

Have a Valentine.

Have a first kiss.

Get drunk.

Smoke a cigarette.

Smoke a special cigarette.

Go to a rock concert. and then there was one that Billy only now remembers they put on there. “ Fall in love “

“ Have you ? “ Billy asks and wonders if he even wants to know the answer. If his heart can take it, hearing that she might’ve been in love with another guy. Learning that she might be in this moment.

“ Billy “ she says in that special kind of tone that’s not condescending but that conveys a certain kind of “I can’t believe you asked this” vibe. “ You have to be blind or live in complete denial if you can’t see that I’m in love with you.”

He knows this isn’t what dying feels like. This, the way he’s feeling in that moment when she tells him she’s in love with him, that’s what living feels like.

“ You are ? “

“ Sure. I’ve been in love with you since I was 14 years old and I’ve loved you even longer. “

“ Since when ? “ he doesn’t ask to boost his ego or anything like that. He’s genuinely curious. He wants to know what made her fall in love with him, so he can do more of that.

“ You know, when you let me cry to you after my dad died. I knew I loved you then because you were the only one that could relate. Everyone else tried to make me feel better but you let me be miserable and sad and angry. But I was never alone in my grief. I loved you with all my heart from that moment on.”

Billy never thought that such a mundane thing as being there for her, something he didn’t see as a big deal at all, made her love him. It’s what friends do. Real friend. Those who give a shit.

But he gets what she means. He’s been through it. When his mom had passed away people tried to comfort him with words and nice gestures and weirdly enough, a shit ton of homecooked meals. But they didn’t know. They didn’t live his grief. They may have had good intentions but that didn’t help him much at all. All he needed was someone to listen. All he needed was (Y/N).

“ … and when did you know you were in love with me ? “

She laughs a little smile and interlocks her fingers with his. Billy thumb softly stroking the side of her hand. 

“ You know,  I wish I had some cute story to tell but really it’s not very romantic. It was when we were 14 and I don’t even remember what day it was but it was summer and we were hanging out in my backyard just soaking up the sun and doing nothing and that’s the thing. I was doing absolutely nothing with you and I felt happier than ever. I love you because we can do nothing and it’s still enough for me. I want to do nothing with you for the rest of my life.”

It’s like a shot in the heart, a good one though. Like an entire package of sparklers just went off inside his chest.

“ I uh — I love you too by the way. I’m in love with you too “

It’s the first time he’s ever told anyone he’s in love. Ever.

“ When did you know ? “

“ Look at the bottom of the list, (Y/N) “

And there in 12 year old Billy’s scribbly handwriting it said “ Tell (Y/N) I’m in love with her “.

“ You knew at 12 years old ? “

“ Well yeah. You were the best thing 12 year old me had ever seen and you got me and you didn’t make fun of me and you were so perfectly weird in every way and I just — something changed the moment we met. “

“ I was weird ? I wasn’t weird, you punk “ (Y/N) exclaims jokingly slapping Billy’s arm.

“ You were talking to god as if he was listening. Telling him about Scooby Doo and Abba. That’s not weird ? “

“ Ah, guess you have a point there “ she admits and lays her head against Billy’s shoulder.

“ You know what I said then ? I asked for something good. I knew dad wasn’t getting better and that I would have to come to terms with it and that miracles don’t happen. I just wanted one good thing for myself. “

“ Did you get it ? “

There’s something in her eyes then that’s always been there but for the first time Billy knows what it is and he lets himself see if, feel it. It’s love. For him. For a reason he still can’t fully grasp but he doesn’t question it. Not this time.

When her lips meet his it’s like life is right again. Good again. And he can’t wait for their future to begin. In a few months he is gonna graduate and leave behind this mess of a town. From then on it will be just him and (Y/N) and it will be good. He’s gonna be with the person he cares about the most and the only person since his mother that cares about him just as much in return. He can’t wait for that future. He can’t wait.

“ Yeah I did. I got something real good. I got you “.

[charlie-minion]

Day 2/365

January 2: Review of 2017. Include your best memory of the year.

Last year was definitely in the top 3 of “Worst years of my life”. I’ve had very awful years before, but I can say that 2017 probably beat them all. For those who have been following me for a while now, this won’t come as a surprise; I’ve posted about my struggles with depression more than a couple of times and how things were getting worse and worse. Therefore, to write a review of 2017, I have to describe my journey to the pit bottom I touched last year. This will get very long and maybe triggering for some, so I’ll put it under the cut.  

