#i spent an unspeakable amount of time working on this over the weekend

[roqueamadi]

Wrecked

Sharper fanvid (the lyrics are important - play with sound!)

Description and short companion follow-on on AO3

Wrecked: Imagine Dragons

Vid storyline commentary under the cut :)

Richard said goodbye to Pat at the battle of Waterloo. Since then, his partner Lucille has passed away and he has not been doing so well. Days pass by and my eyes stay dry, and I think that I'm okay 'Til I find myself in conversation, fading away Wellington summoned Richard to ask him to take on an assignment to India. Richard refuses until he learns that the assignment involves tracking down Pat, who is missing and believed dead. He agrees to take on the job, but finds many old memories are dredged up of his past close friendship with Pat. The way you smile, the way you walk The time you took to teach me all that you had taught Tell me, how am I supposed to move on? Richard had been in love with Pat for years but he had never managed to summon the courage to tell him how he really felt. He thought that Pat would have no interest in him, and besides, he is married to Ramona—and yet, Richard hasn't been able to move on. These days I'm becoming everything that I hate Wishing you were around but now it's too late My mind is a place that I can't escape your ghost Sometimes I wish that I could wish it all away One more rainy day without you Sometimes I wish that I could see you one more day One more rainy day Richard travels to India but finds he doesn't feel very comfortable acting as a high-ranking British agent in a country where Britain doesn't belong. He just wants to find Pat, and he is plagued by memories of their past adventures.

Oh, I'm a wreck without you here Yeah, I'm a wreck since you've been gone Richard finds he can't fight as well without Pat by his side. He is almost killed in an ambush when, finally, Pat shows up, alive and well. I've tried to put this all behind me I think I was wrecked all along Yeah, I'm a wreck They say that the time will heal it, the pain will go away But everything, it reminds me of you and it comes in waves Way you laugh when your shoulders shook The time you took to teach me all that you had taught Tell me, how am I supposed to move on? Richard finds that between his grief and loneliness and repressed feelings, he can barely manage to hold himself together around Pat. He knows he is acting erratically and is highly volatile, but he can't bring himself to tell Pat how he feels. He continues to reminisce about their past. These days I'm becoming everything that I hate Wishing you were around but now it's too late My mind is a place that I can't escape your ghost Sometimes I wish that I could wish it all away One more rainy day without you Sometimes I wish that I could see you one more day One more rainy day They continue the mission by going undercover into the enemy fort as deserters. The General plays a trick on Richard, making him shoot Pat to prove his loyalty. Richard, panicking, is assaulted with a flood of memories as he lines up the sight. Oh, I'm a wreck without you here Yeah, I'm a wreck since you've been gone I've tried to put this all behind me I think I was wrecked all along The trick nearly causes Richard to break down completely, but he realises at the last second that the powder is bad, so he pulls the trigger knowing it won't fire. When Pat questions him later, Richard acts nonchalant, because he knows if he tells Pat how scared he truly was, everything else would come out with it. Pat is acting a bit strangely around Richard, including helping him to bed in a way that involves far more touching than strictly necessary. Despite this, Richard feels that although Pat is physically here, he's not really, because they are so at odds, and Richard's erratic behaviour is getting worse. These days when I'm on the brink of the edge Remember the words that you said Remember the life you led You'd say, "Oh, suck it all up, don't get stuck in the mud Thinkin' of things that you should have done" I'll see you again, my loved one I'll see you again, my loved one Yeah, I'm a wreck I'll see you again, my loved one Yeah, I'm a wreck without you here (loved one) Yeah, I'm a wreck since you've been gone (I'm a wreck since you've been gone) I've tried to put this all behind me I think I was wrecked all along (I'm a wreck) Yeah, I'm a wreck Richard gets into a fight and Pat stands on the sidelines, telling him not to take it too far. When Richard is injured in the fight, Pat patches him up afterwards, and Richard is reminded of the many, many times Pat has patched him up and taken care of him in the past. They are captured and beaten, then manage to escape, and everything reminds Richard strongly of how much he has always relied on Pat. Sometimes I wish that I could wish it all away but I can't One more rainy day without you (one more rainy day) Sometimes I wish that I could see you one more day but I can't One more rainy day Pat is injured in the battle, and the panic that he might lose him finally gives Richard the courage he needs to tell Pat how he feels.

[noncanonlove]

Saturdays

Written for @quintalon​ for the prompt she submitted for my 2k Tumblr Posts Celebration. The prompt: “So, my family thinks we’re dating.” I hope you enjoy it darling! <3<3<3<3<3

Hermione Granger detested her boss, Thaddeus Oleander, with every last fiber of her being. Ever since she’d been awarded her position as an Unspeakable the man hadn’t failed to make sure she understood he’d only hired her because of antidiscrimination policy and he’d had both too few Muggleborns and women on his payroll. It was an unspoken understanding between the two of them that his feelings wouldn’t be hurt if she quit, despite how it would land him in the same predicament as before. She was willing to gamble he’d pinned his hopes on having someone meeker to intimidate the next time.

He’d done a plethora of small things to chip away at her. Gave her dead end projects, made sure she had to work most Saturdays and even some Sundays, but the biggest, most glaring thing had been pairing her with Draco Malfoy. Rumor had it that he was equally displeased about having the former Death Eater on staff, so it made sense to pair two former adversaries in an attempt to encourage one or both of them to quit.

She’d anticipated sneers, slurs, an adamant refusal to work with her, or other nastier things she knew him to be capable of. Instead, she’d gained an intelligent, thoughtful partner. He was often quiet unless they’d found something significant to help them on their project, then they could spend hours discussing theories, hashing out details, and chasing down leads. After a while they’d developed a level of comfort that they could bicker with one another on occasion without the shadow of hate from the past hanging heavy over them.

Of course, the apology he’d pulled her aside to give after their first week of dancing around another had done wonders once she’d seen he was sincere.

Stubborn by nature, they’d made a pact that the old stodger wouldn’t run them out of the jobs they’d earned. Even if that meant staying late, working weekends, and running around the UK to chase down leads and examine magical phenomena. Their current project was finding the ways and means of how magic rich areas come into existence and then how to redirect, gather, or disperse the magical energies. Often the fallout of magic would gather after a large battle or magical ritual. Stonehenge, for example, was rife with residual, raw magic from millennia of ritual magics having been performed there.

However, there were many places in the more remote sections of the countryside that had been reported. Often because the raw magical energy attracted certain magical beasts, which in turn became an issue in regards to the International Statute of Secrecy. Muggles had a tendency to turn up making wild claims to friends, family, and especially on the Internet.

It had become a problem for the entirety of the Ministry, but especially so for Draco and Hermione. Thaddeus had hefted the project on both of them and told them to solve it or forget being employed.

After three months of working nearly every day of the week, they were so close to an answer. She could feel it, hovering on the periphery of her current understanding. If she found even a thread, they’d be able to unravel it and then move into the solution phase of the project.

She’d been so sure they’d be able to solve it today and get at least one day off as a reprieve. However, Malfoy had been acting strange all day. She’d gotten the sense throughout the day that he’d been staring at her, yet when she would look up he would be staring at a book or scroll, his brow tightly furrowed. More than once, he’d opened his mouth to say something before changing his mind and either scurrying off under the guise of getting more materials or clamming up altogether.

It was as if she could tell when he was working himself up again and she resolutely stared at the book she was bent over, determined not spook him this time. He sucked in a breath, held it for a few seconds, then let it out in a whoosh.

“Granger.”

“Hm?” She kept her tone light, as if she were expecting to hear a postulation from him.

“So, my family thinks we’re dating.”

She straightened and swiveled her head to look at him, eyes wide. “What?”

He let out a sigh through his nose, cheeks pink. “Mother and Father think we’re dating.”

“Why?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because I’ve been spending nearly every waking minute working, eating, or traveling the countryside with you since we’ve been partnered. Especially over the last few months. They don’t think I’d ever be so serious about this position with the time investment and a boss I despise, so the only thing they can rationalize is that we’re secretly dating and I’m using work as an excuse to run amok with you.”

It was quite true that they spent copious amounts of time together and often got lunch or dinner together, but as friends and colleagues.“Ok, well, we both know it isn’t true, so why are you telling me this?”

“Because, Mother wants to invite you for tea somewhere to officially meet you.” He produced a sealed scroll from his robes and set it over in front of her. An official invitation from Narcissa.

Her head jerked back and her brows shot up towards her hairline. “I could just decline?”

