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harley-sunday · 4 years

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Things We Lost in the Fire [01]

Prompt found on Pinterest: During a bank robbery you’re surprised when the criminals seem to recognize you and retreat in fear. Only after do you learn that your high school sweetheart now runs a global crime syndicate and has you placed on a “no harm” list. You decide to pay him a visit after all these years.

Pairing: Sebastian Stan x Reader (F)

Warnings: Language.

Word count: 4279

AN: This is as AU as AU’s get, so don’t say I didn’t warn you. But that prompt, oh that prompt was magnificent! This story basically wrote itself, during two very boring afternoons at work. I think it’s unlike anything I’ve done before, story-wise, so I hope you’ll like it. Please let me know what you think! Also, as this will only have about four parts and it’s not your usual reader insert I’m thinking of doing a taglist, so leave a comment if you want to be included. Once you’re on the taglist I would appreciate a reblog or comment for any chapters that follow. ♥

Masterlist

“Well, fuck you too!” you sneer, flipping off whatever asshole cuts you off so bad you have to slam your brakes, the seat belt restraining you as you jolt forward. Jesus, can no one drive these days, or what?

You want to give yourself a moment to recover from the near-hit but then some other asshole behind you honks a couple of times, urging you to get a move on. You flip him off for good measure too, cursing quietly because it’s not even seven in the morning and you’re already done for today.

You’re still pretty pissed off when you pull into your designated parking spot at work, close to the entrance of Carver State Bank. You’ve worked here as a bank teller ever since you moved from Atlanta back to Savannah four years ago and well, it’s not your dream job but at least it pays the bills. You started out as a temp, not really interested in working at a bank, but you needed the money. Bad. And then when they offered you a permanent position after your three months were up, you figured, why not, and stayed.

At Carver State you’re the only one of the tellers who works full time, the rest of them all middle-aged women who, at most, work three days a week. There’s five of them in total, and all of them are very kind. You have a soft spot for Bea though, the oldest of the bunch, because once she found out you were out here all by yourself, she decided you need some TLC. She checks up on you whenever you’re sick, brings leftover dinner to work for you to take home whenever she gets the chance, and she keeps hoping you’ll find a nice guy to settle down with. You even spent Christmas with Bea and her family last year. And honestly? You love it.

Bea is also working today, but won’t be here yet because the bank doesn’t open until nine, and you only got in early to decorate Bert’s office, who turned fifty-nine this weekend and starts at eight every damn day.

Rummaging through your purse you manage to find your keys just before you make it to the front door and once you open it, you hurry to the keypad to punch in your alarm code without really looking at the display. The lights that are supposed to come on automatically don't, and so you wonder if the alarm was already disabled by someone else but you can't check now unless you ask Bert to log on to the security system and that's not really an option at this moment.

The sun’s already been up for about an hour, so there’s enough light from outside to help you find your way to the back anyway, and so you figure there’s no harm done. But then you hear a sound coming from Bert’s office you wish you would have paid more attention to whether or not the alarm was activated. Your heart’s in your throat in an instant and for a moment you wonder what to do, because maybe someone’s robbing the bank, but then you hear a quiet, “Gosh darn it,” coming from the office and you can’t help but let out sigh of relief.

“Hi, Bea,” you almost whisper so as not to scare her, but she still does, clutching her pearls when you open the door. Just the sight of her instantly lifts your mood.

“Oh, sweetie, don’t you ever do that again!” She slaps you with the ‘Happy Birthday’ banner she was trying to pin to the wall and then laughs when you fake being hurt.

“Oh, Bea, I’m sorry,” you say, pouting a little for full effect, “but why are you here anyway? Didn’t we agree I’d handle the decorations?”

“Oh honey,” she says, handing you the banner and thumbtack she was holding, “I’m sure we did, but I really couldn’t remember, so I figured I might as well come in to either do it myself or to help you.” She grabs a bag of balloons from the desk and pulls one out, stretching it and bringing it up to her mouth, but not before she says, “You do the banner, hon, I’m better at blowing anyway.”

The rest of your workday is pretty uneventful, except maybe for the second serving of cake Bert offers you after you’ve given him your best rendition of ‘Happy Birthday To You’ with the fake British accent you mastered at University. Don’t ask.

Bea’s in the middle of telling you how she excited she is her grandson Zachary starts Kindergarten next week and you are trying your very best to make it look like you’re paying attention when really you’re trying to figure out whether or not it would be weird to go get a cocktail after work. By yourself. On a Monday. Because goddammit, after the morning you’ve had, with that near-collision, you’d sure as hell deserve it.

You have just dutifully hummed to let Bea know you’re still listening, or pretending to anyway, when the automatic doors open and a young couple walks in. As most young couples do, they head straight to Bea and so you stand up, relieved to get a break from her monologue, because even though Bea is as sweet as they come, the woman sure loves to talk. You let Bea know you’re going to get a coffee just before she greets the clients and make your way out of the secured area to the small kitchen down the hall.

You’re waiting for the machine to come to life, impatiently tapping your fingers on the counter top because it takes this thing at least a full minute to warm up, when you think you hear a noise coming from the front. It has you rooted in your place, your ears straining to hear anything else, but it stays quiet and so you wonder if you’ve imagined it. The machine’s finally up to temperature and you’re about to press the button for a cup of coffee when you hear Bea shouting something that sounds like, “Over my dead body!”

You’re not sure if it’s instinct or those endless safety drills Bert puts all of you through every three months, but your body has reacted long before your mind does when you find yourself running to his office. You enter without knocking, slightly out of breath when you whisper, “You need to push the button, Bert,” before you run back out again.

You know you’re supposed to go hide somewhere, wait it out until the police comes after the call from the panic button goes through. Maybe even try to make it outside using the back exit, but you can’t leave Bea out there all by herself. What if something happens to her? What if something has already happened to her? You find yourself getting angrier the closer you get to the door, because goddammit, how dare they try to come here? How dare they fuck up your quiet Monday afternoon with their attempted robbery.

Attempted yes, because if it is up to you they will not succeed.

By the time you push the handle you are fuming and ready to give these fuckers a piece of your mind, but then you see three men standing on the other side of the secured area, all armed to their teeth with assault rifles and guns, and it keeps you rooted in your spot, your voice lost somewhere in your throat. A quick glance around the room tells you the young couple is nowhere to be seen and for a moment you’re thankful but then you can’t help but wonder if they had any part in this. Your eyes land on Bea then, who stands behind her desk, a defiant look in her eyes even though three men have their guns trained on her. All of them are quiet and for a moment you’re proud because it looks like Bea’s got the upper hand.