I started to have a hard time to deal with stress at some point in April. I’ve always been an anxious person, but I could find ways to deal on my own. However, this time I don’t know why, but everything began to feel overwhelming. I had a full-time job as a teacher that consumed no less than 9 hours of my day, and I also had classes to take after work (I’m a post-graduate student). At work, most of my students were wonderful and I loved them. The seniors, though, were really hostile (not all of them but more than half the class). It wasn’t the first time I was dealing with that sort of behavior, but for some reason I was on edge more often than not. As a result, I started drinking a little, only on weekends at first, but then during the week too. The thing is that I was still highly functional at work and at school. Nobody noticed anything different about me because I was still extremely good at putting up a front. But the energy necessary to do that was draining me pretty quickly.

In May I started to have panic attacks for stupid things. I had to interview some of the seniors as part of their scholarship process. The day I was told by the principal the minimum number of students I had to interview, I lost my shit. I had to lock myself in the bathroom in my office. I started crying, had trouble breathing, and my chest hurt. I couldn’t hold the tears or the feeling of dread inside me; I had no idea what was wrong with me. I don’t remember how long I spent there, trying to get a grip. That should have been the sign I needed to be certain that something was definitely not okay, but as usual, I tried to deal with it on my own.

In the middle of June, I had an argument with a dear friend of mine who happened to be my coworker. I’d talked to him a couple of times regarding his behavior toward the seniors (one student in particular). When typing this up, I realized that the first time I talked to him about it was around April. I was so afraid when I did it; I thought he’d get angry with me, but he didn’t (or so he led me to believe). I wonder if that talk had anything to do with my difficulties to deal with stress later on. The thing is that in June I talked to him a third time because I knew some people were talking behind my friend’s back and suspected him of having a “special interest” in a 17-year-old boy who was our student. I cared for my friend, but I cared for my students too. My friend had told me he had a kind of crush on the boy, but I knew he would never act on it. However, I also knew that he was making his crush too obvious and if other people noticed, my friend would get fired and his reputation would be damaged. I tried to explain all that to him, but I guess he thought I had my own agenda. He blocked me on all social media and our friendship was over all at once.  

By the end of June not only had I lost the friend I thought I had but I also learned that he had been talking about me behind my back since April. He had tried to damage my reputation so that if I said something about him nobody would believe me. I felt sad and betrayed. I know what ill-intentioned rumors can do to a person professionally and emotionally (I was at the receiving end of such things back in 2011 thanks to someone who called herself my “friend”). All I wanted in this situation was to 1) make sure my students were 100% safe and 2) make sure my friend remembered how serious this line of work is. I never intended to hurt him in any way. I talked directly to him, not to the principal or to anyone else. I was his friend and because of that I wanted to be honest with him without being unethical. What I got in return was a stab in the back. He stopped talking to me, ignored me, left the room when I arrived (and we shared an office for God’s sake!). I already felt overwhelmed, but after all this happened, I definitely started to lose balance. I always worked so hard to have a good relationship with everyone at work and suddenly it was over because even my other coworkers looked at me as if I was the ill-intentioned person looking for conflict.

By the time July started, I had begun to understand I was not okay. I confided in another friend at work who had always been there to support me (the only person I could still trust). She told me to look for professional help. I didn’t. I still thought I could handle it. I’ve been a high-functional depressive for years, so I thought this, too, would pass. I kept on working and continued drinking a little more every time. Reading had always been my way to escape, but I stopped doing it ‘cause I couldn’t concentrate anymore. I couldn’t write any original content for my blog; I could barely keep it together at work, but I was grateful at least I had some time off from school. Then July 20 happened. Chester Bennington died by suicide. The one who helped me through my teenage years. My hero. That blow was enough to push me over the edge. I had spent months trying not to lose it, trying to be okay, and after Chester passed, I couldn’t anymore; I just let myself sink deeper into my depression. I had been having sleeping problems, but after July 20, I was lucky if I got 2 hours of sleep. Grief took over completely.

August was a nightmare! I’m still amazed that no one around me realized I was faking it big time. Each smile was painful, but I still managed to be “happy”, “funny” and “full of life”. My classes were still great and I could still make my students laugh, learn, and have a good time, but the pain in my chest did not disappear. The moment I was home, I would start crying for no reason and I kept drinking even though I knew I shouldn’t. There’s always been a dark part of my mind. A voice that always reminds me of all my failures, of all the times I’ve been wronged, of all my broken dreams. The voice is always there, but I can normally shut it down. I couldn’t do that in August. The voice, my darkest self, took over bit by bit until I completely disassociated. I saw myself doing stuff and had no control whatsoever. I saw myself as if I were not present anymore, as if I were trapped in a part of my head that wouldn’t let me out. That’s how I felt when I tried to overdose on anxiety medication and had the worst hours of my life, followed by disappointment rather than regret.