He shook his head. “Mother is convinced and there’s nothing that will stop her.”

“Where does she want to meet?”

“I’ve no idea and she won’t say. Probably afraid I’ll crash your little get together. She cursed the invitation against me so I can’t open it without severe repercussions.” His pout indicated Narcissa was justified in that concern.

“Your mother and I have nothing in common though. It’d be one huge awkward affair where I try to convince her that we’re only colleagues.” She hadn’t felt this flustered in ages.

He was quiet for a beat too long, and she peeked over to find him moistening his lips as he worked up the courage to say whatever else he’d been thinking about all day.

“What if we were?”

“Dating? You’re proposing we actually date?”

He crossed his arms and slunk down in his chair. “Am I so repugnant you see it as an inconceivable notion?” His eyes tightened at the corners and she knew she’d hurt him.

“Not at all, you’ve just caught me off guard.” An understatement, to say the least. She felt like she’d stumbled into an alternate dimension.

“Would you be willing to give it a go?” His eyes had brightened infinitesimally and he’d straightened back up. He looked strangely hopeful.

How long had he been thinking about this? Did his parents really think they were dating or was it some silly excuse he was using to segue into asking her out?

Did it really matter?

Besides, it wasn’t like this endeavor hadn’t taught her how well-matched they were, how well they complimented one another when they weren’t butting heads over something or other, and sometimes even then. She wasn’t blind to his beauty, grace, manners, or most importantly, his intelligence. His mind was a thing of beauty in and of itself. More than once she’d caught herself admiring his high cheekbones, smooth pale skin, or his soft-looking lips.

“Yes.”

A smile broke out across his lips and she was stunned. She’d seen him grin, smirk, and simper. But actual smiles from him were more of a rarity.

He stood and took the few steps around the corner of the table until he was standing next to her. Snagging her hand, he pulled her to standing, then cupped her jaw with a gentleness she’d only seen him use with delicate things, precious things. How long had he wanted this?

He moistened his lips again as his gaze flicked between her lips and her eyes, giving her time to back away before he leaned down and pressed his warm, soft mouth against hers. Her arms slid up around his neck as his free arm snaked around her waist to press them together. Hermione felt a supreme sense of rightness, something like finding home.

[feathery-dreamer]

the (likely) reasons i am a wreck

I keep going back and forth between considering myself the most worthless burden in human history and feeling damn proud of the extraordinary things I’ve been through.

I think the main issue is, young people are expected to have done everything and be willing to give away their own wants for society/family/money/whatevs. Anything and everything we do for someone else, is taken for granted; anything and everything we ever think of doing for outselves, is selfish and outrageous.

It was even worse in my case, with a largely autistic older sister. Almost as soon as I was able to walk and speak, I was expected to function as a “big guy” - while being treated as a “baby” in other respects. Displayed as swoon material, grabbed painfully for “affection”, shown off by my sister as “tiny baby bro”. All the while doing household chores and other legwork (parents, sister, uncle, even guests I didn’t know), entirely for free. (That’s on top of all the usual children’s troubles with adults, which you’re probably all familiar with. You know - “you need to talk about your problems” until your problem is with them, your issues are mocked as you struggle to find words to describe them...)

Later on, bitter people kept saying “everyone does this, everyone suffers that” to dismiss the rare complaints or boasts I dared make. That, and crippling memory issues, forced me to forget the most unusual things in my life.

Hence I constantly forget how special I really am, and I don’t mean that in a “we’re all special snowflakes” kind of way. There are many circumstances to my life which, looking at other people’s stories, I’m positive only a handful of people on Earth even heard of.

- No, everyone does NOT have “sibling rivalry”... certainly not one where they grow up babying an older sibling who abuses them with impunity. She’s physically assaulted me, and done other unspeakable shit, to get her frustrations off. The rest of the time, I watched her make my mother cry on a regular basis. I saw this creature get away with manipulative behavior, and took charge to keep her in line while the grownups were away. Over time, I too began making excuses for her; couldn’t even name her behavior as harassment/bullying/abuse.

- No, everyone does NOT do legwork for family... definitely not to replace the older sibling‘s lack of work. I was probably given twice the normal amount of chores to cover for my sister’s lack of interest/comprehension. If I ever said no for any reason other than my physical health, I was chided and reminded to “make myself useful”. All while being called a baby, and having my complaints laughed at, just like any other infant.

- No, everyone does NOT learn a foreign language thoroughly as I did. It’s quite rare to send your primary-school kid to a weekend course for, what, two years? It’s also rare, for a child at that age, to go to a French-speaking school for two years and then move to France. This is how I came to be (at the risk of sounding cliché) top of my class in that subject, and in English after we moved.

- No, everyone does NOT have a hard-working father. Mine is, in fact, very enterprising and hardheaded when it comes to subjects that interest him. He was purposedly called to France to work there, at one of the shiny central workplaces of the firm he worked for. I don’t know how many Turkish engineers have that kind of reputation.

- No, everyone does NOT have birthday parties. Particularly one organized by school staff, on the last year you lived in your home country. It actually made me cry in happiness, and trust me I’m rarely even happy enough to laugh. I still can’t believe I forgot one of the most beautiful days of my life, until I rediscovered the trilingual birthday cards they gave me.

- No, everyone does NOT go study abroad. I didn’t even just "go study abroad”. I literally went to live in a culture practically opposite to the one in my childhood. One where people hated my entire nation with blood-boiling passion, in a private school full of snobs.

- No, everyone does NOT “get picked on at school”, or experience the issues I’ve faced during adolescence. Being bullied and hormones are one thing; but I also had to adapt to a complete 180° cultural turn + abusive sister. Things woulda been agitated enough if I’d stayed home, and I spent it among children who hated my kind. That’s on top of all the news about corruption and terrorism and other horrors, coming together to plague my home country.

- Everyone does NOT take a theoretical aviation course in middle school, and then enter a nationwide test for it. Our teacher was a real pilot, and he actually included Cessna planes (I forgot the type) since there’d be practical training as follow-up. My group continued these lessons while the other kids had their first traineeships; that shoulda tipped me off about its importance. Thing is, the first attempt, the entire group failed; then we had catch-up lessons, and the second session’s date was approaching. My invite arrived on the exam’s day so I couldn’t notify the school in advance; the principal herself came to tell me it was okay to go, but I insisted on staying cause I was a sickler for regulation. I really hate myself for being so short-sighted, because that was something so casual to me back then, I didn’t even remember it.

- Everyone does NOT pass their bachelor’s exam, and with honours at that. Certainly not in a prestigious private high school, and definitely not with all the added cultural and familial struggles.

- Everyone does NOT go abroad to do traineeships, and find new research topics in the process. In fact, the great majority of students at my university trained either on-campus, or with one of the partners conveniently listed on the website. The few who actually left France, went to Québec to train in a French-speaking environment; and those were still partner teams. Meanwhile I landed two traineeships without any campus involvement, first in my native country (family helped me get that) and then in Ontario. During the latter I saw a conference, and from there arranged my third traineeship in Sweden. That last one, among the three, was the only compulsory traineeship I ever did; the rest was entirely my own doing.

[lesserplaces]

Last weekend I went dove hunting.

It was the first time out for my new shotgun, a lovely Weatherby Orion I stocked with with a particularly good piece of wood. I find pass shooting doves as they come into roost a pretty boring affair, so I tend to hunt on foot, treating the doves as smaller, more nimble quail. Shots are close but but snappy and bring the sport back into what can be a pretty sport-less activity.

Storms were rolling in fast and I knew that there wouldn’t be time to walk to the area I had planned. Instead picked out a small area that appeared to be slightly more riparian along the way and started busting through the bushes. Within a moment I heard a flush, raised the shotgun, and after a boom I smiled. The Weatherby had gone one for one and the gun was not cursed.

I wish I could say the same for my Orvis Helios 3D.

When I bought the H3 I was excited. This was my graduation present for finishing my PhD and the first truly top tier rod I had ever purchased. I compared the 3F and 3D at my local, and beloved, Orvis dealer and within two casts I knew the 3D, particularly in the 9 ft 4 wt guise, was the one for me.

I was in love. Completely and totally enamoured. The rod matched my casting stroke perfectly. It shot tons of line but still had the feel of a 4 wt. It was beautifully crafted, with perfect cork and an extremely noticible white section along the blank that spoke directly to the part of my soul that loves Instagram likes. I was young and in love and even bought the matching blue Mirage reel because people who are young and in love do stupid things. That night images of long casts, big fish, and crippling credit card statements danced in my head. I was happy.