It’s then you spot the fourth, and what you hope is the last man out of the corner of your eye. He’s trying to pick the lock of the door that leads to the secured area you’re standing in right now, a groan escaping him when he spots you. He sounds annoyed as if you’re just a distraction he now has to deal with. He stands up quickly, drawing his gun and one by one the men turn to you as a sort of response to the sound guy four made.

They are all wearing balaclavas as a disguise and so you can actually see their eyes go wide when they see you. For a moment you’re sure it’s because they weren’t expecting anyone else to be here, even though everyone knows there are always at least two tellers present in a bank at any given time, because security, but then it’s almost like they recognize you.

One of them actually mutters a quiet, “Oh shit, it’s her.”

As if on cue they lower their weapons and retreat, quickly leaving the scene of the crime without taking as much as a penny, leaving you and Bea stunned at what just happened.

“And you are sure that is what they said, ‘Oh shit, it’s her?’ and then they left?” the Detective asks you for what feels like the hundredth time.

You nod, “Yes, I am sure.”

You let out a frustrated groan because you’ve been questioned for over an hour now and honestly, it makes you feel like you’re the criminal. “I’m not sure I can give you any new information at this point. I’ve told you everything already,” adding what you hope is an exhausted sigh for good measure. “Can I go home, please?” you try and to your surprise the Detective tells you you can.

He informs you that they’d like to do a follow-up interview tomorrow and lets you know that they’ll contact you when they have any leads or news regarding the case. “We would appreciate it if you stay in the area for at least a day or two, Miss,” he says while pocketing the tiny notebook he used during the interview, “or at least let me know if you are thinking about leaving Savannah.”

You nod, because it seems like a fair request, before the Detective dismisses you with a wave of his hand and a quiet, “Thank you.”

When you step out of Bert’s office you find him leaning against the wall, hands in his pockets, “You ok?”

“Yeah,” you nod, because it sort of true. Sure, you’re still a little high on adrenaline, but other than that you feel fine. Maybe because the whole ordeal last only about twenty seconds or so. For you, anyway. “How’s Bea?”

“A little shaken up,” Bert admits, while walking you to the exit. “Her husband picked her up once they were done questioning her and she agreed to take the rest of the week off.” He turns to you, his voice unusually soft when he says, “I think you should too, kid.”

“What and sit at home, driving myself crazy thinking about this?” You shake your head, “No thanks, Bert, I’d rather just come in tomorrow.”

He sighs, knowing you’re too stubborn to take his advice, “At least start a little later then, ok? Eleven is fine.”

“Fine,” you huff, crossing your arms in front of your chest, not liking this special treatment.

“Fine,” Bert mimics and gives you a wink. “See ya tomorrow.”

You glance at your alarm clock again, letting out a frustrated sigh when you see it’s already three-thirty in the morning and you’re still wide awake, the events of earlier today replaying in your mind every chance they get. You know you’ll probably won’t sleep any more anyway and so you grab your phone, pull up Google and type ‘2019 bank robberies’, surprised when you get over six million hits within less than a second. You know banks get robbed left, right, and center, but you never expected to see ‘Georgia’ pop up in so many results, stunned when you read the headlines:

Armed robbery in Macon, GA, leaves tellers tied up, but otherwise unharmed, in empty safe. Robbers walk away with half a million U.S. Dollars.

Macon, GA, robbery linked to Atlanta, GA robbery.

“These guys are professionals,” local Sheriff admits among ongoing investigation.

Pembroke, GA, next target of band of robbers. Two people injured after public tries to interfere.

Georgia robbers most likely part of a much larger crime syndicate operating nationwide. FBI now involved.

“Jesus,” you mutter quietly, after finishing reading the last article, your eyes wide in shock. It’s not so much that, if it really is the same group that’s responsible for all these robberies, they have committed an awful lot of crimes already, it’s more that they never seem to hurt anyone. The only time people got hurt was when someone tried to run them off the road after the crime occurred. From the stories they seem almost polite, which is weird.

Not for the first time you wonder why and how they seemed to recognize you and more importantly, why they left after that. Does it have something to do with their unwillingness to harm people? Biting your lip you go over everything again, from the moment the young couple came in until the robbers fled the scene, but still there is nothing that stands out.

The sound of your phone ringing wakes you and you’re surprised to see it’s already eleven-thirty. Oh shit, you were supposed to be at work at eleven and so you’re sure it’s Bert calling when you answer with an, “I’m sorry, I overslept. I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”

“Uh,” the voice on the other end of the line is much deeper that Bert’s and you groan when you realize your mistake. “This is Detective Johansson, we spoke yesterday?”

“Yes, God, I’m sorry,” you sit up and cover yourself with your blanket even though he can’t see you, “how can I help you?”

“I just wanted to let you know we’ve gotten a hold of some of the security camera footage of the area, and I wonder if you could come in today to see if there’s anything or anyone you might recognize.”

“Uhm, yeah, sure.” You clear your throat, “When, uhm, when would you like me to be there?”

“One would be good,” detective Johansson says. “Just ask for me at the front desk.”

“Will do,” you say, but then you hear the call has already been disconnected and you look at your phone in disbelief. How rude. You shake your head and thumb through your contact list, pulling up Bert’s number to let him know you won’t be able to make it to work after all today, not surprised when he tells you he already asked Cathy to fill in for you for today and tomorrow. Just in case.

“Nothing?” Detective Johansson sounds a little shocked. He’s shown you footage of several security cameras, and one even captured the robbers in their getaway car, without their masks on, but the image is too grainy to see any facial features you might recognize. He must know this too but he makes it seem like it’s your fault. You decide right then and there that you really don’t like him. You’re sure he’s good at his job, but he’s got the social skills of a shark.

He returns to the stills from the security camera footage inside the bank, once more lining them up as if you haven’t already studied every single detail. You have been here for almost two hours and Detective Johansson has been relentless in his questioning, making you go over everything again and again as if you haven’t already told him everything you know when he took your statement yesterday.

“I’ve already seen these,” you offer quietly, “I doubt there’s anything else I can give you.” You let your eyes dart over the photos again and while you’re aware the Detective says something about looking harder, you hardly register it because all of a sudden your eye catches something on the left side of the bulletproof vests the guys are wearing and you hold your breath, because no, it can’t be.