The last weeks of August and all of September were about getting professional help. My suicide attempts (I tried twice) failed, and somehow I knew I had reached the lowest point of my existence. I just knew I couldn’t deal anymore; I was utterly defeated. I started to see a psychologist twice a week and he sent me to a doctor. I did everything the doctor said and we found out my physical health was excellent. The doctor sent me to a psychiatrist with a note that I had to be seen urgently (they still feared for my life). I was prescribed some other medication and through all the process I just felt numb. After two appointments, the psychiatrist stopped receiving me without letting me know why. One of my closest friends wants me to sue him ‘cause I had to stop taking the medication suddenly as I could obviously not get it anymore. That kind of medication can increase suicidal thoughts; nobody should ever stop taking it just like that. I didn’t want to sue him, though. I wasn’t in the right state of mind to even think about it. I don’t even know how in the world I managed to still work and study at that point.

At the beginning of October, my mood swings were driving me insane, but I was still trying to work through it all with the help of my therapist. Mental health is so important, but people’s ignorance about it is unbelievable. That’s why I decided to take advantage of World Mental Health Day to use the topic “Myths and Facts about Depression” in a class with the seniors (something they had previously requested along with around 30 other topics). I used reliable sources and very interesting activities to encourage group discussion and some sort of reflection about the issue. I’m an English as a foreign language teacher, so making the students speak in English is important in class.

Everything went to hell when my almost 16-year-old dog died in October 9. She got sick and even though I took her to the vet immediately, she needed a surgery. She survived the surgery but died from a heart attack after it. The pain of losing my long-term companion was unexplainable. In addition, my mom chose those days to prove again and again that I can never count on her when I need her. So I lost my shit again. I had never in my life felt so helpless, hopeless and alone. I couldn’t feel anything except pain. Everything felt too heavy, too painful. I couldn’t breathe properly, I couldn’t sleep and faking it for the rest of the world felt like the worst punishment ever. The only thing I could do was talk about it with a couple of friends, but people don’t know what to do or what to say in these cases. I still felt alone and miserable, so I posted something here in my blog in the middle of one my crises.

People reached out and offered kind words that however well-intended did nothing to fill the emptiness inside me. Except there was one person, one extraordinary human being that went well out of her way to reach out to me. She’s become the main reason I’m still trying to keep myself alive. She’s part of my life now, and she’s made ME part of her life as well. Not just that… she’s made me an important part of her life. Somehow, she makes me feel less alone. She makes me think that someone out there cares for me and listens, really listens without judging me, without blaming me, or dismissing my feelings and my pain. She’s a ray of light in the middle of the dark. She’s like water in a desert. She’s the one who gripped me tight and raised me from perdition. She’s my angel. She’s the only good memory I have of 2017.  

Of course, my year still had to suck a little more. In November I lost my job. One of my hateful coworkers started a rumor that I had used “13 Reasons Why” in class with the students (which was total bullshit). People talked behind my back and made it a huge deal. My boss, the principal of the school, gathered all the proof he could to demonstrate that I was innocent. He did prove that it was a lie, but his boss (who had tried to fire me many times in previous years simply because she didn’t like me), said that I should be given a Disciplinary Action for using a depression-related topic in class. I didn’t even know what was happening until my boss talked to me and explained everything, but he thought he could still fix things. All this happened without my knowing. I was informed on a Friday, and then the following Thursday I was told I was going to be fired. November 30 was my last day, but surprisingly that was also the last day of my ex-friend. He got fired because of the rumors I had warned him about. Karma’s a bitch, I guess.  

I spent all December at home, unemployed, defeated and not knowing what to do with my life. Where I live, the school year begins in January and ends in November. There was no way I could find a job in December, so 2018 is a fresh start. My boss gave me a beautiful recommendation letter and cried the day we said goodbye. He did all he could to save my job because he knew I was a very good teacher, but his boss threatened his position and he has 2 daughters to provide for. The woman who decided to fire me had wanted to do so since 2014 and treated me poorly every time she could. I hadn’t quit because she almost never visited us, but I was hoping to quit after I finished my master’s degree. I guess I should’ve done it when she made it clear she wanted me out.  

I had to stop seeing my therapist because I can’t afford it anymore. At least I stopped drinking because I can’t afford it either. I lost control just once in December and bought some cheap booze in the middle of another of my crises. I took 2000mg of Escitalopram, hoping that maybe third time’s the charm, but I’m still here, and the only thing I got out of that attempt was to make my angel worry and feel useless. I don’t want to hurt her again, so I promised I’m going to try to get better. I don’t know if I can manage without professional help, but without a job, there’s nothing I can do about it. I just have to keep fighting and remember that I’m not alone. Even if she’s very far from me and I can’t possibly board a plane to hug her when I need to, I know that she’s with me and that she cares.