My first trip out didn’t go so well. I say this as a compliment, but the H3 had a way of rewarding you for making good casts and punishing you for making bad ones. It is hard to describe, but think about it this way: with some of my other rods I can make a bad cast, get upset about where it lands, make the exact same cast, and have the fly end up in a different, maybe better, place because the rod isn’t very precise. In short, I can cheat. That isn’t the case with the H3. If you make the same cast twice the fly is going to the same place twice, whether you like it or not. Make a good cast and this is wonderful. Repeat a bad cast and get ready to take a hit to your self-esteem. In general I’m not a big believer in marketing hype, but to this rod’s immense credit its accuracy has improved my stroke.

Because I was a worse caster than I knew, I spent a lot more time on my first trip cleaning up my bad habits than fishing. I managed to avoid catching any fish, but I did run into this excellently designed erosion control feature.

At this point I was disappointed but not stressed. Yes, I wanted to catch a fish on the first trip with the rod, but certainly this was not a portent of things to come. Next up was casing Apache Trout on the LCR.

Skunked. Then some rainbows at Lee’s Ferry.

Skunked. Then some browns in Chevelon Creek.

Skunked. There was even a trip to Canyon Creek where I got so skunked and so upset with myself that I didn’t take a single picture. Going into last summer I hadn’t been skunked for years and all the sudden I couldn’t catch anything.

And that’s when the thought first crept into my mind: the H3 is cursed.

As summer rolled around it came time to pick which rod I would take on the annual fishyoneering trips. The 9 ft H3’s ability to reach cast above the bushes beckoned, but my trustly and vaguely fishy smelling Superfine called to me. Maybe I should break out the old rod, I thought, not because the H3 is cursed or anything, that would be ridiculous, but just for nostalgia’s sake. 

Not skunked. Then I decided to break out the Sage Foundation.

Not skunked. Things were looking bleak.

Incredible claims require incredible evidence, and claiming a rod is cursed is certainly incredible. Worried I might be right, I roped Curry into testing the fishy-iest place I know of this side of Fossil Creek: a reliable pool along the Black River.

Over the years I have caught countless fish here. Not always big, but sometimes excellent, this is a go to pool with tons of browns.

So at 1 in the morning Curry and hopped in the Mighty Forester and took off across the state. We timed things perfectly and right at dawn our first flies hit the pool. Nothing. We rested the fish. Nothing. We switched flies. Nothing. 

Things were getting dire, so we pushed downstream into some really rough country.

But no matter how remote the pool we found, nothing. Around noon we finally had to admit the obvious: this rod was cursed as hell.

In the name of full disclosure, I should mention that the H3 has brought in one very nice fish.

And yes, we did catch one tiny fish while working our way back to the car on the Black that afternoon. But none of this shook our conclusion. This rod was as cursed as a rod could be.

Of course, the very idea of a rod being cursed is patently ridiculous. A more likely explanation is that I just don’t fish as much as I used to an I’ve lost my edge. Or, that if you fish long enough you’re bound to Wayatt Earp a string of bad luck that will make it seem like your gear is the problem when it really is all chance. Plus, of all the rods in the world why would my rod be the one that is cursed? I haven’t robbed and tombs or kicked any puppies, this rod was my reward for a decade of hard work! Most of all, the H3 can’t be cursed because curses aren’t real.

Maybe.

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  Max Wilson is a born and raised Arizonan with a love for all that is beautiful and strange about the Southwest. He studied at Arizona State University, where he received his PhD in ecology. He writes here at Lesser Places, occasionally for Backpacker, and even more occasionally for scientific journals. You can follow him on twitter @maxomillions.

What to do when you’ve spent an unspeakable amount of money on a rod that is probably cursed Last weekend I went dove hunting. It was the first time out for my new shotgun, a lovely Weatherby Orion I stocked with with a particularly good piece of wood.

[buildyourownthoughts-blog]

I QUIT MODELING / chapter 02

Every time you fight, you can win, lose or obey. 

After some time, more than a year, I felt worn out. I stopped to rebel against all of this irrational rules running the fashion industry and slowly started to accept them. I kept telling myself that in every job there is something one has to sacrifice, that it has to be like this. 

And again, some part of my mind, the same little fragment that was so scared and told me to run away from the agency when they were taking my first measurements, reminded me something that I was always sure about and what was later grounded in my mind with every single moment I spent on modeling: fashion industry (in its present form) is totally redundant. There’s no other branch of the market that in fact has completely no positive impact on people’s lives. Even though it gives people work, gives them opportunity to express themselves, still it causes way more harm than benefit. 

We don’t need fashion in it’s present form at all. We don’t need huge fashion companies that, in the sake of brand, sell their clothing for more than some families have for living per year, we don’t need fast fashion cruelly overusing under-paid labourers, we don’t need this fake picture of human body, finally: we don’t need to feel less worthy because we wear different clothes! Fashion industry has reversed our very fundamentals: people are made for clothes, not: clothes are made for people, as it should be.

However, my decision was made. I told myself I’ll check how it works myself, so there was no way back.

Eventually, after getting on even more strict diet (I was surprised it was even possible), working-out until I almost fainted every single day (how strong our will can be?), becoming more unhappy and miserable that I’ve ever been in my life and, in the end, landing in hospital with serious hormone imbalance, I’ve (almost) met agency’s expectations, meaning: I could’ve finally start to work… yay.

I must admit, I walked into modeling at a stage already perfectly matching its realities. Underweighted, destroyed inside, with this brand fake smile on my face. 

At this time I’ve also experienced a border situation in my life. One of my closest persons passed away, my whole world was falling apart and I had no time to give myself for mourning. Only few days after, I was smiling and laughing on the set, crying on the backstage. This is how next few months of my life looked like. 

I was overworked, overstressed. Working 5-9 as a graphic designer and copywriter, after coming home, freelancing in the same field - all because I wanted to pay off one-year design course I was doing on the weekends. Everyday at 10 pm, when I could barely kept my eyes open, I would go running for 6 km, because I was scared to gain even half kilo of weight. Every few days I would attend to a photoshoot or a fashion show. Never forgetting to put on my fake smile. 

Nobody wanted to see that I was literally falling apart. People on the set, agents, they only saw my body, they were satisfied with this smile on my face. Only my family and my close friends were looking into my eyes: empty, matte, deprived of any joy of life. They’ve seen beyond the walls I desperately trying to surround myself with.

I started to loose my hair - in clumps, at first I’ve ignored that, but soon I would wake up with my whole pillow covered with hair. I remember how terrified I was when I first saw that. My skin started to break out terribly on the cheeks, which has never happened to me before. My nails started to break, always being super strong and shiny before. I started to have extremely intense panic attacks, making me escape the office during working hours and run as long as I could breathe. I was coming back from work, closing apartment’s door, falling on the floor and crying until I was so tired, I would crawl to my bed and fall asleep. Quickly it became sort of a daily habit. 

I didn’t want to admit anybody that it actually was that bad. I would fake a smile even when I talked with my closest ones, I’ve mastered it. The last thing I wanted is them worrying about me. 

But my mum knew me, I could not fool her. She was persisting I should quit my both jobs, end with modeling and as soon as I finish design course, pack my things and come back home, just to let myself be a child for a while. There was a battle inside of me, as letting go of my responsibilities seemed to me tantamount to giving up - admitting that I am weak. But when worst came to the worst, I realised I had no idea who I was. I lost my identity. Facing it really scared me. Finally, I decided to do what my mum advised me. I came back home.

Even then, I didn’t want to give up on modeling. All because I was so harsh on myself, sticking to the decision I’ve made 1,5 year earlier. I was a wreck. I would cry everyday without direct reason, I forgot how it is to smile or laugh at all. I had no idea what was going on in my body, let alone my mind. 

I tried to seek for help everywhere. I spent hundreds zlotys trying to put things together somehow. I went to dietician, Chinese medical and many different doctors. I bought tones of supplements that I was told will surely help me. I spent another thousands on cosmeticians, dermatologists, trichologists and, as a consequence, on cosmetics (isn’t it ridiculous that I was way more dedicated to save my skin, my look, than my actual health?).

I was so despaired because suddenly, I lost whole control on my body. I started to blame myself for feeling so unspeakably sad - I knew I had so many things to be happy and thankful for, much more than half of our population has. Little did I know I should just give myself some time, let go of the pressure agency was creating. Instead, I kept torturing myself, asking why couldn’t I smile and laugh like others? I was so envy for my friends who were going crazy at parties, dancing, laughing without rest. Why every time I went to a party, cinema, meeting I was ending up locked in toilet, crying and biting my feasts not to scream? I really needed to find a solution. 

