#it's about the recovery it's about the freedom from mental and physical cages................

[virgo-dream]

✨ dreamling / fluff / acts of service / mature ✨

SUMMARY: It's been 10 days since Dream of The Endless was rescued from Fawney Rig by one Hob Gadling, who takes it upon himself to see to Dream's recovery. While with Hob, Dream is provided with something he'd been missing even before his imprisonment: to be cared for.

read ch 01: "may I" here or on AO3 (2021 words)

Dream’s eyes blinked open. 

He’d been laying in what seemed like a very comfortable bed. It was certainly more comfortable than glass and iron, so much so that it made him nearly uncomfortable to feel his body resting over the welcoming springs of the mattress underneath his frail body. He could feel the weight of soft, warm blankets over him. Softer than stale air, warmer than a room deprived of sunlight. Still, weighing on him, heavy. Too heavy. 

He didn’t know exactly how long he’d been there for. He remembered very little; the sound of breaking glass and gunshots, the sting of cold air and freshly spilled iron blood invading his nostrils, slicing him from the inside out. Nausea, pain. Fatigue, so much of it. Then, the feeling of the binding circle breaking, like a rope that had been tied around his chest had finally been cut, like he was allowed to move again. He didn’t have it in him, physically or mentally, to do anything about it. 

Next thing he knew, he was in this bed. 

He remembered waking up other times, during different moments of the day, or maybe different days altogether. He felt the burning warmth of the sun on his cheek, then followed by the sound of curtains being shut. He’d seen the blue glow of moonlight, and the gentle tones of dusk. While he’d been all-knowing for most of his existence, 100 years in complete isolation were enough to throw him completely out of the cosmic loop, and in his current state, even if he did want it, he would not be able to throw himself back. Telling the time was not in his current roster of abilities. 

Still, the bed. The blankets.

Dream didn’t dare to move. He was hesitant, confused. Scared, really. Everything felt good, and good could only mean bad, because bad was the nature of men, and good was the currency in which they traded. A soft bed with warm blankets was a transaction, just as immortality, riches and power had been the price for his freedom. He had no interest in trading. 

Still. The bed. 

The heavy blankets. 

Too heavy, too soft, too warm. Soft to the point of contradicting itself into a horrifying itchiness, the worn threading cutting through Dream’s paper thin skin. The pillow threatened to swallow his head, but not without chewing thoroughly first, while the blankets felt heavier and heavier, ready to crush him, ready to break him more than he’d already been broken, ready to— 

“Hey, hey— it’s okay. It’s okay, it’s over now.” 

Dream hears the voice first, or maybe last, he isn’t sure. It’s detached from time and the actions surrounding it, from the feeling of the mattress bending next to him as someone sat on it, a pair of hands taking one of his own, caging it like he’d once been caged. Dream fought back against the touch, but all the strength he’d envisioned was only translated in a meek shaking of his bones, twitching fingers and what he now realised were sounds coming out of his own mouth. Still, it seems to get a reaction out of his new captor. His hand was released, in an act of fake mercy. 

“…today is July 12th 2022. It is now 6:45pm. I’m Hob Gadling. You’ve been here in my apartment for 10 days now.” 

Ah. There it was. 

Dream’s eyes blinked open once more. So much came flooding back to him at once, it was difficult to not feel nauseous. His tear filled eyes were hard to trust, and when he brought his hands closer to wipe the stripes of salt and fear away from his cheeks, it wasn’t as difficult as it had been to move just a moment before. When he spoke, his voice was rough with sleep and the newfound tightness of his throat. 

“…h.. hob ?” 

How could Dream forget the kindness of that smile? The gentleness of that touch, the softness of his voice… the way those arms had carried him out of his imprisonment, hands that had bathed him, dressed him and fed him, tended to his needs and held him through the terrors that haunted him. How could he forget Hob Gadling? 

“Hey there, my friend.” Hob smiled, reaching to brush the strands of hair glued to Dream’s forehead with cold sweat away from his eyes, tucking them behind his ear. “I’m sorry I didn’t get here sooner. I was preparing your soup.” 