This was my 2017. I can’t really say I’m grateful to be alive ‘cause that would be a lie, but I guess the only thing that’s left for me to do is hope that 2018 will be better and do my best to care for myself and allow myself to heal. This year will certainly be challenging and scary because I don’t even know where to start. But by writing these journal entries, I’ll try to keep myself busy enough to prevent another crisis. To finish, I just want to say #Fuck2017.  

[bienready2122]

Little Frieda

I have often spoken approximately loss of life  Custom Made Jewellery Sometimes it comes like a loud shout, a large bang intentionally however on occasion it's far unusually quiet as if there's a royalty to its detail. And then there may be the earth that we fold the body bodily into, throw dirt on it and pay our respects or the ash that we maintain in our arms. And then afterwards whilst the family gathers to eat, to sup collectively, to interrupt bread there are a lot of things I assume they surrender, that they permit cross of or do not. Head beneath water is the most effective region I can allow move of all of these items. There is not any echo, not anything to distract me here, evaporate me like smoke. And it's the only location in which I locate God. It isn't rain pouring down, wires of serotonin, dopamine, electrolytes developing from my head, nightmares that come to me inside the midnight that issues me so, and infection.

Its pores and skin was purple, orange and green, tasted like butter. A mango is delicious from the first time you flavor it. I tasted my first right mango in Swaziland (all that goodness got here with its warmth, that sweetness on my breath, juice on my clothes, sticky fingers however shadows need to meet someplace and all I desired to look became London). I recall the mangoes you kept for me until I came domestic from college (you would positioned it inside the fridge till it was cool, the orange strings of flesh). We could have avocado on toast, or French toast with fresh coriander leaves fried in creamy butter or hotdogs and chips as simplest you can cause them to in which Swaziland was my home for a 12 months. You died earlier than some time, my 2d mother. Your fingers faded, hair dark and as you have become extra unwell with the greater weight you misplaced however you have been nonetheless lovely to me. Leaves shake and decay in autumn, spin round, and round. You were my vibrant star amongst all souls. I pass over epic you each day. There's a loss that comes with respiratory. But the stranger inside the ghost residence has no voice. He does not speak of self-assist, a shelf-life. A double existence, crimson dirt, dead parakeets, sweat jogging down his wife's returned, the insanity and melancholy of Liberace. Something is unanchored yet still superbly capabilities, is effective. It is referred to as own family and the attention of coming domestic, a flag become planted here in the South's barren region in which a genocide came about, there's whisky in a glass, a day cocktail. Books which might be a sanctuary. An Eric Clapton report is playing. The purple dust of this county does now not speak of self-help. There is a suicide. A death in a river. And the police have come. This is August: Osage County.

The police come in the middle of the night. Like the detectives in plainclothes that got here to my house inside the nighttime while my brother took a knife and stabbed my father. Nothing romantic approximately it. About the onslaught of demise, of it catching up to you like a thief within the night time, a cat burglar, a cat drowning in a bag with her kittens, that is how I felt as if I became a drowning vacationer. I noticed guns that night I led a double existence. I pretended I did now not see or hear some thing and inside I turned into numb. When I noticed my father's blood. It had an oppressive great to it like the whole thing in my existence so far. The tablets refused to work. So I took more and more of them and slept all day and all night time.

The double lifestyles of the romantic jasmine. It lives, it dies and it lives and it dies like human beings. I can talk and communicate and no person might be listening to my conversations, eavesdropping. Down the iciness road I got here across men who stare at goats. Men who were top dancers or American infantrymen who took German fans at some point of the conflict. Men who have been true actors, a few were heavy drinkers in my mind, and philanthropists. The knife was sharp. It struck air time and again and once more. And then is changed into anchored in skin. I failed to scream. I became a Scout's knot. Ran in my sandals to the neighbour's residence as rapid as my toes ought to convey me. Outside the air felt cool as rain. How I wanted it had rained? But there has been no rain that night time and they called the police.

There's no romance in death. Hair and flesh coming loose. And nonetheless daddy turned into left standing, unafraid. My brother changed into prancing round all of us, smirking, smiling with cunning deceit, excessive he become having his cake and ingesting it too. Pinned daddy to the bed along with his fingers like shark teeth. My mom had ran away within the darkish. I changed into left with notes of grief, a stem and a route to observe. A flowering bleeding coronary heart making waves, beating speedy. It turned into Christmas. But there were no presents only a iciness road to observe.