How was my modeling at that time? Obviously I was forcing myself to work because I didn’t want to disappoint the agency, I was going to photoshoots, listening how bad my skin and hair condition was, watching this contemptuous glances caused by the weight I gained. 

Frankly, I didn’t care. I went through all of this. I was washed off of emotions. I was driving on a barren gear. Nothing was left inside. Just pure emptiness and pain, spilling all over with it’s darkness. I’ve done another fashion show, some photoshoots. Eventually, the agency told me they cannot organise work for me, not if my skin and my body is in such a bad condition. They suggested that I should maybe, finally, do something about it. It was a closed circle, spinning.

  One day when I was eating breakfast with my parents, my mum told me that she saw a poster while doing groceries: there are dancing classes being organised in the neighbouring city. “That would be a nice entertainment for you” - she suggested, “You love to dance”. I did. But I was not sure if I can entertain myself anymore. There was something scary about it. Anyway, I took up dancing classes, which turned out to be a huge blessing to me. Finally I had something other than work and my falling apart self to focus on. 

After one month, when classes were finished, I finally decided to see a therapist. Way too late, but better late then never. I had only three sessions, whereas I expected to spend months and another big amount of money on this therapy. I received exactly what I needed. These conversations helped me to organise all of my thoughts and relief this load that I was carrying inside for many years already. For the very first time in a very long time I felt truly free. I remember how blissfully it was to wake up in the morning with a smile on my face. I literally forgot what it felt like to smile honestly, without forcing myself to do so.

It was just a first steps on the long path of the recovery and I still had a really long way ahead to actually feel good and happy. Even now, after a year, I’m still struggling with it sometimes.

I went to university and in free time was still doing modeling.

When the first semester was about to end, I came to my agency and asked them for abroad contract. One year before, they wanted me to go abroad - Hong Kong or maybe Kuala Lumpur. They’ve been persuading me it’s the perfect option for me: “Thousands of girls would kill to be where you are”. “Well, thousands of girls would kill not to be where I was” - I would answer in my thoughts. 

Back in that time it was a matter of choosing between contract or starting my studies. After couple-hour-long fight with my dad, when in the beginning I thought I was sure that I don’t want to study right now, I want to travel, see new places, have adventures, I realised I’m just fooling myself. I was lost because the agency had such a strong influence on my thoughts. I was lucky he fought so hard, because he knew me. I’ve chose studies and it was one of the best decisions in my life.

But now, when I was already studying, I decided I want to try, to see how this whole fashion industry really works. With my agent, we’ve planned a contract for summer school break. Mexico, Chile, maybe even New York. I was excited, I must admit. These were places I always wanted to go to. They also proposed me Istanbul and Dubai but I refused them right away. It was not a problem for them, they’ve sent my portfolio everywhere they wanted. It turned out that it’s too late for South America’s agencies, they were all booked. Still waiting for a response from New York, they got positive respond from Istanbul and started to persuade me to go there. 

In that time, the political situation in Turkey was very unstable, many terrorist attacks occurred in a short period of time. I was simply afraid to go there. I wanted to give myself time to think about it, but they said there’s no time, they have to reply that agency asap. They were putting so much pressure on me because I had to go for an abroad contract, no matter where. If I didn’t, there would be consequences.

I had no idea what to do. Somehow I managed to gain few more days. After few sleepless nights, lots of researches, speaking with few girls who’ve been there with the same agency, I decided: I’ll go there. I wanted to check it, give myself a try, see for myself how it actually is to be a model, challenge myself to survive in this world in a completely new place. At first they wanted to send me there for three months, I agreed, but I was frightened. Than, luckily, they’ve shortened it to two months. I had a flight booked on 2nd July.

[theimmediateband-blog]

Songblog #002: ’What’s The Matter Kevin Jones?’

Listen here:

https://soundcloud.com/adamwalton/05-whats-the-matter-kevin-1?in=adamwalton/sets/manbuoy-lp

Introduction:

The motivation for these blogs is explained (lengthily!) in a previous post. 

Here’s a link: https://theimmediateband.tumblr.com/post/164677483215/songblog-001-no-shortcuts

‘What’s The Matter Kevin Jones?’ is the lead song from my band’s Mold EP (rel. March 2017). It’s our most successful release so far (which is a bit of a euphemistic use of the word ‘successful’), and it’s the song I’m proudest of. The venerable Tom Robinson (6Music) played it a few times, opening his Saturday night show with it (a great privilege… I know how much time I spend mulling over opening songs for my radio show!)

I can’t recommend highly enough Tom’s 6Music radio shows, his Fresh On The Net repository of information and guidance for new music-makers, and - particular to this blog - the democratic way his BBC Introducing Mixtape works. Please consider using it (look for the ‘Inbox’ link in the top right hand corner of the page. As I’m writing this, it’s shut until 4th September 2017.)

My respect for Tom, and my boundless positivity towards his programmes, has very little to do with him playing our music, honestly, truthfully, swear on all of my favourite FX pedals.
 This is what Tom said about the song. 
“… a great tune, great playing, wild spiky guitar, odd lyrics, a light sprinkling of anarchic menace and the perfect pop radio length.”

He nailed it.

The Writing:

If you could see me now, sat here in my kitchen, typing away narcissistically at my keyboard with a sinkful of washing-up that’s probably more in need of my attention, and a lawn that looks like a botanical experiment in what might happen if grass is allowed to go rogue, you’d notice I’m blushing, squirming uncomfortably in my chair. You see, here I am expounding my philosophies on songwriting when I’ve never paid much attention to other people’s philosophies on songwriting.

When I was much younger, I devoured music biographies and - particularly - autobiographies, in search of a Holy Grail of inspiration, some insight into what made the geniuses, geniuses. I didn’t find anything. Sometimes John helped Paul, or Paul helped John; or Brian moved a sandpit into the studio; or Ray felt a bit sad; or Janis drank like a demonic funnel, and then screamed it all out. The books told me very little, and what little they told me 20 / 30 years ago I have long forgotten.

Maybe all of this fuss, this sharing of ‘wisdom’ on the subject, is hot air, or a smokescreen, depending on how you like your over-excited gases. Maybe my writing like this, or reading those books, was a form of denial. Perhaps the great songwriters don’t have to mull these things over. Perhaps they are just gifted from birth, and no amount of reading or writing or pontificating will bring us any closer to them.

Well, you know, what I have learnt since the band re-formed and I started writing again is that it’s really, really OK to not be a genius. The joy, satisfaction and fun I’ve had out of music since March 2016 have made me a much happier man. Previously, and without really noticing, I had been sad for a long time. Making music makes me happy and is a great way to recycle that sadness into bittersweet tunes; not catharsis so much as therapy to a minor 7th.

I imagine that other people write for a multitude of reasons: desperation; the aforementioned catharsis; a desire for acclaim or recognition; to communicate; to bring something beautiful into the world; to speak, and release, otherwise unspeakable pain; to win someone’s heart, or to get fucked; to impress; to fill the void with something better than reality TV; because they like a nice tune and want to give the world more nice tunes… there is a multitude of reasons, all incredibly valid.

I wrote this song to fill a gap.

We had reformed with a determination to write new songs, and to not rely on songs we wrote two decades’ previously. And that had gone surprisingly well. However, once we started to gig, we realised that the set was all a bit one-paced. I see live sets like I see albums, or DJ sets, or playlists for my radio shows. They all have to have some kind of narrative to them… peaks / troughs / beginnings / ends… all bloody obvious, when you think about it.

We needed something heavy; something that didn’t sound like a Teenage Fanclub c-side.

Once I knew what I thought we needed, my subconscious started to ferment. This was well away from any instruments. Having a shower, somewhere in my brain is thinking that something a little early REM would be good. Autopiloting through the washing up, a little bit of Pixies comes into the equation; partway through a Mario Kart 8 session, I spin off Rainbow Road: yearning Wire, as opposed to spiky Wire (‘Outdoor Miner’-say) has also become part of the amorphous sound scape in my soul.

Yes, that’s right…  the amorphous sound scape in my soul.

I don’t know how else to describe it, really… a shopping list of feelings, textures and sounds that I want this next song to be, but this is music and I’d rather be ridiculed for calling it the amorphous sound scape in my soul than think of it in terms of a shopping list.