You try to play it cool and hope you don’t give anything away when you let your eyes dart over the four photos again. On every single vest there is a patch with the letters JS on top over the number 82. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. Fuck. At first you thought it was just the brand of the vests but now that you’ve actually seen what’s written there you know that it’s not. And you also know why they might have recognized you.

Fuck.

Your mind is going a million miles an hour, trying to figure out what to do. The decision is made for your when Detective Johansson, rather unfriendly, tells you they’ll be in touch if they find any new leads, effectively dismissing you.

You clear your throat and look up at the detective, “I’m sorry, I really wish I could help.”

He just nods and grabs the pictures, leaving the room without so much as waiting for you to follow him.

“Asshole,” you mutter quietly, hoping none of the security cameras picked up on that.

You try to act cool as you leave the station but your heart’s racing and you tell yourself to slowly, slowly walk to your car so as to not draw any suspicion. Once you’re in your car you take your phone out of your purse, but then you realize you’re still in front of the police station and this might not be the best place to Facebook-stalk the person you think might have something to do with all of this, and so you start your car and head to Tybee Island, the twenty-minute drive doing nothing to calm your nerves.

Finishing the coffee you’ve ordered you think back to the past twenty-four hours, because that’s how long it’s been since your life got turned upside down. To the minute. You’ve checked.

Not for the first time it feels like you’ve ended up in a movie, but the fact that you had to stop for gas on your way over here was a perfect reminder that this is still very much real life. No matter how bizarre it seems.

The waitress brings you the bill even though you didn’t ask for it and you’re about to tell her there’s a thing or two about customer service she still has to learn, but then you figure you might as well get back to it, because there are some questions you desperately need answers to.

You try to recall the pictures the Detective showed you and even though you are certain that, even with the knowledge you have now, there’s no one on there you recognize or know from when you were younger, the JS 82 is a dead give-away. It has to be him. But why?

You’ve tried everything but there’s nothing about him on Facebook or Google, even though you aren’t really surprised, because why would there be? You’re sure most criminals would rather avoid social media. Just to be certain you try Josh as well, but also, nothing. That’s not surprising, considering how bad of a state he was in when you last saw him. You wonder if he even is still alive.

You turn your phone over in your hand while you look out over the beach and wonder if you should just swing by his house. Well, his parents’ house. You doubt he still lives there, even though that would make one hell of a headline: ‘Armed robber found living in basement at parents house.’ You can’t help but laugh when you picture the scene of him being arrested, taken from his room in nothing but his boxers.

You shake your head and make up your mind, knowing it will probably lead to nothing anyway, but you just have to know. Maybe he has nothing to do with this and it’s all one big coincidence, but you won’t know until you go there, won’t you?

You’re not sure if actually going to see his mother is a good idea, because what if the police have put a tail on you? You grin then, because you are definitely not important enough to be tailed. Jesus, you’re just a bank teller. Get a life.

Plus, if it really is him, you reason, well, they haven’t been able to catch him until now, so what would your visit change? It seems like the police still don’t have a clue who’s behind all this. You’re assuring yourself it’ll be fine.

Leaving the money needed to pay for your coffee and a little tip on the table, you get up before you grab your purse and head back to your car.

The drive over to his parents’ house doesn’t take long, also because you still know how to get there without your navigation, and are you really surprised it still looks the same as it did sixteen years ago? No, of course not.

You hesitate for a moment before you get out of the car, because if anything this is all just fucked up, but you know if you really start to think things through now you’ll never make it to the door. It takes you a few minutes to pull yourself together but then you’re finally on your way.

Taking a deep breath you ring the bell and it isn’t long before you hear footsteps coming towards the door. You hear the handle being turned and for a moment you wonder if he’ll be on the other side, but then you you see his mother standing in front of you and suddenly there’s this lump in your throat that you try your best to swallow away.

“Oh honey,” she says, her voice as sweet as you remember, her Romanian accent still there somewhere in the background, even after all these years. “He knew you’d stop by. Come on, get inside,” her voice drops then, “don’t want anyone to see you.”

She wraps her arm around your shoulder and closes the door with her left foot, the way she always did and which often got her scolded at by her husband, claiming her shoes left a mark on the door he had to repaint every year.

You let her lead you to the living room where she points to the couch, “Sit.” You obey, of course you do, and watch as she heads towards the kitchen to get you a drink no doubt, but then she seems to think better of it and walks to the bar cart instead, pouring two glasses of Scotch. She hands you one before she sits down next to you, “Cheers.”

“Cheers,” you say, but you notice the way your voice catches in your throat, making it sound like your asking a question. You want nothing more than to have her explain everything to you, but you don’t know how to start and so you just sit there, the sip of Scotch you took burning its way down your throat.

“I really can’t tell you much,” she offers after a while, because like always she knows exactly what you think, “but he wanted me to give you this.” She takes a folded envelope out of her bra, an apologetic smile, “Sorry, honey, had to keep it safe.” She laughs then, “At least it’s warmed up.”

You can’t help but smile too and carefully take the envelope from her, putting it in the side pocket of your bag. That’s for later.

“He also wanted to give you this,” she continues while she takes something out of her purse. It’s a single key, no ring, no marker. She gives it to you, “Pawleys Island. I’m sure you remember the address?”

You nod, because yes, yes you do. You know this will lead you to the last beach house on Atlantic Avenue, where you spent many summer days with him. Happy memories start flooding your mind, but you push them back. For now at least. Maybe tonight you’ll let them in.

His mother puts her free hand on your arm, interrupting your thoughts, and gives it a little squeeze, “I really wish I could tell you more, but he made me promise not to. Plausible deniability, I guess.”

You’re not sure if she’s talking about her or you.

She smiles then, “He’s changed, I mean, that much is obvious, but,” she clears her throat, “the boy we both know and love is still in there somewhere. It’s not all bad. Just,” she squeezes again, “just hear him out, ok?”

You nod, because you don’t trust yourself to speak, tears already threatening to spill from your eyes. Being here, talking to his mother, it takes you back and it reminds you of all the good times you had and you can’t help but wonder what happened. Well, you sort of know what did, but you wonder what got him there and if the dots you are slowly starting to connect are the right ones.

You know what you’re doing is wrong and that you should probably just call Detective Johansson and tell him everything you’ve found out so far, but you just can’t. You want to hear the other side of this story first.

You want to know why your high school sweetheart started robbing banks.

#Sebastian Stan x Reader #Sebastian Stan Imagine #Sebastian Stan fanfic #Things We Lost in the Fire #Harley Sunday x Sebastian Stan

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setoangel01-fanfiction · 4 years

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Sky Blue Eyes

Fandom: Final Fantasy 7

Pairing: Zack x Aerith (Zerith)

Rated: T

Summary: Essentially an AU where Zack is the first person to show Aerith the sky.