To hell with it if I do no longer ever fall in love. It is a case of much ado approximately not anything. I actually have lost my thoughts and recuperated in hospitals. Once again turn out to be anchored to reality in restoration. I do no longer have a brother and I do no longer have a sister. I do not have a mother and I do no longer have a father. They stay their very own lives, so they amuse themselves, selfish humans every person. While I am stored sheltered in Pandora's Box. It is a container filled with romantic villagers of my own making. What a comfort they are to me. I am an orphan on Okri's famished street. I am Nabokov's and Kubrick's Lolita. And soon I may be forgotten like breath. The portable a ceremonial dinner of intercourse, romance and death. Damaged, broken, broken however I should now not speak of it.

It will be the loss of life of me and I have to live without the disorder, the stain of trauma a while longer, take a seat on my throne, accumulate bones like arrows that fall from the sky. Curiosity has killed me. Men have killed me exceedingly. But I even have nine exquisite lives and am left smiling like the Cheshire cat.

This is the brother who I am presupposed to love. I do now not respect him anymore. I feel nothing for him after I understand that night time from hell. House of hunger. House of hell, of insanity and depression. If he had a gun all of us might be useless. I split the onion, seduced with the aid of its layers. And I cry for what has been lost, gemstones every one. There are diamonds in my eyes and I blink them lower back. My kids, my teenagers, my children and there may be no ring. No ring on my finger, all the ones continual wasted years. Now he is Lucifer manning the gate to the wards of hell. My beautiful, darling boy what has grow to be of you?

The secrets and techniques that we maintain are dedicated to memory. They're training inside the needs of humans round us, a lesson in obedience, from time to time even awareness. And it takes bold work for us to recognize that the future is brilliant whilst every so often we are challenged, while we must mine glory. And make a ceremony out of it. There are profound substances that goes into making a spaghetti bolognaise. Family is of direction the first precedence. Next the butcher, mint from the lawn and limes for the cocktails. Footsteps on the stairs and laughter scribbling inside the air.

Perhaps avocadoes had been the first fruits (food for thought) in the Garden of Eden even before Eve changed into crafted from Adam's rib thru the maturation of a human soul and a vortex in flux. Sun and moon. They are miracle angelic novices every one every day. Daughters nicknamed so for jasmine and the day past, these days and the following day. And then as though woken up from a dream the day starts.

Head below water. Silently pushing off from the wall of the swimming pool doing lap after lap. Here is wherein I find my sanctuary, my second domestic and solace from the world outdoor. I am no longer just like the other ladies. They're all younger, thinner, and confident despite the fact that they're still flat-chested, and flirtatious from where I am status. Head underneath water again. I'm praying it won't be the house from hell again tonight. I'm watching films, reading books, wiping my father's bum (there aren't any secrets between us). We talk about our beyond lives, our 9 lives, love and the degree of it, how the devil made paintings for idle palms throughout apartheid, in the course of the Group Areas Act, the Nazi struggle lords, Hotel Rwanda. We talk about the ladies in his lifestyles, beyond and present, the primary girl he ever loved and lost and the measure of it. I end up distracted. He will become distracted and I arise to make cups of espresso, lukewarm espresso. We talk Valkenburg (the mental organization in Cape Town where he resided for some months).

The first social worker he ever met. This is concerned with the ebook I am writing. Walking in his footsteps. Night after night I make a casserole and the 2 people take a seat all the way down to devour at the kitchen desk. He walks, he shuffles, he walks, and he shuffles. Sometimes he sits outdoor with Misty, the canine in the solar. He is forgetful, he stammers, he has a short interest span but alternatively I guess reminiscence loss comes with age. Last night he moist the bed. There are people who might make a mockery of this situation but whilst you're knee deep in it with a person which you love, intimacy is not anything, acknowledging that he is turning into older is the whole thing. I've become an old girl in a single day. Suddenly I even have grey hair, the understanding of a lake, a mild tremor in my fingers, I be afflicted by tension, and I can't sleep at night time. He requires me inside the nighttime. He desires me and so this teaches me that I am now not merciless. I am a lady now. Something has changed the darkness in my existence. I have discovered the stem of meditation.