Hob had been taking care of him for a while now. His extraordinarily human friend, his saviour, his constant, the only light to ever touch that wretched basement. He’d bravely rescued Dream from an imprisonment that had nearly caused his current form to expire, and now aided his recovery, as patient and devoted as he’d always, in a way, had been. This bed he rested in was Hob's own, gracefully offered, tearfully accepted. The pillow his head rested on also belonged to his friend, as well as everything else surrounding him. 

Dream wasn't sure how long he'd taken to just. Stare at Hob. Long enough, surely, to warrant a worried frown from him, followed by a voice so gentle it almost felt like it asked permission before entering Dream's ears. "Let's breathe together, okay?" A simple enough request, now that Hob had already helped him ground himself somewhat in what humankind called reality , this awful state of existence he'd been forced into for so long. Now, he required breathing, as a child did, and reassurance that he could do it much in the same way. Still, he nods in agreement. 

"May I take your hand?" 

Dream ponders for a moment. They've done this almost every time he wakes with his mind scrambled, deep into terrors he can't escape. Still, Hob asks for permission to touch him, with respect and reverence he'd long forgotten. He tries his vocal chords once more, the biggest effort he can make in answer to the lengths his beloved friend had been going to accommodate his bleeding wounds. "...you may." 

Hob smiles again, in his sweet, understanding way, completely devoid of pity, but maybe injected with a little pride. Proud of Dream, perhaps, as he'd told him the morning prior. Dream remembers now, he thinks. 

You're doing great, my friend. Two full meals today. I'm proud of you.

He took pride in even the smallest of progress, it seemed. Dream remembered feeling the same way when his son sang out his first words. Danced away his first steps. Remembering hurts.

"Come back to me, Dream." Hob squeezed his hand, as gently as a child would, and Dream was hit with the realisation that his mind had wandered off into treacherous woods. Hob rescued him once again, and seemed to be willing to do it over and over. Blue eyes rimmed with red and liquid fear darted back to meet brown ones filled with kindness and patience. Dream nods once again.

Hob places Dream's open hand to his own chest, over his heart. He breathes in slowly, the movement of his chest calm and smooth. "...breathe in through your nose." He instructs, and Dream tries, how he tries. The air slips in staccato, and Hob needs to remind him to "..hold it in, for a bit. Now, breathe out through your mouth." It's difficult to adapt to calming oneself down through breathing when oxygen had never been a necessity, and understanding the calming properties of full lungs only came with the long, torturous 100 years he spent refilling them with carbon filled gas repurposed by his own tired breathing apparatus. 

They repeat this ritual about 5 times, and when Dream catches his own rhythm, Hob releases his hand again. Dream wishes he hadn't. 

"Good. You did great, Dream."

" Dream ."

Hob seems confused for a moment, before smiling at him again. So many different smiles, that one had. So many different meanings, all in the design of his features. "You've told me your name a couple of days ago. I can call you friend, if you prefer. Or anything else, really."

Giving his name to Hob was something he had the agency to do, after being barred from it for so long. He chose to do it, and regretted not doing it sooner. He'd rather Hob have it than anyone else, really. "Use it. I've given it to you. It is yours to use." 

"Alright, Dream." It sounded so sweet in his voice. So gentle, caring. Full of devotion. More than ever, Dream needed it. Desperately. "Would you like to eat now? I might have to reheat the soup–"

Desperation does not suit a king. 

"You dare–" Dream had no idea what possessed him at that moment, to speak that way. Memories folded atop each other, feelings seemed misplaced and hard to differentiate. Hob certainly did not deserve to be ordered around, but for once, he felt strong enough to take , take his own dignity back in his starved hands. Shame washed over him like a cold wave on a winter storm on the shores of the Dreaming itself, and Dream retreated back to his withering disposition. Not without asking for forgiveness, though. In his own deflective way. "...I would like to. To eat. I–"

"It's alright, Dream." Hob reached to take his hand again, without asking this time. He assumed his welcome was extended, and Dream was relieved to not have to grant it again. "If anyone is calling the shots here, it's you, okay? You want to eat, we eat. I'd love to assist you in it too, if you'll have me."