Fanfiction.net

A03

Swallowing back her fear was easier said than done.

Aerith Gainsborough's entire life had been spent below the plate; her lovingly coined 'steel sky' a comforting presence that blocked out the terrifying expansion of the endless blue void above. Under the plate signified safety much like the worn security blanket folded neatly underneath her pillow. Her tiny world, the dilapidated church and flourishing garden, was her slice of refuge where nothing could harm her; it was all she had known for the entirety of her life and in all honesty, all she cared to know…

But that was all before him, the boy that fell from the sky.

Zachary Fair literally crashed into her life through the roof of her church in an explosion of rotting beams and dust before landing in the middle of her precious flower garden. It was a fatal fall that would have killed anyone but a SOLDIER, who escaped with nary a scratch. Although a bit skeptical of him at first, his sunny disposition and easy-going smile had her guard lowering and before she realized it, she found herself conversing with this admittedly fascinating stranger.

Within only moments of knowing him, he'd asked her out on a date.

From that instant, she knew this boy would be trouble - this SOLDIER who worked for Shin-Ra (the company solely responsible for destroying so many lives and the planet). If his occupation wasn't troubling enough, her mother continually warned her about these handsome boys who charmed you with pretty words before leaving you hallow. Who lured you in like deadly sirens with disarming smiles to a certain fate of heartbreak and agony when they decided to thoroughly use you before abandoning you. And in same ways, her mother was right - Zack turned out to be all kinds of trouble; horrible and wonderful but easily the best thing that had ever happened to her.

As much as she wanted to disregard the instant draw she had toward him, Zack was persistent and didn't make it easy for her to ignore. Terrified as she was on getting involved with anyone working for Shin-Ra, Aerith asked to see him again regardless.

There was just something about him that drew her in like a moth to a flame.

Perhaps it was the fact that Aerith had never met anyone like him before.

Zack Fair stood over six feet tall, all beautifully smooth sun-kissed Gonganan skin; narrow waist but broad shoulders and thickly muscled arms that could crush her like a twig but showcased nothing but gentleness whenever he touched her. Spiky yet unexpectedly silky obsidian hair, sinfully plush petal soft lips and those eyes… The color of the sky but not scary at all.

It seemed rather unfair how someone so physically attractive could also have such a wonderful personality; but he did. His endless friendly chatter, bewitching charisma, childish yet witty sense of humor, openly flirtatious behavior but with a genuinely kind-hearted personality and presence that had its own gravitational pull - it wasn't long before her supposedly impenetrable barriers came crashing down to mere rubble.

Within only weeks of knowing him, Zack had stolen her heart right out of her chest.

Yet she refused to tell him how she felt because Aerith knew all too well of his previous relationships (he never hid it after all) so she knew she needed to be cautious. Zack had quite a reputation as a ladies' man and had left a long trail of broken hearts (unintentionally, he swears) in his wake. He'd been turning heads the moment he hit puberty and was so unapologetic about his draw to the opposite sex that he'd long since lost count of the women he'd been with. Out of strict precaution, Aerith remained vigilant to guard her heart to keep it intact when whatever novelty she possessed wore off and he eventually left her behind in his stardust.

…But he didn't.

As terrified as Aerith was of allowing him inside of her quiet little world with all his boisterous personality and ridiculously handsome face, Zack stayed.

Two years later, and her heart was no longer in her possession; she acquiesced her desperate grasp on the fragile organ and transferred it to his sword- calloused hands. During that time, Zack had been every first she could ever give to another person and her only hope was if she could somehow be his lasts (and hers as well if she was honest with herself). As they slept intertwined in his sheets, he admitted in hushed, heated whispers against her ear how he'd never felt for anyone what he did for her…and somewhere along the way, she began to believe him.

Time passed, seasons changed and he was the one constant she'd grown to lean on. All of those doubts she harbored toward him, what seemed to be a lifetime ago, crumbled and drifted through her fingers like loose soil from her garden.

The one final barrier between them that he wanted to tear down was one she still fought against. Nearly every conversation drifted toward the fact that he wanted to be the one to show her the sky. The only first she seemed to have left where he was concerned - one she had yet to overcome.

Every time they'd met recently, Zack had begged her to go with him above the plate.

Goading her by building her flower wagons after he convinced her to sell her fragrant wares ('Midgar full of flowers, wallet full of money' he'd say in that pleasant sing-song voice of his), showing her different parts of the sectors of the city she was too timid to explore on her own, slaughtering monsters for the safety of the unfortunate citizens underneath the plate, and visiting her all of the time regardless of his over-packed schedule as a First-Class SOLDIER.

It wasn't without lack of effort, much pouting, and those irresistible puppy dog eyes that Aerith found herself finally agreeing.

And that's how she found herself here.

Dressed in a silken flower-printed pink dress that she swore cost way too much (but Zack bought it for her anyway) and the promise of a romantic dinner at a popular Wutainese restaurant had her finally pushing aside her own fears and going with him above the plate.

Admittedly, It wasn't only his begging that finally had her agreeing; it hit differently when he told her that he was soon leaving on a deployment. His first major assignment in the time she'd known him. Her First Class SOLDIER - her Zack - leaving for a deployment that may mean months (even a year, perhaps even longer) without him around.

As terrified as she was of the sky, she had to do this - for him.

Yet those mindless self-assurances didn't stop her hands from shaking and knotting in the fabric of her dress during the train ride nor kept her knees from wobbling so bad she would have collapsed if it wasn't for the warm, steady hand on her waist when they finally arrived. Zack's casual charm, spoken assurances, obvious joy in his voice and confident spring to his step wasn't even enough for her to look up from her shuffling feet as they continued toward their final destination. The tread of dirt under her boots, the elongated shadows of the train platform still above them diminished abruptly - and suddenly - there was the sun.

The sensation of those harsh powerful rays cascading over her pale skin, warming her in ways she wasn't familiar with aside from the small cracks in the ceiling of her church had her freezing mid-step. Once steady breaths came out in frantic huffs as she forcefully turned her face toward the endless expansion of blue sky muddled by clouds and the circle of penetrating light overhanging.

The panic was instant. It took absolutely everything inside of her not to collapse into a fetal position upon the filthy ground and pray for mercy before the sky sucked her into it's endless abyss.