Its face, its direction, my lifestyles's adventure in this crowded house and tears. My mom does the laundry. Not any such terrible lady after all. If best all girls might be like her. Tough. Made of holy guts, an insatiable instinct, almost a clairvoyant intuition. She lives like a nun and eats like one these days. She eats like a hen making soup, after soup after soup that simplest the three folks consume. As an grownup I actually have fallen in love with the excellent goodness of barley and the healthy protein of lentils. Split peas reminds me of ingesting a home cooked meal within the afternoon's at my paternal grandmother's residence inside the afternoons. My paternal grandmother's arms have been lovely. Wizened due to the fact she suffered from arthritis, darkish brown. Warm with the feel of the solar and freckled. She became my moon, my moonlight and fashionable. She provided us bowls of soup with domestic baked bread that tasted extra nourishing and filling than the shop sold costly kind. My mom guarantees us all an extended life if we drink blends of herbs.

Dried rosemary, tinctures, tonics, homemade inexperienced smoothies with parsley, spinach from our vegetable patch and coconut milk. Head beneath water I reflect, I meditate, I breathe clean. I swim with the fishes, schools of them on this swimming pool. It lighting fixtures a candle in my heart once I swallow water. My brother makes stews together with his domestic-grown carrots and corn. All I could make is spaghetti. Frieda's spaghetti. It is so bloodless now. The international feels so bloodless. It feels as though Iraq has descended into my thoughts once more. Sarajevo. Rwanda and the kids of Northern Uganda. I am a younger female at the verge of a anxious breakdown. I must be sturdy to carry on, stay brave, act bold. Sometimes I can hear Tchaikovsky. My father has taken to his mattress. He has depression once more (of-the-William-Styron-kind). I surprise if John Updike ever suffered from despair. I recognise Hemingway certainly did. What approximately J.M. Coetzee, Radclyffe Hall, Vladimir Nabokov, Kubrick? And the filmmakers, writers, the poets who were heavy drinkers?

But I leave that in God's hands for his observation, all the ones alerts. I'm antique earlier than my time. I'm an antique soul. Complicated, an empty vessel, resentful of splendor like several lady, of children, of the lady, of children in childhood. My infants are my books.

[marvelandponder]

It’s Tin-Foil Hat Time

Happy Applejack day, y’all. Uh, well, happy belated Applejack day. I guess you could say I’m a day late and two parents short.

... I should really be more sorry than this.

But speaking of, in honour of her, I actually wanted to take a step back from AJ and talk about the ponies who matter to her most: her family.

I can understand if some of you are a little miffed on why I wouldn’t just talk about apple horse herself, but Applejack’s family is integral to who she is. Her family is everything to her, and that love only grew stronger when she lost two of the most important members when she was a teenager, some time after the events of Where the Apple Lies.

So, really, I am talking about AJ. In fact, I’m talking about the most defining moment of her life—one a number of us were disappointed not to see direct references to in either Where the Apple Lies or The Perfect Pear.

For me, The Perfect Pear is a perfect episode. Supremely satisfying and honestly almost exactly what I said I wanted to see in my last Applejack editorial (1. Give the audience time to get to know the parents so we can miss them, too, and 2. show the Apple siblings in present day learning a lesson and growing stronger as a family).

But, even I have to admit I’m still curious.

It was confirmed via Twitter that the shooting stars that appear twice in Apple Family Reunion are meant to represent Bright Mac and Buttercup. For I think most of us (that choose to accept that as word of god), that rules out the possibility that they went missing in the jungle Hey Arnold!-style and just couldn’t return. Dead as doorknobs.

The how is still fascinating, though, but after The Perfect Pear, looks like we won’t ever have a canon answer…

… unless we already do.

Okay, okay, okay, okay. Canon is a strong word, and if you ask the show staff they’d laugh at the idea that there’s been secret hints to what actually happened. They can get insanely detailed with the foreshadowing and even subtlety at times, but I don’t see why they would go out of their way to sow the morbid details into a show this light-hearted. Doesn’t sound like their modus operandi.

But, based on the in-universe content we have, there is an answer that I think is more likely than the rest.

Just wanted to make that clear: we’re theorizing based on canon, not authorial intent (Quick! Somebody get Silver Quill! Death of the Author was mentioned, he’s gotta get in on this). 

We cool?

Cool. Let’s kill some sweet little ponies.

The Murder Tragic Accident Weapon

Okay, first things first, we need to rule out a few things. Because when anything is possible, we have to set some ground rules for what could and could logically happen based on what we know.

And remember, anything is theoretically possible, but we’re looking for the most likely. What makes sense given the information we already have.

Disease is out because both Buttercup and Bright Mac died. Of course hereditary diseases wouldn’t make sense for both of them, in the same way number of fatal illnesses like cancer aren’t contagious, anyway. And venereal diseases like AIDS/HIV that could kill two partners would need to be transferred via bodily fluids---and since one of them would have to get it in the first place, our very own Romeo and Juliet are probably safe from most kinds of infection (unless there was a slip-up at Ponyville General, but we don’t know of any reason why one of them would need a blood transfusion anyway).