Still I hadn’t bothered picking up the guitar. By the time I did, little planets were forming out of the swirling gases in the amorphous sound scape in my soul. Those planets were in E minor.

I knew I wanted to write a song about my hometown, Mold. I know how conflicted I feel about Mold. It felt like a dead-end when we were younger. Somewhere stultifying and inward-looking. We had one nightclub that shut down - permanently - after a few acts of unspeakable violence; McDonalds didn’t arrive until the mid 2000’s. Wetherspoons arrived either soon before, or soon after… they’re not exactly important historical facts, just indicators.

When I think about Mold, I think about weekend nights there, having great fun with my friends who came from nice, middle class homes in the surrounding villages, or on the nice estates of Bryn Coch and Parc Hendy. I think about how most of those nights would end running a gauntlet of fear just to get home in one piece. How we’d want to get to the chippy before The Dolphin kicked out because once The Dolphin kicked out, someone would get a kicking, or a glassing, or butted, or end up in the back of a Black Maria, trapped with the very kids they were trying to escape.

I think about my time at the Alun School, and I think about the kids in my form class who smelt of piss and stale fags, and whose uniforms looked shabby, even on the first day of school, back in 1982.

I remember how I couldn’t understand why they wanted to punch me, or my friends; why they’d explode into white hot violence on a whim; why I spent 5 years either hiding from the bastards, or fighting them.

I think about what I’ve heard about what happened to those kids since we left school. About the shitty jobs, the drug / drink-related deaths, the despair and complete lack of hope, and I now - finally - understand why they hated us, back then.

And holding all of these memories in my head, passing them through the amorphous sound scape in my soul, this song eventually took shape.

I had one kid in mind, writing the song. I couldn’t name him (I didn’t know anyone called ‘Kevin Jones’). And the ending is a melodramatic exaggeration, for the sake of the song. The kid I was thinking about didn’t die, or at least hasn’t yet, to the best of my knowledge. A few others did, though. So he came to represent them.

Musically-speaking, there had been a chord sequence lurking around the shadows of my musical id since I was 11 years old. Back then, and this will go some way to explaining why those kids wanted to punch me, I played classical guitar and my hero was John Williams. When John Williams wasn’t playing solo, or duetting with Julian Bream, he was in the uncoolest band the universe has ever seen. Seriously, John and his bandmates made 11 year old me look like Iggy Pop. They had a piece on their album - Sky 2 - called ‘Vivaldi’. I taught myself the intro. And its patterns worked their way into my vocabulary. I subsequently tried to use that sequence of intervals (it’s not really a chord sequence, as such) in the first incarnation of the band, and in a solo piece I wrote. For whatever reason, it surfaced again, now; maybe a subconscious nod to my uncoolness and prime bullyability, and those vague thoughts of REM, Wire and Pixies, shaped it, reasonably effortlessly, into the final song.

I was also hugely inspired by Roy Orbison’s ‘In Dreams’. It’s a song with a non-standard structure, and no repetition.

Finally, I feel it’s important to state that the influences that I mentioned - early REM and Wire, particularly - were only senses of those bands, really. I couldn’t sing you a single, early REM song; and the only Wire album I’m entirely au fait with is Chairs Missing. I’m an unashamed dilettante, in this respect. I don’t know if this makes me a shallow wanker. I think that as writers we’re free to take as much or as little influence as we want, from whoever we want. The more shallowly we steal, the less obvious it is and the more likelihood there is of our bits being predominant. And that - us, as a band, shining through the most - is very important to me.

I could sing you the entire Pixies back catalogue, though.

Very very badly.

The Tools:

Fender FSR Classic Player 60’s Strat Vox AC15C1X amplifier Strymon Riverside Electro Harmonix Big Muff Pi

Lyrics:

I thought we could be anything, If we followed every rule. But Quadrophenia at 12, Was your bible and your school. We all knew… Said we knew…

I found me in the library, You terrorised the underpass. The flying fists of Mold’s Bruce Lee, There was a fag burn on your hands. From your mam… From your mam…

What’s the matter Kevin Jones? Did you ever have a chance? Your dad would fight the chippy kids Pissed up every Friday night

What’s the matter Kevin Jones? Your fingers stank of stolen fags, I used to dream of hurting you But you took that out my hands.

TV is blaring. Is anyone in? Your dog starts howling. Neighbours complaining. Police are called in. The door is smashed in. You stare at the ceiling, Forever at the ceiling…

Influences: (click to hear songs.)

Sky - ‘Vivaldi’ Wire - ‘Outdoor Miner’ Pixies - ‘Gouge Away’ Roy Orbison - ‘In Dreams’ REM - ‘Strange’ (yes, a Wire cover!)

Recording:

We recorded this with the truly excellent Russ Hayes at Orange Sound Studios in Penmaenmawr. As with all of our recordings with Russ, the main guitar line / the drums and the bass were all recorded playing in the big live room at his studio.

We love Russ so much, we’d write a song - barely rehearse it - and then bring it into the studio to record it almost (if you’ll pardon the terrible pun) immediately. Our enthusiasm to work with Russ and our curiosity overwhelmed any common sense.

Our next studio recordings will be of songs we’ve rehearsed and played, many times, so that we know their peaks and troughs, and where we can deviate and embellish the obvious lines.

The guitar solo is played with a bottleneck. Sadly I don’t have time - live - to pick a bottleneck up, and the main guitar line requires all four fingers, so I play a different solo when we’re gigging.

Purchase:

A ltd. edition CD featuring ‘What’s The Matter Kevin Jones?’ is available from our bandcamp page:

https://theimmediate.bandcamp.com/album/mold-e-p

The EP is also available to purchase digitally on bandcamp, iTunes and to stream on Spotify.

[krumpwrites]

MHAM Post #18: Kelsey

With the long weekend that just passed, I wanted to wait to share this post until today, when I knew people would be back to their everyday schedules and more likely to read it (it’s just that good).

The writer of this piece is, again, someone I was introduced to through a friend. Her name is Kelsey and, although we don’t know each other in real life, I feel genuinely connected to her after reading her words.

As cliche as it may sound, Kelsey’s writing truly makes you understand what it feels like to be a part of the roller coaster ride that is her dad’s mental health and addiction struggles. 

My favorite thing about this piece is how well it shows that people’s experiences can impact their loved ones mental health too. 

It’s heart-felt and heart-breaking all at once, and I’m pumped to share it here:  

HERO: My dad is my hero. He is my favorite person in the whole, entire universe. We have the same humor, we have the same cackle, and we have the same antsiness when it comes to scheduling/agendas. Our hobbies together include: Watching Family Guy, making terrible, bologna sandwiches (drenched in too much Oscar Meyer, mustard) and taking midday naps in a shitty, box-fanned vortex, with our two, unruly Irish Setters.

My dad is a Clinical Social Worker. And he’s damn good at what he does.

I’ve listened-in on countless, midnight phone calls, convincing his clients to “make it” or “hold on” until tomorrow. My dad would repeat: “Phil, you won’t feel like this tomorrow- It might not be any better, it might only feel slightly different. But I’ll guarantee you: It won’t feel the same.”

Dad would take a few minutes, nodding/listening to the distraught man on the other end, “Phil, call me in the morning. Promise me you’ll be around.” And just like that, Dad and I would continue our movie night, no comments/questions needed. Phil would call 6am tomorrow morning.

On the weekends, we’d go to garage sales so dad could, “Buy Richard a table for his Birthday,” because Richard didn’t own any furniture. We would take a pit stop, on the way to the grocery store, so dad could “Give Janice a pack of cigarettes, and a Snickers, so she’d make it through the week.” Always something.  

He’s my hero. But he wasn’t always.

THE BEGINNING: I found out my dad had a problem in 2005, when I was in 8th grade. Through Mom’s crying, through selling our home, and through a short-lived divorce, I found out that my dad had another talent.

My dad is addicted to Poker. And he was damn good at what he did.

Until he wasn’t.

We lost a lot that year. My parents decided that restarting (again) in Idaho was the best option. In turn, we watched my dad like a hawk, and Dad attended Gamblers Anonymous Meetings (G.A.). Out of guilt, Dad encouraged mom to be a stay-at-home mom. In turn (because her babies weren’t in need of this role), Mom reconnected with her good friend, wine cooler.

Looking back, I never recall being sad. My parents were always dysfunctional. My dad always worked a lot, and mom always drank. Just how it was.