Hands shaking and shoulders trembling, she was full on ready to start crying in utter terror but before even a whimper could leave her lips, she felt pressure on her waist. There was the sudden sensation of weightlessness as her feet left the stable ground and she was abruptly spinning and flying upwards towards that very same sky - and oh Gaia, this was it! But all of a sudden, she stopped; her stomach lurched with the movement but the abrupt burst of laughter over the pounding in her eardrums had Aerith instinctively turning toward the sound.

That's when she found herself looking down into Zack's handsome smiling face.

Oh. That was new.

The familiar kink in her neck from always having to look up at at his towering frame was now resting quite comfortably below her. And while she typically would never allow this kind of brazen intimacy out in the open, she realized she never wanted him to put her down. Despite the fact she didn't feel the safety of the ground beneath the soles of her boots, the security of his arms admist the terrifying endless sky stabilized her frantic heart in ways she would never quite understand.

Thickly muscled arms a comforting weight around her waist as he held her ever so gently with a fraction of the strength that lugged around a sword as big as himself. Hands that were trembling only moments before were still atop his broad shoulders and mindlessly caressing the woven fabric of his black SOLDIER-issued sleeveless turtleneck. Its woven texture, his handsome face, those incredible eyes, dashing smile and that familiar cross shaped scar on his cheek - Zack had become her safety net in this uncertain world - and within seconds, she calmed.

"Hey," Zack's silken voice filtered through the waning pounding in her ears, "It's alright. I gotcha. Just keep your eyes on me for now until you get used to it. You know I would never, ever, let anything happen to you, right, babe?"

Aerith merely nodded; finally letting out a breath she wasn't aware she'd been holding. Their intimate positions finally registering on her face; soft tummy pressing into his firm chest had butterflies gathering in her sternum and cheeks to burn brightly. Zack's attentions and touch now was nothing compared to the intimacy they'd shared between the sheets of his bed but the fact it was in public had her face flushing regardless; she could now at least blame the sun's heat for the rosiness of her cheeks.

Zack, frustratingly, was loving every second of her predicament.

Unbridled smile and tender hands on her back that weren't spinning her around anymore but the intense fluttering in her chest continued as he beamed up at her; his head tilted just the smallest bit to the side ('Zack the Puppy' indeed). Aerith knew she should get huffy about how he scared her, demand he put her down, to not let him know just how much he affected her but her reddening cheeks and hammering heart were already dead giveaways. Aerith fondly swore the man didn't need a more swollen ego but she wasn't sure if that was even possible anymore - it was rather amazing his head even fit through the door.

"Ready to try looking again?" Zack asked with a smile that she couldn't help but return.

"...Yeah, I think so," she agreed with a coy nod.

Zack chuckled, the vibrations of laughter in his chest brushing pleasantly across her abdomen, "Take your time, it's not going anywhere."

Instead of using the energy to compose a witty reply, Aerith took a moment to take a preparing breath. With one last glance at Zack's encouraging expression, she glanced up into the never-ending sky above their heads. There was absolutely nothing above her; just the expanse of different shades of blue broken up by the cotton clouds, dandelion sun and the breeze gathering through her auburn hair and end trails of her pink ribbon that he'd bought her during their very first date.

Aerith was terrified for only a split second.

The sensation of being sucked into the sky instantly waning upon feeling the comforting brush of Zack's calloused thumbs threading along the ridges of her spine. Her SOLDIER's touch, warmth, and mere existence was grounding enough for her to conquer the fear rising in her chest to nothing but a faint hum. Emerald eyes took in the colors, the air that lacked the Mako-stench overflowing in the slums, the comforting heat of sun rays on her skin; it all felt so…good.

A black bird suddenly streaked through the sky, it's feathered wings soaring into the blue and instead of fear, it looked freeing. Her panic forgotten with the beautiful visuals and the familiar and tender pressure of Zack's arms and warmth encircling her and knowing for certain with him there, nothing could ever hurt her.

This moment right here would be treasured and kept under lock and key deep inside her heart for the days and weeks to follow that she couldn't be with him. Knowing he was leaving soon and just how dangerous his job was, Aerith was finally realizing that these may be some of the last moments she'd ever spend with him and another more terrifying type of fear began abruptly bursting through her defenses.

"So, what's your verdict, babe? It's not so bad, is it?" Zack finally asked, breaking her out of her depressing circle of thoughts.

Aerith turned away from the sky to look back at him.

The sounds of the nearby town, the bustling roads and people faded as she studied her boyfriend's face. Straight white teeth flashing dashingly from his playful smirk, spiky raven hair drifting along an invincible breeze and she could never get over those magnificent eyes who looked at her with nothing but genuine love and affection. Her own love for this incredible man making her feel all the more brave in her response.

Aerith shook her head; timid smile growing on her face when she finally responded, "…With you here, it isn't bad at all."

If it was possible, his smile only grew wider.

There was always so much uncertainty in her life - Zack's upcoming deployment, her fear for his safety and when she could see him again. How her flowers would sell tomorrow and if her mother could afford this month's bills were constant fears - but from the safety of her boyfriend's arms - the only thing Aerith knew for certain was that the beauty of Zack's sapphire eyes easily put the sky to shame.

…not that she'd ever be brave enough to tell him that…

#ffvii #ffvii crisis core #zack fair #aerith gainsborough #zack x aerith #fanfiction #my precious babies #zack is fucking alive #i can't #square enix #hurry up with part 2 #i'm DYING #zerith

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carriemaya · 3 years

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COMING HOME — Healing from Housing Instability

CW: Childhood sexual abuse, parentification, slibling abuse, religious abuse, and PTSD.

INTERGENERATIONAL FAMILY TRAUMA

I grew up with a lot of material privilege: a beautiful home on 2 acres of property, cable TV, ducted heating/cooling, always had food on the table, and went to a private Christian school (even if it was through a bursary programme). I even had singing and piano lessons (and went to performing arts school with Zachary Ruane from Aunty Donna — true story!).

But there was a maelstrom of abuse going on behind closed doors.

What my five siblings and I experienced varied from child to child; a combination of sexual, physical, psychological, and spiritual abuse — from parent to child and sibling to sibling over the course of many years. While the onus for violence, volatility, and religious fundamentalism was on my parents, they were also the facilitators of beautiful moments of genuine care and joy — a toxic dynamic born of traumatised adults who find themselves the parents of little children whose entire world they’re responsible for.

And because our nervous systems remember things that we would choose to forgive and forget, it laid the rocky foundation for the early onset of a plethora of complex mental health issues that I still experience today.