Hob seemed to have the workings of his fragile mind figured out, at least now. Maybe he'd seen this particular brand of rudeness stemming from desperation, maybe Dream had behaved like this every time he opened his eyes since being rescued. Dream would have punished rudeness like that if it had ever been directed at him, but Hob seemed to see beyond the offence and straight into the heart of the issue. "...you are too lenient."

His gentle friend chuckles, and Dream feels a tingling on his stomach. "Not leniency. Compassion." He begins to move to get up, but stops himself, turning once more to look at Dream's wondrous expression. "Would you like to eat here or in the kitchen? Might do you good to get off the ol' bed. A nice chance to change the sheets for you too."

Dream ponders. Hob would change the sheets for him. Would bathe him, brush his hair. Find clothing in a choice of colour that appeased him. He'd done so much already. So much . "...in the kitchen."

Hob's face seemed to light up at that. He always seemed excited when Dream was willing to try something new, and this was no exception. Now, memory fully restored, Dream could truly appreciate the sentiment. "How do you feel about walking?"

"I feel...unwilling." He'd give anything to walk, run, fly even, if he had the strength for it. But he'd give everything for a chance to be held. Of the many things Dream had been cruelly deprived of, touch was the one he was the most ashamed to admit he'd missed. Such a base need, an animal want, a desire , pesky thing. He did not need touch, he did not. Did not . He craved it . Craved affection how his physical form craved air, so desperately it almost sent him into a panic again. His unwillingness to walk might get him what he so desperately wants. 

"That's fine, my– Dream ." My. Dream. "May I pick you up?" My Dream . "Haven't been able to get you a wheelchair yet." My Dream.  Harder to get a hold of one in the area than I remembered." His Dream. 

There's a breathlessness to Dream's voice when he remembers he must speak to be heard in the Waking, unless he uses his powers, of which he currently is unable to do without considerable strain. Voicing things physically is more difficult than he'd remembered. It takes a sort of willpower he never quite understood and always underestimated. "...you may."

[nitin1996]

Breaking Free from Addiction at Umeed Wellness Rehabilitation Centre in Delhi

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At Umeed Wellness Rehabilitation Centre in Delhi, recovery is not just about quitting substances; it’s about rediscovering a life of purpose, strength, and hope.

[ladyespera]

visions of v by tomio ogata

[4dorks-1windmage-1shadow]

Vaati as a D&D Character, Part 6: Vaati

Inspired by a question I saw on @hauntinghyrule ‘s blog. My character analysis and thoughts on what character class the boys would be if they were D&D characters, and why. Also! @atinybitweird has been drawing the boys D&D designs, and she’s doing really great! I’ll link to her posts on the individual analysis as well as reblog them here so look out for those : D

Green / Red / Blue / Vio / Shadow / FS Zelda

As a preface, there won’t be any doubles on classes except in the case of dual-classing, and in those cases the first class I talk about my justifications for will be the primary class (i.e. the class they would have chosen at level one). My choices will be based on the character theming and personalities, even though at a base level it would be easy to say “they’re all paladins, duh” because of the implied “holy knight chosen by the gods to eradicate evil” concept.  HA I TRICKED YOU We’re talking about Vaati now. I’m gonna blow your mind. Here’s a revolutionary concept I bet nobody’s thought of before (I’m being sarcastic do NOT message me): Vaati’s not a sorcerer, he’s a wizard. Or rather he was a wizard before he abandoned his studies to cheat his way to becoming a powerful Sorcerer. But Athena, he’s the Sorcerer of Winds, not the Wizard of Winds? Why is he a wizard then? BECAUSE CHILDHOOD THAT’S WHY. Vaati’s origin story is that he was the apprentice of a renowned and legendary Minish sage, Ezlo. Wizards are the only magic users who become magic users through study- both personal study and through apprenticeships and formal schooling. Until Vaati used Ezlo’s Wishing Cap to turn himself into a Sorcerer (thereby dual-classing from an intelligence based spellcaster to a charisma based spellcaster), he was probably learning to harness the arcane arts through good old fashioned book learning (and of course, Ezlo’s tutelage). He may have even chosen an Arcane Tradition to study under Ezlo before realizing that the Wishing Cap was a quicker shortcut to the power and change that he wanted to enact. You only need 2 levels in Wizard to choose an Arcane Tradition, and at that point the only abilities Vaati really has is some low-level Wizard spellcasting, Arcane Recovery, and the 2nd level Arcane Tradition ability which is pretty fitting and just shows how lazy Vaati ended up being.  Every Arcane Tradition has a little section telling you what the school of magic is about, and the one that made me think “oh yeah, that’s what Vaati would be into” was the School of Transmutation description. It reads thus:

 “You are a student of spells that modify energy and matter. To you, the world is not a fixed thing, but eminently mutable, and you delight in being an agent  of change. You wield the raw stuff of creation and learn to alter both physical forms and mental qualities. Your magic gives you the tools to become a smith on reality’s forge.

Some transmuters are tinkerers and pranksters, turning people into toads and transforming copper into silver for fun and occasional profit. Others pursue their magical studies with deadly seriousness, seeking the power of the gods to make and destroy worlds.” - Player’s Handbook, Page 119

You’ll notice I bolded some stuff in those paragraphs- that’s because they can directly relate to events in Vaati’s timeline as a character. He has five forms which, as far as I know, makes him the villain with the most forms out of all the Zelda villains. His most plot relevant moments involve him transmuting someone into a different form including himself, the Gleerok in the Cave of Flames, the Great Mayfly Fairy (in the manga), Ezlo, and Princess Zelda. His element is Wind, which is most commonly associated with change, adaptation and flexibility, and Transmutation is about mastering magic that does these exact things. Vaati’s ultimate goal was to become a “perfect” version of himself by finding the Light Force and using it to turn himself into a god, which worked for the entire Vaati Reborn battle. If he had just applied himself to his studies under Ezlo, he wouldn’t have needed to cheat and use the Wishing Cap to make himself a powerful sorcerer. Just for fun, lets talk about what he would have gained by only being a wizard. First, he would have access to certain spells that he could cast without using spell slots, including Polymorph. School of Transmutation lets him create a Transmuter’s Stone, which he can use to grant himself darkvision, increase his speed, grant himself proficiency in Constitution saving throws, or resistance to acid, cold, fire, lightning or thunder damage. This Transmuter’s Stone could later be used to emit a burst of power that would allow him to transform objects no bigger than a 5 ft cube into other objects of similar sizes, masses and value, as well as remove all curses, diseases and poisons from an afflicted person while healing them to their maximum HP; he would be able to cast Raise the Dead without using a spell slot and even if he didn’t have it written in his spell book, and even use it to reverse the effects of aging on a person to a minimum of 13 years. He could have had a fucking Philosopher’s Stone but he CHEATED!!! Wizards by far have the most diverse amount of spells that they can learn, and by only taking 2 levels in wizard he locks himself into only having access to level 1 wizard spells and cantrips.  By taking Sorcerer, he still gets access to 9th level sorcerer spells, but the amount of 4th, 5th, 6th, 7th, 8th and 9th level sorcerer spells is half the amount of wizard spells of those same levels. His spells have a wider range of versatility with the Metamagic options supplied by the Sorcerer class, and although he wouldn’t get the cool perks of Transmutation Wizard, Storm Sorcery is nothing to joke about. This is where the Sorcerer of the Winds part comes in- Vaati altered reality using the Wishing Cap and imbued himself with the power of elemental air. He finally gets to use those sweet sweet Evocation, Conjuration and Necromancy spells that I theorize Ezlo wouldn’t have let him dabble into much because the Minish are a peaceful race- why would their sages need to know Meteor Swarm (Evocation) or Flaming Sphere (Conjuration) or Soul Cage (Necromancy)? And Storm Sorcery perks are pretty awesome. Vaati learns to speak, read and write the language of elementals, and whenever he casts a spell of 1st level or higher he can fly up to 10 feet without provoking opportunity attacks. He gains resistance to lightning and thunder damage, and when casting spells of 1st level or higher that deal lightning or thunder damage he can cause anyone within 10 feet of him to take lightning/thunder damage equal to half his sorcerer level automatically. Eventually, when he’s hit with melee attacks he can deal lightning damage to the attacker equal to his sorcerer level and push them away with a burst of wind, up to 20 feet. And his two levels in wizard mean that he still gets the highest Storm Sorcery ability at 18th level: immunity to lightning and thunder damage, and a magical flying speed of 60 feet. Vaati’s transformation really just gives him all of his wishes on a platter, no pun intended- the freedom to fly and power to wield the elements and change himself on the fly- and his high Intelligence stat means he knows how to use those abilities to gain the advantage, making him a formidable opponent and party member. In conclusion, Vaati is a level 2 Transmutation Wizard, who dual-classed to Storm Sorcery Sorcerer through the power of a wish.