LATER ON: By 2014, Dad had stopped going to G.A. Meetings, and Mom was Mom (that’s another story, for another time). Dad was working later nights. He was gone more weekends. He was on-edge, stressed from working On-Call at the hospital. I loved my Dad, but he was definitely a different person than he was in 2005. But I understood. Mom wasn’t working. He needed the extra cash. I’d pitch in when I could. I would let him borrow $200 here, $300 there. I’d let him put groceries on my credit card.

Regardless, I was proud. Dad had stopped playing poker.

Until he didn’t.

In summer of 2014, we found out Dad had never actually been working nights, or going to Hospital seminars over the weekends. Dad was never borrowing money for groceries… Dad’s friend, John cracked one day when Mom cornered him. “John. Where’s Steve? And don’t you dare lie to me.” John whimpered, “He’s at a casino in northern Idaho. He will tell you he’s in Vegas, but he’s not. Someone needs to drive and get him…”

Dad finally called, after ignoring our calls for 3 days. “Jan. I messed up. It’s bad.”

Over the last year, Dad had gambled away an unspeakable amount of money. He took money from my Brother and I to count cards, and he maxed out our credit cards. I thought, “Kelsey…How could you be so blind?”

That was just the beginning.

ACUTE WITHDRAWAL SYNDROME: We also found out that Dad had been abusing opioids. He had been addicted for the last 7 years. My Brother and I knew that Dad would pop an anxiety pill here and there… but we didn’t realize the dosage, or frequency, or how bad it really was.

Wasn’t it normal to take an anxiety pill, every once in awhile?

With his new job in Boise, insurances/doctors had changed, and Dad no longer had the “Doctor, Homie-Hook-Up.” Dad went off these drugs cold turkey. In turn, Dad went crazy. In 2014, Dad started going through Acute, Opiate Withdrawal Syndrome. (It’s now 2017. He isn’t any better.)

Dad stopped being any form of my Dad. His “Family Guy humor” stopped, his cackle stopped, and he spent most of his time in the room of vortex fans, sleeping. His hands shook. He preferred to sit alone, instead of goofing with his kids.

Recently here in 2017, Dad tried to explain this chemical imbalance/withdrawal syndrome to my Aunt. “It feels like I’m going to jump out of my skin. And I have a hard time with day-to-day tasks. The thought of shaving gives me high anxiety.” He continued with a story: One-day at work (before he realized how bad it was), Dad was counseling a couple. The couple was fighting in Spanish, and Dad couldn’t get a word in. Dad was patiently waiting for them to stop speaking Spanish, so he could help.

Turns out…

The couple was speaking English.

SHIT HAPPENS: Later in the summer, Dad crashed the Prius. His reply to the accident was, “I wish it killed me.” That day Mom took Grandpa’s guns from the house.

A couple months after Dad fessed up about gambling, and beginning the journey of this new mental illness, Dad lost his job. They were losing the house. My brother broke his arm and lost his job as well. I was the only one in my family with a job, and I was just offered an internship at my dream job, outside Seattle.

One Saturday afternoon, while working in the Boise, Idaho Mall, I had a full-blown panic attack. I fell in the backroom at my store, chest pounding, not being able to breath. How could I leave to Seattle for this internship? “How dare I think about leaving them.”

CONCLUSION: My boss at the time (now Mentor, and who I consider a best friend), Meghan, found me defeated on the dust-bunny covered, cement floor. I’ll never forget the way she calmed me down. These were the conclusions she lead me to (took me until just now to finally accept):

-I can’t save my parents -I can’t send them money (no matter how indirectly I’m asked) -Mental illness is real -Suicide is real; I can’t blame myself -I can only focus on me, and my well being

 Because of this mind-set, I’ve accomplished so much more than I thought I could.

-I took my dream internship outside Seattle -I became a Jr. Marketing Coordinator for the company -I paid off my car (big win for me!) -I dropped in on my first mini-ramp -I received my Bachelors of Business Administration Degree -I moved to California -I became a Marketing Coordinator for another, kick-ass company -I started volunteering for a dog rescue 

NEXT STEPS: My dad rarely calls. When he does, and I see his caller ID, I think “Is he ok? Is he calling to say goodbye?”  This is the truth I live with.

We lost our house, and my childhood memorabilia, yearbooks, and Harry Potter action figures are stored in my best friend’s garage.  My parents are living pay-check-to-pay-check in a small, rental house. Mom finally got a job after 8 years. Dad is on unable to work, and is applying for disability. I haven’t been home in 8 months, and I’m honestly a little scared to.

However… When days are bad, and holidays away from Idaho feel extra heavy… I think back to when my dad helped Phil, on the phone all those nights…

“Kelsey…you won’t feel like this tomorrow- It might not be any better, it might only feel slightly different. But I’ll guarantee you: It won’t feel the same.”

[ongames]

I've Never Felt Worse Than In The Moment I Looked My 'Best'

There is a photo of me, the best one I have. Maybe the best one I’ll ever have.

It was one of hundreds taken by a professional photographer whose pleasantly scruffy assistant spent hours flitting around her, holding a disc reflector to throw the Parisian summer light onto me just so. Before she’d even picked up her camera and he’d reluctantly put down his cigarette, a makeup artist had spent 90 minutes on my face, my hair, my nails. They were going for a ‘50s bombshell look – I’m not entirely sure why, now, but it made sense at the time – so there were hair extensions and curlers and false eyelashes and very bold red lips. In this photo, I’m sitting on a staircase, my hair mimicking the a curly black wrought iron bannister, with my hands demurely in my lap but my mouth slightly open in a Jessica Simpson-ish kind of way. My wrap dress, which I almost never wore in real life because it was too revealing, too clingy, is showing just the right amount of flesh. My eyes, thanks to the falsies and whatever witchcraft the surly makeup artist did with my brows, look enormous.

After the shoot was over, the photographer culled just three photos from the hundreds she took in the space of a few hours, and sent them to me. This is the best of those three. Years have gone by, and this is still the best I’ve ever looked in a photo. It’s also the unhealthiest I have ever been.

When it was taken, I’d been heavily restricting my food intake and compulsively over-exercising for about a year-and-a-half. I was the thinnest I’d been in years, and not that much thinner than I’d been when I fell down that hole, which, now, makes me feel both relief (thank god I didn’t do too much permanent damage) and regret (if I wasn’t even skinny, what the hell was all that suffering for?).

I was unspeakably miserable, literally: Despite being a professional writer, I couldn’t muster the courage to explain to anyone but a therapist how unhappy I was, or marshal the words to do my misery justice. But I was functional: working, traveling, and maintaining a social life ― even though I had to run extra miles to compensate for whatever I ate when people were watching. And this photo shoot was to accompany an essay I’d written for a well-regarded weekend magazine, an international byline, a big deal. The night before, I went for a run and ate lettuce for dinner. The morning of, I drank coffee and ate nothing.

The photo was taken before the rise of Instagram, though Facebook and Twitter were already in full force. Had I had access to a photo-focused social media network at the time I’m sure I would have posted it, probably with a performatively self-effacing caption, and watched with grim satisfaction as the likes and approving comments piled up. This week, in honor of National Eating Disorders Awareness Week, I decided to post it, and to be honest about the wide chasm between what that photo shows and the truth. 

Thinness is an achievement for women, one we’re expected to work for if we’re not blessed with skinny genes, and offer sheepish, secretly-smug apologies for if it is gifted to us by nature. It’s a trophy we’re expected to hold on to at all costs.

The truth was that I was drowning. On the outside, things looked pretty good: My career was humming along, I was dating a great guy, I was spending the summer in Paris doing research for grad school, and hey, I’d dropped two pants sizes. For young women, this is what winning looks like.  

In fact, scratch the first three-quarters of that list, and just keep the newfound sense that you’ve earned the right to wear shorts in public: for young women, this is what winning looks like. Skinniness covers all manner of other failure, just as failure to be skinny can dim the sparkle on all manner of other success. There was a reason people were complimenting me on my “accomplishment,” praising my shrinking body. Thinness is an achievement for women, one we’re expected to work for if we’re not blessed with skinny genes, and offer sheepish, secretly-smug apologies for if it is gifted to us by nature. It’s a trophy we’re expected to hold on to at all costs.

Never mind that much of what I produced that summer was garbage, limp and listless writing that had to be redone because it lacked rigor. Never mind that I was lying to that great guy, pretending to be the healthy, naturally slender woman I knew he wanted to be with. Never mind that I spent those months denying myself French food and running along the pretty streets of Paris without ever really seeing them. Never mind; look what I’d accomplished. It was right there in the photo.