And while my parents weren’t all bad or all good (as is the case with most people), the culture they created or allowed, made way for fractured relationships between my siblings and me — and unfortunately these sibling relationships became the catalyst for my personal ongoing housing instability and a deeper, more chronic experience of psychological damage that years of therapy, self-help books, and spiritual healing sessions haven’t been able to heal.

My siblings were traumatised by the person I was growing up. I was parentified from a young age and stepped into the mother role. At around 10 years old, my parents forced me to physically discipline my siblings. But I had the head and heart of a child which meant that I wielded power with all the wisdom and responsibility of, well, a child.

It caused lots of damage because I was the scary one in their eyes (not my parents) which set me up to be alienated from my siblings pretty much from the get go. I could be awful to them. But I also loved them and simultaneously felt responsible for protecting them against my parents. I look back at the moments born of these confusing dynamics and I can pinpoint them as the place in my life where my personality started to fragment.

When it came to trying to protect myself, my siblings, or to reason with my parents, I yelled. A lot. My voice was the only weapon I had to use against their size, age, fellow adult allies, and economic power.

I thought that by yelling I could get through to them — to help them wake them up and see how much their kids were suffering because of their behaviour. I didn’t learn until I was an adult that my brothers and sisters resented me for this as they wished I had just been quiet. The toxic culture in my family was normalised and my railing against it was seen as the cause of our household drama.

I was Crazy Carrie. The mentally ill one who yells a lot.

While experiencing abuse from my parents, I also abused my siblings.Thankfully, they weren’t subjected to the same kind of treatment I received from my parents as the eldest child. But unfortunately because of that, it meant they weren’t privy to the ways I was being tormented behind the scenes into becoming the kind of child I was. They remember me as an abuser. And why wouldn’t they? And as an adult with space and time between us, I can also accept that their feelings and opinions about me are valid.

But the thing that breaks my heart is that they don’t seem to remember the good things I tried to do for our family — or sacrifices I made. Like when I dropped out of high school in my final year to cook, clean, and be their emotional support because my father forced my mum to go work outside of the home full time. It was my dream to be the first person in our family to finish high school. B that honour went to my brother. I’m proud of him and glad he got to do it. Yet at the same time, it feels as though the things I tried to do right count for nothing.

And I guess that’s the complex nature of intergenerational family trauma.

Everyone’s a victim and no one comes out unscathed.

THE BEGINNING OF HOUSING INSECURITY

When I was 18, my father was eventually removed by The Department of Human Services.

And we turned to a church for hope and support. We were then exploited and abused for 6 years. You can listen to that story in full detail here.

[TLDL version: inappropriate touching of me and my siblings by church leadership, encircled by a group of church members in a prayer meeting and forced to take communion while crying and choking on breadsticks and cranberry juice, the pastor putting wedges in between children and their parents so she could be their mother).

My siblings and I had explosive relationships before going to the church. But after what we experienced at the hands of our former pastor, the dysfunction and dissension multiplied 50xfold. They became toxic and so did I. Our home, post-church, became a cocktail of trauma, brainwashing, and siblings hurting siblings.

Upon leaving that church, I became aware of how toxic I had been in so many ways. I started apologising to everyone in my family as soon as I became conscious of it. I still wanted to hold onto my faith and I wanted to process what we’d been through so that we could heal.

Unfortunately, the siblings I have had the most conflict with over the years — and I — had such deeply opposing perceptions about our behaviour toward each other.We all have contrasting feelings about who should be taking responsibility for what. Or what had transpired between us over the years and what hadn’t.

They told me that I was selfish for wanting to talk about what happened and that if I truly wanted to move on, I would just do it. I felt constantly shut down and dismissed by them — just as I had with my parents growing up when all I wanted to do was to connect by bringing things out in the open for two-way, exploratory conversation.

In conjunction with this, because of how much shame and self-hatred I had for the way I had been growing up (and who I’d become at church), I believed that even if I felt hurt by their behaviour now, that I should allow them to treat me however they want because maybe that’s what they need to do to heal.

But no matter how much I apologised or tried to change, it felt that they were committed to misunderstanding me because they wanted me to hurt as much as I’d hurt them. Which I understand because their pain and trauma needs a voice. And because I was the cause of so much of it, their frustration and anger landed squarely back on to me.

I guess they just didn’t realise how much I had been hurting, too.

This eventually led to me going into fawning mode. And I was eventually forced to leave home because of the bullying that I experienced at their hands. I felt really betrayed by my mum who allowed certain things to happen without standing up for me, a feeling which triggered painful emotions associated with the way she singled me out for abuse as a child.

When I finally left home, I told her that I wanted nothing more to do with her. And that if she ever wanted a relationship with me again she’d have to earn it.

Note: I’m sure you understand that I can’t share everything about my family in detail. This blog entry is actually a redraft of a much longer, much more explicit, piece that explains all the awful things I did to my siblings and all the awful things they’ve done to me. We’re all adults now. And at this stage we’ve all traumatised each other. It’s unfair. And it sucks for every single person involved.

When you are driven out of your housing by personal circumstances or through danger to your person, it’s a complete upheaval. Personally it was utterly jarring when my family situation led to me needing to leave before I was ready. Especially when it was catlysed by the dismissal of me and my survival needs in preference for another sibling who was causing literal damage to our house (among other things).

Once I’d moved out, I crashed. A sort of emotional paralysis took over.

And I’ve carried that paralysis and accompanying dissociation with me for the last 7 years. Every move bringing it to the surface and causing me to plummet into the self-hatred and fear associated with being driven out of my home in the first place.

Anyone who’s rented knows that good housing situations are the luck of the draw.

Throughout all the moves I’ve made in the last decade, some have been a dream: like Jake and Beth who were fellow live-in mentors to an at-risk young person for the Vista Lead Tenant Program where we had beautiful chats about faith, doubt, politics, and played Jackbox TV games. Like the international sharehouse where I learnt Farsi from Reza and Shohra — an Iranian immigrant couple who didn’t even have a mattress to sleep on but would invite me to eat almonds on the blanket they had laid out on their bedroom floor.

The majority of them, though, have been utter nightmares.

Like the one where I was being stalked by a neighbour in the unit behind mine. When I told her to back off, she retaliated by making a false report to the police — saying that she was fearful for the lives of her fiance, her pets, and herself. I was taken to court and the mediator saw through her straight away. Thankfully, he was incredible and encouraged me to file for a cross-order/ intervention order so that she didn’t just have one against me. Which would give me some measure of protection against her if she wanted to start making trouble for me. I agreed. That SAME day, she breached it and came right up to my bedroom window and started looking around my unit.