And here’s the thing: contagious illnesses would’ve likely infected more than just Bright Mac and Buttercup. If this was a deadly plague, more residents of Ponyville would likely be gone, if not more Apples. Especially because it’s a small town, and if some deadly disease managed to reach it, it’d be looking more like 28 Pranks Later than I’m comfortable with.

Child-birth could work for Buttercup, given the timing, but that would mean Bright Mac followed purely out of grief. Given the spirit of MLP, I’m already leaning towards this option being a little too dark—even for this topic. The universe itself is an incredibly hopeful one. Whenever darkness and hard feelings pop up, they tend to either be overcome or be vanquished if it leads them down a dark path.

And speaking of, I would honestly say Bright Mac becoming a Darth Vader type villain is more fitting in the world of MLP because that’s usually what happens with intense negative emotions like depression (Nightmare Moon). Dark magic. It’s stronger in unicorns maybe because they can channel magic directly, but we’ve seen that other ponies have magic of their own. So if Bright Mac was feeling depressed to that level, it’s ironically more realistic for this universe if he became a villain. But that wouldn’t have killed him, and in fact, I imagine the love of his children and his mother would probably bring him back to the light side.

Murder is likely out as well even if it didn’t follow the same rule as the last one because Ponyville is such a small town that—especially for a double-homicide—there would have to be a motive. I just can’t see that happening.

So, *sigh* Applejack isn’t Batman. Although knowing how psychologically tormented that orphan-adopting bat billionaire is, that’s probably a good thing.

So, if natural causes, suicide, and homicide don’t entirely fit, that leads us to accidental death. That always seemed the most fitting to me. Bright Mac and Buttercup loved their family, so it’s the most in-character way for them to pass on. Against their will.

And if this was a tragic accident, we’ve got any number of options, but let’s examine a few off the top of our heads.

Option 1: Ink Rose’s old headcanon/Timber Wolves

Here’s a pretty beloved old theory! While out of date now based on the characters, Ink Rose still made a lovely story with an idea that can be salvaged even after The Perfect Pear defined who the Apple parents were, and that idea is this: Timber wolves from the Everfree forest.

I don’t like arguing against someone else’s headcanons, but for the sake of our theory, I have to say that Applejack is pretty daring with Timber Wolves for someone who lost so much to them---especially if it was a traumatic event she witnessed as a teenager. Her behaviour around them doesn’t seem that out of the ordinary when compared to the rest of the Mane 6 and Spike.

Which is why I also ruled out dangerous places like the Fire Swamp. If Applejack is as experienced with that place as she is, Granny is pretty terrible caretaker.

Again, totally possible, but I know something even simpler than Timber Wolf attack or accidental bridge collapse. Somewhere more familiar, and somehow that’s been staring us in the face this entire time.

Option 2: Barn Fire

Not impressed yet? I understand, but hear me out.

Over the course of the first few seasons, the Sweet Apple Acres barn was cartoonishly destroyed over and over again. Eaten by parasprites, demolished by Rainbow Dash, re-raised in Too Many Pinkie Pies, and of course, Raised (This Barn) again in Apple Family Reunion. A lot of razed barn imagery, basically.

It was a running joke that I don’t think most of us noticed until it started piling up. Sweet Apple Acres gets destroyed a lot. Sometimes by ridiculous means, but always somehow destroyed.

With that in mind, I’d like to take into consideration this scene from On Your Marks.

A nonsensical dream, yes, but as we know from the episode itself, these dreams are based on Applebloom’s subconscious fears. So… answer me this. Why is losing the barn so terrifying if she’s lost it and helped raise it multiple times? Applebloom’s seen it be destroyed in real life with less of a reaction.

Honestly, I would think this would be more terrifying (and could be accomplished by the kinds of pests a pest-pony would have to fight):

They can always raise a new barn, but if something happens to the crops, that can be devastating for a farmer.

I think it has something to do with the way it was destroyed. Electrocuted to a crisp. Burnt.

It’s also fun to note Mayor Mare specifically tells Applebloom she needs to get her family out of town—of course, everyone’s running out of town in this dream, but still. Evacuation is far preferred over staying to try to help, even by Applejack, who Applebloom sees as a hero according to Brotherhooves Social.

Now that’s not a whole lot to go off of on its own—a barn that has a habit of being destroyed, a subconscious fear of it burning down. That can be explained away.

What’s a little more telling is the missing Pear barn that we know for a fact used to be right beside Sweet Apple Acres.