My illness never manifested as anything other than an achievement, because it was largely invisible. In that photo, I’m the thinnest I’ve been since hitting puberty in earnest, but I’m not skinny. I do not look sick. I do not look like a person who is suffering. I look like a person has succeeded at losing weight – and so I was. Very few people noticed that something was terribly wrong, because it looked like I was doing something right. This is not uncommon: eating disorders are exercises in secrecy, and while some of us fit the stereotype of the hyper-skinny anorexic, all bones and eyes, many of us don’t. Many of us hide our worst behavior behind closed doors, and hide the rest in plain sight.

I starved myself for two long years, with very little to show for it in the way of weight loss, and even less in the way of proof that I was sick. Again, this isn’t uncommon: There are lots of us out here starving, bingeing, purging and over-exercising, looking nothing like your mental image of a person with an eating disorder. You may think this makes our suffering less real, less corrosive. We may even think that ourselves – I did. I was wrong.

There are so many people walking around looking the “best” they’ve ever looked, and paying far too steep a price, a hidden cost they feel compelled to keep paying.

When, after a year-and-a-half of seeing a therapist, something finally shifted, and I started eating properly again, it showed in photos. In pictures from that year, I look puffy in the face and arms, like my body is clinging to every scrap of fat it’s given. Which, of course, it was. The body is smart: if you starve it once, it will forever be preparing for the next famine.

In those newer photos I am the picture of health, or at least, the picture of healthier. And yet, I don’t like to look at them. I don’t like the photo of me clambering on an ancient Sequoia with my colleagues on a work retreat. I don’t like the photo of me smiling at a dear friend’s wedding and surrounded by brilliant, loving women. I like the old photo, the bombshell photo, the photo that tells lies. It’s in a frame on my new boyfriend’s windowsill. I’m healthier now, and lucky to be so, but if there had been a oath to mental health that had involved no weight gain – well, I’d have been in recovery sooner, and I would have recovered faster. 

My suffering made me look great. There is no getting around this: my self-inflicted pain was rewarded with praise and sexual interest and even short-lived flashes of self-confidence. And there is no getting around the truth that I like the old photo better than the new ones. Just as I am working to accept that some people will always offer, “you’ve lost weight!” as a compliment, I am working to accept the uncomfortable, unhealthy truth: I have never looked “better” than when I was at my worst.

And I know I wasn’t alone. There are so many people walking around looking the “best” they’ve ever looked, and paying far too steep a price, a hidden cost they feel compelled to keep paying. To those people I say: I know your pain, and I promise it won’t always feel this way. It took work, to travel from that hungry day on the staircase, all dolled up and empty inside, to where I am now. It takes work every day, sometimes every hour, and it’s never a straight line. I look fine now, I suppose. I feel fierce, and I mourn the years I lost.

So the photo stays. As reminder of where I used to be, as a way to mark how far I’ve come. And as a reminder of the gap between truth and pretty fictions.

If you’re struggling with an eating disorder, call the National Eating Disorder Association hotline at 1-800-931-2237.

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[yes-dal456]

I've Never Felt Worse Than In The Moment I Looked My 'Best'

There is a photo of me, the best one I have. Maybe the best one I’ll ever have.

It was one of hundreds taken by a professional photographer whose pleasantly scruffy assistant spent hours flitting around her, holding a disc reflector to throw the Parisian summer light onto me just so. Before she’d even picked up her camera and he’d reluctantly put down his cigarette, a makeup artist had spent 90 minutes on my face, my hair, my nails. They were going for a ‘50s bombshell look – I’m not entirely sure why, now, but it made sense at the time – so there were hair extensions and curlers and false eyelashes and very bold red lips. In this photo, I’m sitting on a staircase, my hair mimicking the a curly black wrought iron bannister, with my hands demurely in my lap but my mouth slightly open in a Jessica Simpson-ish kind of way. My wrap dress, which I almost never wore in real life because it was too revealing, too clingy, is showing just the right amount of flesh. My eyes, thanks to the falsies and whatever witchcraft the surly makeup artist did with my brows, look enormous.

After the shoot was over, the photographer culled just three photos from the hundreds she took in the space of a few hours, and sent them to me. This is the best of those three. Years have gone by, and this is still the best I’ve ever looked in a photo. It’s also the unhealthiest I have ever been.

When it was taken, I’d been heavily restricting my food intake and compulsively over-exercising for about a year-and-a-half. I was the thinnest I’d been in years, and not that much thinner than I’d been when I fell down that hole, which, now, makes me feel both relief (thank god I didn’t do too much permanent damage) and regret (if I wasn’t even skinny, what the hell was all that suffering for?).

I was unspeakably miserable, literally: Despite being a professional writer, I couldn’t muster the courage to explain to anyone but a therapist how unhappy I was, or marshal the words to do my misery justice. But I was functional: working, traveling, and maintaining a social life ― even though I had to run extra miles to compensate for whatever I ate when people were watching. And this photo shoot was to accompany an essay I’d written for a well-regarded weekend magazine, an international byline, a big deal. The night before, I went for a run and ate lettuce for dinner. The morning of, I drank coffee and ate nothing.

The photo was taken before the rise of Instagram, though Facebook and Twitter were already in full force. Had I had access to a photo-focused social media network at the time I’m sure I would have posted it, probably with a performatively self-effacing caption, and watched with grim satisfaction as the likes and approving comments piled up. This week, in honor of National Eating Disorders Awareness Week, I decided to post it, and to be honest about the wide chasm between what that photo shows and the truth. 

Thinness is an achievement for women, one we’re expected to work for if we’re not blessed with skinny genes, and offer sheepish, secretly-smug apologies for if it is gifted to us by nature. It’s a trophy we’re expected to hold on to at all costs.

The truth was that I was drowning. On the outside, things looked pretty good: My career was humming along, I was dating a great guy, I was spending the summer in Paris doing research for grad school, and hey, I’d dropped two pants sizes. For young women, this is what winning looks like.  

In fact, scratch the first three-quarters of that list, and just keep the newfound sense that you’ve earned the right to wear shorts in public: for young women, this is what winning looks like. Skinniness covers all manner of other failure, just as failure to be skinny can dim the sparkle on all manner of other success. There was a reason people were complimenting me on my “accomplishment,” praising my shrinking body. Thinness is an achievement for women, one we’re expected to work for if we’re not blessed with skinny genes, and offer sheepish, secretly-smug apologies for if it is gifted to us by nature. It’s a trophy we’re expected to hold on to at all costs.

Never mind that much of what I produced that summer was garbage, limp and listless writing that had to be redone because it lacked rigor. Never mind that I was lying to that great guy, pretending to be the healthy, naturally slender woman I knew he wanted to be with. Never mind that I spent those months denying myself French food and running along the pretty streets of Paris without ever really seeing them. Never mind; look what I’d accomplished. It was right there in the photo.

My illness never manifested as anything other than an achievement, because it was largely invisible. In that photo, I’m the thinnest I’ve been since hitting puberty in earnest, but I’m not skinny. I do not look sick. I do not look like a person who is suffering. I look like a person has succeeded at losing weight – and so I was. Very few people noticed that something was terribly wrong, because it looked like I was doing something right. This is not uncommon: eating disorders are exercises in secrecy, and while some of us fit the stereotype of the hyper-skinny anorexic, all bones and eyes, many of us don’t. Many of us hide our worst behavior behind closed doors, and hide the rest in plain sight.

I starved myself for two long years, with very little to show for it in the way of weight loss, and even less in the way of proof that I was sick. Again, this isn’t uncommon: There are lots of us out here starving, bingeing, purging and over-exercising, looking nothing like your mental image of a person with an eating disorder. You may think this makes our suffering less real, less corrosive. We may even think that ourselves – I did. I was wrong.

There are so many people walking around looking the “best” they’ve ever looked, and paying far too steep a price, a hidden cost they feel compelled to keep paying.

When, after a year-and-a-half of seeing a therapist, something finally shifted, and I started eating properly again, it showed in photos. In pictures from that year, I look puffy in the face and arms, like my body is clinging to every scrap of fat it’s given. Which, of course, it was. The body is smart: if you starve it once, it will forever be preparing for the next famine.

In those newer photos I am the picture of health, or at least, the picture of healthier. And yet, I don’t like to look at them. I don’t like the photo of me clambering on an ancient Sequoia with my colleagues on a work retreat. I don’t like the photo of me smiling at a dear friend’s wedding and surrounded by brilliant, loving women. I like the old photo, the bombshell photo, the photo that tells lies. It’s in a frame on my new boyfriend’s windowsill. I’m healthier now, and lucky to be so, but if there had been a oath to mental health that had involved no weight gain – well, I’d have been in recovery sooner, and I would have recovered faster. 