Another time, I moved in with a man whose Gumtree ad I responded to out of desperation for a place to stay. Then after a week, he told me that I wasn’t allowed to file for rental assistance from Centrelink because it would cut into his welfare benefits. I agreed because I needed a roof over my head. And it also didn’t take long to learn that he was an alcoholic who stayed up all night listening to the radio up to 11 and I found myself unable to sleep.

And finally, the nightmare of my most recent living situation up until two months ago. I lived next door to two meth addicts. Let’s call them Tarzan and Jane.

They were good enough neigbours until COVID-19 hit. I think it’s because they used to party at other peoples’ places before restrictions were implemented but couldn’t anymore.

The drugs, the psychosis, the cackling-witchy ramblings of Jane, and waking up to her yelling in the street early morning after early morning

One time, they had a 17-hour bender.

He groaned in this deep, demonic sounding voice for 40 minutes. She began to tell herself a story. At 4am, Tarzan stood at my bedroom wall shouting, “Fuck off, poofter” for 15 minutes. I dragged my mattress into the lounge and closed the door while they continued to party hard to loud music for a further 7 hours.

I spent most of 2020 sleeping in my living room because I was so scared. It triggered PTSD episodes for me on a daily basis.

Then Jane passed away from an overdose.

The woman from across the street (we’ll call her Julie), started coming over to visit Tarzan all the time. He started putting up a fence without permission from the landlord. I felt like reporting him at first, but decided to leave it alone.

And one of these days that she came over to visit Tarzan, I hear Julie start yelling about me through the wall. It wasn’t just about her being a bitch. She was another loud, rude, scary person disturbing my right to a peaceful home and I decided enough was enough.

I decided to confront them.

I grabbed my phone because I knew that if they reacted badly without video evidence of their actions towards me, nothing could be enforced by the authorities.

I’m glad I thought that far ahead because Julie physically assaulted me, snatched my phone away, and then smashed it on the ground. It turned out Tarzan had received a breach of lease notification from the real estate agency for the unapproved fence and thought I had reported him.

Because the attack was caught on camera, when the police arrived and saw the footage and damages, they arrested her and charged her with unlawful assault.there anymore. But that was it. I couldn’t stay there anymore.

The physical attack by my neighbor was just the beginning of a series of injuries that would also take their toll on my well being.

At the end of October last year, just after the assault, my friend Tash graciously offered her home to me while she and her husband lived in Melbourne short-term for his cancer treatment. In exchange for looking after her cats, I received rent-free, bill-free accommodation while I looked for a new place.

I needed a safe place to recover and roll out the first session of my online coaching programme Mother Mary Speaks, so I promptly moved into Tash’s and was able to run my first session.

One week passes, I’m working at my desk, and I get up to move around a bit because my legs have fallen asleep — my ankle crushes beneath me. I rolled it and couldn’t get up.

I ended up in hospital with ligament damage.

So there I was, living in interim housing, $300 in my savings, a cat in tow, unsure of how I’m going to afford a new place and whether I’ll be accepted by a real estate agency even if I can (because I am self-employed and don’t yet have a livable wage/ am still receiving Centrelink benefits). And now I can’t walk. Oh, and I’m running a 6-week programme where people need me to hold space for them.

And each day I’m without a home, I’m cripped more and more by PTSD associated with housing and family.

THE CONSEQUENCES OF CONSTANTLY MOVING FOR 7 YEARS

Moving is expensive.

Like really expensive.

Transporting furniture and possessions is really pricey if you hire a professional. And honestly I’ve never been able to afford it. Which has also been really hard as someone who doesn’t drive due to having seizures since she was in her teens.

The stress of having to coordinate help when your former pastor made you believe that anything you express needing help with makes you a selfish taker of resources — someone who is unworthy of their faith for not putting it in God’s hands only. The anxiety and shame from those past conversations and beliefs about myself are almost unbearable at times.

Then there’s the cost of bond and first month’s rent. And all the utility connection costs that can really add up depending on how old a property is or what kinds of outlets and wiring a place has installed.

During the last 7 years, I managed to support myself financially for nearly 2 whole years with a livable wage. Because the work was flexible and online, it meant that I could work around the PTSD episodes and manage the effects of my Borderline Personality Disorder (like chronic self-harm urges, sui* ideation, and anxiety/ depression). More recently in 2019, I was casually unemployed for about 5 months and then COVID-19 hit and the work fell through.

I have been building a business using my life experience, professional experience, spiritual gifts, and a combination of small wages and welfare payments.

So one doesn’t have much savings or proof of income in these situations. I’ve had to borrow money more times than I can count to make sure I have a roof over my head. And I’m one of the lucky ones who has someone to help me in these situations.

Then there’s the deep-seated uncertainty that comes with constant unwanted relocations. Each move has felt like a deeper, harder blow to the foundations of my stability.

I’ve tried everything to ground myself and make myself feel safe over the years — and thankfully I’ve found many tools to make life more bearable.

And while I’m able to cognitively understand that renting is the reality for so many of us (and that in this day and age, home ownership is a privilege that fewer and fewer people are able to afford), my body and all my emotions have been ever filled with anxious anticipation that life is just about to be pulled out from under me.

The same question arises with each new property, “ What if this was how it’s going to be for the rest of my life? And what if it’s going to continue happening in really dramatic ways like being assaulted or taken to court? What if my life is a never-ending cycle of mental illness, trauma, and housing crisis? Will I ever get a chance at stability? A chance to build something sustainable beyond survival?”

THE END OF HOUSING INSTABILITY

Years ago, when mum began making amends for the ways in which she didn’t come through for me when my siblings bullied me out of home, she apologised to me as much as was humanly possible.

And while the journey toward reconciliation was far from smooth sailing, each year has seen our relationship blossom and grow. She has spent the last 7 years since earning my trust back. She hasn’t just said sorry. She’s made recompense where possible.

She has helped me with transport, paying rent, bills, bonds, moving costs, and has been an incredible rock of strength when I’m experiencing extreme mental illness symptoms. No one understands me or holds space for me with the love and strength that my mama does.

I’m open with her about the fact that I’m writing this article. I’m a writer, I need speak my truth. And the cost-benefit analysis of sharing the story of our healed relationship comes out as a choice with lots of benefits. I also want to say that I don’t just forgive her. I adore her. She is actually my most favourite person in the world and I can’t imagine my life without her. She even told me last year that she has left her house to me in her will because she wants to make sure I’m taken care of when she’s gone.