Goldie Delicious says there “used to be” another farm in Ponyville, but the trees are still there, for sure. The barn, however, which we haven’t seen—the thing that would make it a farm (even an abandoned one)—isn’t. Otherwise, the Apple siblings would’ve been able to see it and ask more questions about this mysterious abandoned barn. Applebloom in particular probably would’ve known about the feud with the Pears years ago, if nothing else.

So, if the Pear farm is gone (or was; Grand Pear lives in Ponyville… somewhere. You’d think he’d go back to where his farm used to be, so maybe they’ve since raised him a new one), that means something happened to it.

In fact, it’s possible something happened to both of them, given the bad luck Sweet Apple Acres has. Sweet Apple Acres would be rebuilt, but the Pear barn wouldn’t.

But the reason this answer is so compelling is that it makes sense. It would've been a total accident---no intent to kill or be killed---and explains how both of them could've died without dooming their children or Granny Smith.

Fires take a while to truly get going, but once they do it's instantaneous how fast they spread. Within a matter of seconds. Either of these barns might've been the culprit, here, or both. Both could be deadly for both parents without necessarily killing the rest of the Apple family.

Especially if one of them was trapped inside, and the other went back in after the kids and Granny were out.

Both Buttercup and Bright Mac are the noble type. Buttercup helped Chiffon Swirl pretty tirelessly build up her baking business and would choose Bright Mac over her own father, and Bright Mac's willing to take responsibility for even small accidents like an overturned water silo. He also seems willing to defend Pear Butter pretty instantly when they hear someone (Mrs. Cake/Chiffon Swirl) in the bushes, which tells me he's the kind to act first and ask questions later, especially if it's for someone he cares about. 

I think this death is in-character.

And frankly, makes Applejack's heroics a lot more scary for the family. "Applejack is the hero of the family now," according to Big Mac in Brotherhooves Social, but she wasn't always. It explains where AJ might've inherited that sense of duty when a call to action arises. It's in her nature to try to help---whether that's saving the world from evil, or herding a stampede away from town.

Hell, as early as episode 3, Applejack's being awarded for her daily hero work---and that shirt-off-your-back set of values is certainly something she would've learned from someone, but the hero mode, how she responds in emergency situations, that likely came from her parents based on what we know about them.

So, I think that’s my answer. Barn fire, either the Sweet Apple Acres barn itself, which already has a habit of being destroyed, or the suspiciously missing Pear farm. Both being on fire is... honestly a stretch, since the trees between the Apple farm and Pear farm are still intact (and while forests do grow back within 7-10 years of forest fires, what grows back won’t necessarily resemble what was lost---especially the intertwining trees planted by Buttercup and Bright Mac).

But I think you could make an in-character story from there with that information. You could guess that if there was a fire at the old Pear barn, Buttercup might be the one getting trapped (or, perhaps even going back in to save something near to her heart; which is an extra layer of tragic knowing that she would still risk a lot for her father even when they were apart).

If it’s the Sweet Apple Acres barn, Bright Mac could just as easily have been the one being trapped after saving the kids and/or Granny.

But in both scenarios, as dark as it is, I think this is how MLP would do the Romeo and Juliet story’s ending. The point of the original play was that the two young lovers, who quite frankly didn’t even know what love really was, were so overly passionate about these new feelings that it lead to their demise.

But, Bright Mac and Buttercup aren’t like that. Their love, while passionate and in the beginning inexperienced, doesn’t blind them to reality---and it’s in fact the older generation doing the feuding that has to learn a lesson in the end.

And as time goes on, and their bond strengthens, their love can only deepen. They run a farm together. They end up having three kids. They build a family stronger than any that came before.

What kills them isn’t being in love with the idea of being in love. It’s a real, self-sacrificing love that stood the test of time. In a show about the power of friendship and by some extension different kinds of love, I would think that’s the most fitting way to go.

But, hey, maybe that’s just me. The cool thing about not knowing is that we all still get to make our own theories, and still have a hand in creating the story that we’ve been dying to see for seven seasons. The mystery of who Buttercup and Bright Mac were may be over, and their time with their family done, but their love certainly lives on.

In all of their kids, really, but I think especially in Applejack, who embodies that love of family to heroic degrees. Here’s to you, AJ. They live on through you.

More MLP stuff coming at ya! I do editorials like this and occasionally episode reviews. Check out the last three things I’ve done down here:

Hascon Coverage, Sunset Shimmer, and Pinkie Pie editorials

Year of the Pony

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Bright Mac and Buttercup by Jhayarr23

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Well it goes like this: the fourth, the fifth The minor fall and the major lift The baffled king composing Hallelujah