My suffering made me look great. There is no getting around this: my self-inflicted pain was rewarded with praise and sexual interest and even short-lived flashes of self-confidence. And there is no getting around the truth that I like the old photo better than the new ones. Just as I am working to accept that some people will always offer, “you’ve lost weight!” as a compliment, I am working to accept the uncomfortable, unhealthy truth: I have never looked “better” than when I was at my worst.

And I know I wasn’t alone. There are so many people walking around looking the “best” they’ve ever looked, and paying far too steep a price, a hidden cost they feel compelled to keep paying. To those people I say: I know your pain, and I promise it won’t always feel this way. It took work, to travel from that hungry day on the staircase, all dolled up and empty inside, to where I am now. It takes work every day, sometimes every hour, and it’s never a straight line. I look fine now, I suppose. I feel fierce, and I mourn the years I lost.

So the photo stays. As reminder of where I used to be, as a way to mark how far I’ve come. And as a reminder of the gap between truth and pretty fictions.

If you’re struggling with an eating disorder, call the National Eating Disorder Association hotline at 1-800-931-2237.

-- This feed and its contents are the property of The Huffington Post, and use is subject to our terms. It may be used for personal consumption, but may not be distributed on a website.

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[imreviewblog]

I've Never Felt Worse Than In The Moment I Looked My 'Best'

There is a photo of me, the best one I have. Maybe the best one I’ll ever have.

It was one of hundreds taken by a professional photographer whose pleasantly scruffy assistant spent hours flitting around her, holding a disc reflector to throw the Parisian summer light onto me just so. Before she’d even picked up her camera and he’d reluctantly put down his cigarette, a makeup artist had spent 90 minutes on my face, my hair, my nails. They were going for a ‘50s bombshell look – I’m not entirely sure why, now, but it made sense at the time – so there were hair extensions and curlers and false eyelashes and very bold red lips. In this photo, I’m sitting on a staircase, my hair mimicking the a curly black wrought iron bannister, with my hands demurely in my lap but my mouth slightly open in a Jessica Simpson-ish kind of way. My wrap dress, which I almost never wore in real life because it was too revealing, too clingy, is showing just the right amount of flesh. My eyes, thanks to the falsies and whatever witchcraft the surly makeup artist did with my brows, look enormous.

After the shoot was over, the photographer culled just three photos from the hundreds she took in the space of a few hours, and sent them to me. This is the best of those three. Years have gone by, and this is still the best I’ve ever looked in a photo. It’s also the unhealthiest I have ever been.

When it was taken, I’d been heavily restricting my food intake and compulsively over-exercising for about a year-and-a-half. I was the thinnest I’d been in years, and not that much thinner than I’d been when I fell down that hole, which, now, makes me feel both relief (thank god I didn’t do too much permanent damage) and regret (if I wasn’t even skinny, what the hell was all that suffering for?).

I was unspeakably miserable, literally: Despite being a professional writer, I couldn’t muster the courage to explain to anyone but a therapist how unhappy I was, or marshal the words to do my misery justice. But I was functional: working, traveling, and maintaining a social life ― even though I had to run extra miles to compensate for whatever I ate when people were watching. And this photo shoot was to accompany an essay I’d written for a well-regarded weekend magazine, an international byline, a big deal. The night before, I went for a run and ate lettuce for dinner. The morning of, I drank coffee and ate nothing.

The photo was taken before the rise of Instagram, though Facebook and Twitter were already in full force. Had I had access to a photo-focused social media network at the time I’m sure I would have posted it, probably with a performatively self-effacing caption, and watched with grim satisfaction as the likes and approving comments piled up. This week, in honor of National Eating Disorders Awareness Week, I decided to post it, and to be honest about the wide chasm between what that photo shows and the truth. 

Thinness is an achievement for women, one we’re expected to work for if we’re not blessed with skinny genes, and offer sheepish, secretly-smug apologies for if it is gifted to us by nature. It’s a trophy we’re expected to hold on to at all costs.

The truth was that I was drowning. On the outside, things looked pretty good: My career was humming along, I was dating a great guy, I was spending the summer in Paris doing research for grad school, and hey, I’d dropped two pants sizes. For young women, this is what winning looks like.  

In fact, scratch the first three-quarters of that list, and just keep the newfound sense that you’ve earned the right to wear shorts in public: for young women, this is what winning looks like. Skinniness covers all manner of other failure, just as failure to be skinny can dim the sparkle on all manner of other success. There was a reason people were complimenting me on my “accomplishment,” praising my shrinking body. Thinness is an achievement for women, one we’re expected to work for if we’re not blessed with skinny genes, and offer sheepish, secretly-smug apologies for if it is gifted to us by nature. It’s a trophy we’re expected to hold on to at all costs.

Never mind that much of what I produced that summer was garbage, limp and listless writing that had to be redone because it lacked rigor. Never mind that I was lying to that great guy, pretending to be the healthy, naturally slender woman I knew he wanted to be with. Never mind that I spent those months denying myself French food and running along the pretty streets of Paris without ever really seeing them. Never mind; look what I’d accomplished. It was right there in the photo.

My illness never manifested as anything other than an achievement, because it was largely invisible. In that photo, I’m the thinnest I’ve been since hitting puberty in earnest, but I’m not skinny. I do not look sick. I do not look like a person who is suffering. I look like a person has succeeded at losing weight – and so I was. Very few people noticed that something was terribly wrong, because it looked like I was doing something right. This is not uncommon: eating disorders are exercises in secrecy, and while some of us fit the stereotype of the hyper-skinny anorexic, all bones and eyes, many of us don’t. Many of us hide our worst behavior behind closed doors, and hide the rest in plain sight.

I starved myself for two long years, with very little to show for it in the way of weight loss, and even less in the way of proof that I was sick. Again, this isn’t uncommon: There are lots of us out here starving, bingeing, purging and over-exercising, looking nothing like your mental image of a person with an eating disorder. You may think this makes our suffering less real, less corrosive. We may even think that ourselves – I did. I was wrong.

There are so many people walking around looking the “best” they’ve ever looked, and paying far too steep a price, a hidden cost they feel compelled to keep paying.

When, after a year-and-a-half of seeing a therapist, something finally shifted, and I started eating properly again, it showed in photos. In pictures from that year, I look puffy in the face and arms, like my body is clinging to every scrap of fat it’s given. Which, of course, it was. The body is smart: if you starve it once, it will forever be preparing for the next famine.

In those newer photos I am the picture of health, or at least, the picture of healthier. And yet, I don’t like to look at them. I don’t like the photo of me clambering on an ancient Sequoia with my colleagues on a work retreat. I don’t like the photo of me smiling at a dear friend’s wedding and surrounded by brilliant, loving women. I like the old photo, the bombshell photo, the photo that tells lies. It’s in a frame on my new boyfriend’s windowsill. I’m healthier now, and lucky to be so, but if there had been a oath to mental health that had involved no weight gain – well, I’d have been in recovery sooner, and I would have recovered faster. 

My suffering made me look great. There is no getting around this: my self-inflicted pain was rewarded with praise and sexual interest and even short-lived flashes of self-confidence. And there is no getting around the truth that I like the old photo better than the new ones. Just as I am working to accept that some people will always offer, “you’ve lost weight!” as a compliment, I am working to accept the uncomfortable, unhealthy truth: I have never looked “better” than when I was at my worst.

And I know I wasn’t alone. There are so many people walking around looking the “best” they’ve ever looked, and paying far too steep a price, a hidden cost they feel compelled to keep paying. To those people I say: I know your pain, and I promise it won’t always feel this way. It took work, to travel from that hungry day on the staircase, all dolled up and empty inside, to where I am now. It takes work every day, sometimes every hour, and it’s never a straight line. I look fine now, I suppose. I feel fierce, and I mourn the years I lost.

So the photo stays. As reminder of where I used to be, as a way to mark how far I’ve come. And as a reminder of the gap between truth and pretty fictions.

If you’re struggling with an eating disorder, call the National Eating Disorder Association hotline at 1-800-931-2237.

-- This feed and its contents are the property of The Huffington Post, and use is subject to our terms. It may be used for personal consumption, but may not be distributed on a website.

from Healthy Living - The Huffington Post http://huff.to/2mQdWfM