I’ve come to learn the ways in which her life was shaped by family trauma and abuse. And how that flowed down into our family unit.

She’s had her world destroyed over and over again. And I couldn’t see that when I was younger because all I could think about was that I needed her — in the ways a young child needs their parent.

But as I’ve grown older, I look at her with so much gratitude and compassion.

Because being an adult is hard. And life is mostly hard. And being an adult, with trauma, when you have children must feel insurmountable. Yet she never gives up. She never stops. She keeps coming back to our relationship to be the mum I need.

And this is exactly what she did when I got ligament damage at Tash’s house.

She moved in with me and took care of me every day for two months. While also working during the day from the office (because of COVID-19). It’s been a beautiful time of bonding.

During this time, though, she’s watched me struggle immensely. Because of inaccessible housing opportunity after inaccessible housing opportunity. The houses that are affordable are high-risk for dangerous neighbours and my mental health couldn’t handle another attack. And even they are so expensive that I couldn’t rent them.

Then on top of this, the rental market in Gippsland isn’t what it used to be. People from Melbourne have fled here in droves to escape catching COVID-19. bUT Their relocating and renting out all the properties with their big city incomes means that there’s hardly anything here for the locals who fall within the lower socio-economic bracket.

Time to leave Tash’s home was coming to an end and I had nowhere to turn. I ultimately secured the last affordable caravan in Gippsland and was going to live on mum’s front lawn. But then one day, about two weeks ago, she comes back to Tash’s after being out for the night and says she has some news.

She tells me that she is giving me her house.

Yeah.

Not the house I lived in with her and my siblings 7 years ago. She’s since moved into a home that I’ve never lived in.

She’s been in Gippsland for over 30 years. She’s originally from Melbourne way, and she’d like to do a bit of a homecoming of her own. Because she loves all six of her children and can’t fix all our divided relationships, outside of her working hours, she wants to be a wandering mama.

She’s decided to keep one room in her house for when she lives with me, and then she’ll be renting a place with one of my sisters who has been needing to move to Melbourne for her job (as commuting so far was exhausting her). And I get to start decorating it exactly how I’d like as though I already own it.

It’s going to be my forever home. From now until I inherit it (which will hopefully not be for decades to come). And then from when I inherit it until I decide to sell it (or not).

I’m a little shocked. The symbolism of this beautiful, full-circle and healing gesture is not lost of me.

Thankfully my siblings are pretty high-functioning people who have material stability and are building the lives they want. And I’m really glad for them. Even if I don’t have relationships with most of them. I want to see them grow and prosper. And receiving this generous gift from my mum is her way of taking care of me and ensuring I keep growing and prospering, too.

It’s the proof I didn’t know I needed that I am as loved as my siblings.

HOUSING PRIVILEGE

Some of us choose the nomadic life.

Some of us buy or build our own homes.

Some of us are living from rental to rental knowing that we’ll never be able to break the cycle.

And even worse still are those of us who end up on the streets because they can’t afford any of the above.

I can’t speak for everyone, but experiencing both homelessness and unrelenting housing instability drove me to the brink of madness. That’s not an expression. I mean, as much as I’ve healed myself in so many ways over the years, I was starting to lose my mind after living through these consecutive housing traumas.

I don’t care what anyone says: people don’t need to just learn how to make their bodies their homes and learn to make themselves feel safe. That’s New Age bullshit. The reality is that just like children need shelter and stability from their parents when they’re growing up. All people need shelter and housing security that isn’t going to be taken from them. They need to know they are loved and safe, and having a home helps ensure that. There are only so many grounding techniques, meditations, and reframes that one can do before the instability of housing insecurity hits sends you spiraling mentally

Coping every now and then isn’t flourishing.

Never having a solid, unmoving homebase to trust in so that a person can build their life financially and relationally is common but not normal. Or healthy. Or okay.

I’m 32 now and I work hard on my mental health. I have taken radical self-responsibility for my life and the direction it’s going.

But no matter how hard I work or try, I can’t hustle my way out of complex mental health issues that affect my ability to work in a mainstream job (and thusly earn the money that I need to live a comfortable life). I’ll never stop trying to build a degree of wealth that can help me make ends meet. But I will NEVER AGAIN shame myself for not being able to pull myself up by my bootstraps and climb my way up the socio-economic ladder.

The capitalist narrative that we live in a meritocracy where all you have to do is work hard and you can get everything you want is a lie.

The capacity to work varies from person to person. And this isn’t just in relation to physical disability but disabling mental health experiences.

I’ve struggled for 7 year up until yesterday, and all of a sudden I’m someone with housing privilege. I didn’t earn this home. It was a gift from my mum.

But don’t I deserve it? Doesn’t everyone deserve this?

I say a hearty yes.

And yet, it feels bizarre because I don’t know myself as a person who isn’t struggling to survive.

I know it’s going to require a LOT of unpacking. My identity needs to evolve so that I can adapt to this move.

WHAT NOW?

My body still holds a lot of fear around what some of my family can do to me. And moving into this home feels a little bit scary because of it. I asked my mum if she’d agreed to signing a written agreement with me. Something to support my right to be in this home if toxic sibling relationships bleed over into my housing situation again. She is the best. I can’t celebrate her enough for going the extra mile here to prove that she loves me and wants what is best for me.

Because of the familiar instability story, I’m feeling scared to trust that I have a home or won’t be driven out of this house, too.

But I’m choosing to put faith in my mum now. And in the 50% possibility that this situation can work out really, really well.

I get to return “home” and give myself the parenting I never had.

And I’m devoting 2021 to figuring out what this means. Integrating it and working through the painful associations with it.

Fulfilling little dreams like: the joy of being allowed to put pictures up on the wall, creating Pinterest boards for each of the rooms in my new home, watching Workaholics with the sibling I still have a relationship with, and feeling peace because I know my cat can call it his forever home, too.

Adapting to the fulfilment of bigger dreams like: freedom from landlords and real estate agents, and knowing that I can finally put down roots.

Where the repeated upheaval of my life was a constant trigger related to feeling unloved by my siblings and mother, it’s being replaced with a home that represents my mum’s love for me; a testament to relationships that are worth fighting for, parents who are people with their own stories and need a chance to be seen in their humanity, and children who never stop needing to know that they are loved.

Follow me on Instagram: @heycarriemaya

#home #homeless #homelessness #ptsd #mentalillness #mentalhealth #toxicfamily

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