[literallyjustanerd]

In His Eyes (Nightangel)

Guys, I’m writing a fanfiction.

It’s been years, but the cruel mistress of fanfiction has pulled me back again. So if any of you guys are into Nightcrawler and Angel and you want to support this destructive habit, I’d love to get some feedback! I’ll put a link here, and I’ll post the first chapter for you too, as a little taste test! The plan is for it to be pretty slow-burning, starting as a friendship and growing pretty organically over about 10 chapters.

Genre: Slow build/eventual romance Word count: 1416 Pairing: Nightcrawler/Angel Rating: T+

Click here to read the first two chapters!

After three months of living at Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters, most students had managed to get accustomed to living amongst mutants and amongst friends. But if there was one thing Warren Worthington III could say about himself, it was he was not most students. At this point, he still hardly even considered himself a student in the first place. He hadn’t wanted to move to the school, but then, he’d been giving in to things he didn’t want since the day he was supposed to have died. 

When he’d been pulled from the plane wreckage, close to death and even closer to unconsciousness, wings mangled with bent feathers jabbing him from all angles, he’d been sure that that would be the end, the final blow in a series of devastations that had brought him to that plane crash. But the light, the sweet release of nothingness he’d decided to embrace never came. Instead, he faced muffled yelling, people poking and prodding him and asking him questions his concussed mind couldn’t comprehend. And pain. So much pain. Pain that screamed in his bones and writhed under his skin, for hours and hours until he was finally put under. When he woke again, the pain continued, its sting dulled but nowhere near quelled by rounds of painkillers and months of rehabilitation. He had to hand it to the Institute: they knew how to heal up a mutant, even when said mutant hardly made it easy for anyone trying to deal with him.

Now, three months after that day and a week after moving into his own room, the sun is rising, tendrils of light reaching over the horizon and through the gaps in Warren’s curtains. He squints, shunning the beam and holding up a hand to block it out, stumbling from the windowsill to his bed. The clang of empty bottles accompanies his uneasy steps, and his head swims through last night’s beer, churning his stomach and threatening to spill. He had no trouble procuring the drink: Peter was always glad for an excuse to get his hands on something he hadn’t paid for. Though lately even he had been growing hesitant, asking Warren if he wouldn’t prefer soda instead. It isn’t long before Warren hears a knock at the door, and at first he hopes he can get away with pretending to still be asleep. But when the knock comes again, along with a timid, thickly accented, “Warren?” he knows that this one can’t be avoided.

The first time Kurt had approached Warren was three days after the crash. He remembered seeing the blue face from underneath swollen, bleary eyes, and thinking that it had to be a fever dream. This face from his past, the reason he’d lost his wing, his one remaining morsel of freedom. Kurt had introduced himself, not as Nightcrawler, as Warren had remembered him, but as Kurt Wagner, and almost instantly, Warren had shoved him away, spitting and cursing that he was the reason he had ended up like this, broken and pitiful. The day his wing had been fried on the electrified cage was the day he had been set on this path. And why would he ever want anything to do with the monster who was responsible for that? It had surprised him when Kurt had appeared again a little over a week later, this time having subdued his smiling, cheerful demeanour in accordance with Warren’s mood. Warren’s memories were fuzzy, a result of the steady stream of pain meds, and all he could remember was Kurt apologising, over and over apologising for what he had done. What the fuck are your apologies worth, Warren had thought, when you’ve already led me to this? And yet, despite the swearing and the insults and the yelling, Kurt kept coming. In truth, he thought he sensed a softening in Warren’s resistance each time he attempted to speak with him: from week to week, he hesitated a little longer before tossing out a cutting remark or demanding to be left alone, and every week the verbal abuse got a little less poisonous. A step towards the reconciliation he hoped for, and the friendship he fantasised about.

“What do you want?” The winged boy finally tosses out, after being lost in thought for what could have been moments or minutes. “I just wanted to say good morning,” Kurt justifies. “How are you feeling today?” “Peachy.” Warren’s retort is dry, weary. Silences set in, and neither is sure how to continue, or whether they even should. “You can come in if you want. Or whatever.” Warren picks at a section of chipped paint on his bedhead as he speaks, digging the talon of his reformed wing into the surface of the wood. A couple of seconds pass, and in a cloud of deep blue-purple smoke, Kurt appears in the centre of Warren’s room. He tries on a smile, the corners of his mouth flicking to the side self-consciously. He does his best to ignore the state the room is in: empty bottles scattered on the floor near the window, clothes strewn across the floor. Pants, mostly – Warren didn’t much like the struggle that it took to put shirts on. Dust whirls in the air, dancing in the sunlight. It looks like the window hasn’t been opened in days, and Kurt wonders how Warren can manage to breathe in a room so stuffy. “How did you sleep?” He asks politely. He does everything politely, Warren thinks with a surge of irritation. “I didn’t.” “Oh.” The blue boy’s eyes skirt around the room, tail twitching restlessly across the faded carpet. He opens his mouth, pauses, and then closes it again. There are too many things he wants to say but now, he feels, is not the right time for any of them. “Breakfast is finishing in ten minutes,” he says finally, his tone resigned. “I thought I’d let you know. Hank said you should keep your energy up.” Warren nods absently in response, his eyes pointedly on the ground.

When Kurt had first seen the Angel in the underground infirmary, only days after the coming back to the school, he had felt the same sickness in his stomach as he had that day in the cage. The sound stuck like glue in his mind: a dull thud accompanied by a buzzing that had made Kurt’s skin crawl for a fraction of a second. Then, the screaming began and the stench of burnt feathers and singed skin overwhelmed him and made his head spin. When he saw Warren again, thrashing in pain in the hospital bed, he swore he could almost smell that foul scent again. He wanted to help, but the moment Warren’s eyes had locked onto him, he was incensed with rage, and Jean had calmly informed him that it would probably be best if he left Warren alone for that time. So he had left, and returned when he could. Though his attempts at apology fell on deaf ears, he hadn’t given up. The guilt drove him to keep trying: all he wanted was to relieve the pain he felt upon seeing Warren, to help him. The recovery process had been long, and though Kurt hadn’t been part of it physically, mentally he struggled to keep from thinking about it. Hank had quickly grown annoyed with how often Kurt had asked about Warren’s progress, and his thoughts drifted often during meals and classes. He had given quite the impression to his new friends at first about being as absentminded as they came. But when Ororo had snapped her fingers in front of his face one night at dinner and demanded to know what was happening in his head, he decided to come clean and tell them about what had happened that day in East Germany. Once he had told the story, to a table that had fallen silent and formed a pocket of stillness amongst an otherwise loud and bustling dining room, their irritation turned to sympathy. It felt nice to Kurt to have people know and understand – he had been keeping it inside so long it had begun to take him over. Once it was out there, the others began to tell their own stories, and when his mingled with theirs, it had begun to feel not smaller, but at least more manageable. More human.

Without any response, the chance of a proper conversation withers. “I- I’ll leave you be now,” Kurt relents. “Sorry to disturb you.” And before Warren can push past his pride to thank Kurt for thinking of him, the boy is gone, leaving only a fast-fading puff of smoke and the faint smell of sulphur in the stale air.

[therealchocolateorange]

A Letter From The Middle

“Suck in, just suck it in! Take a deep breath, let it out, and suck… in!” I remember the broken zip on my year 12 formal dress. How it took a combined effort from my sister and my mum to wrench it shut. The way my mum pursed her lips when I walked out of the fitting room.

The envy I felt watching my best friend accompany the boy I loved to the formal, myself turning up without a date. The embarrassment of my tennis shorts; how they rode up between my thighs.

Reluctantly being dragged to little aths, finishing at the back of every race after being lapped multiple times along the way. How my mum would say “at least you didn’t come last!”, as she put my sister’s gold medal on the counter. How I begged to be able to wear anything but a singlet and bike shorts to run in.

Watching my siblings do flips on the trampoline, desperately wishing I could join in, but not being able to run without the embarrassment of jiggling, let alone trying to do a backflip. Desperately wanting my brother to not call me a “whale” and look at me with disgust. Wondering what it would be like to wear bikinis and sun dresses like my little sister, without constantly being conscious of all the bits sticking out where they weren’t supposed to be.

The first time a belt dug into my stomach so hard it left imprints on my skin. The shame realising it was already on the loosest notch. The realisation that my body was a pressing issue that desperately needed to be fixed.

* * *

I lost over a third of my body weight in under three months. I fasted at my office job and spent my lunch breaks walking laps of the Southbank promenade. I got used to feeling dizzy and my brain on autopilot, saving my daily intake until dinner with my parents.

Suddenly it seemed like everyone cared what I had to say. I had never felt so seen or acknowledged in my life. Well-intentioned people constantly told me how proud they were of me.

I was terrified to gain any weight or attempt recovery because I worried everyone would be disappointed in me. I didn’t want to let anybody down. I felt like my eating disorder was everyone’s favourite thing about me. I internalised the misplaced idea that I needed to continue starving myself if I wanted to keep up my newfound significance. It’s so hard to let go of the one thing that made people see you as something besides the fat girl.

When skinny people lose a significant amount of weight, we assume they are sick and in need of medical attention. When fat people lose a significant amount of weight, we assume they have made healthy lifestyle adjustments and we become role models.

* * *

And then my sister got sick. Suddenly she could no longer run, one of her favourite things in the world, and I could see how desperately she wanted to. She lay in bed for weeks, barely able to lift her head off the pillow. My mum told me her sickness was due to stress about my mental health, so once again wracked with guilt and shame, I decided to run. I laced up my shoes and took off. I’m trying not to cringe at how cliché it is, literally running to try and escape my pain. Forcing my raw and ragged heart to do something other than just be a sucking wound. The pain is channelled into motion. It never leaves me but it pounds in time with my feet on the trail.

It is hard. If it wasn’t, everyone would do it. But it’s a lot of other things, too. For me, it was mostly freedom. An hour to be outside. Time to be by myself unapologetically. A way to disconnect and clear my head. Freedom to challenge myself physically and work toward a goal that had nothing to do with work. That’s what keeps me coming back despite the hard parts.

So many of us move our bodies from a place of shame. We move to get away from a body type we don’t want to be, or to make us feel better about ourselves, which for most of the population really means to not feel lazy or like a slob. The bottom line is that we connect movement and the results of movement with how “enough” we are.

Like so many others’, my movement story started with shame. I started running to lose weight because I believed that my size was my worth; the skinnier I was, the more worthy I was. I ran my first marathon when I was 21, wildly unprepared but somehow managing to enjoy it, finishing the race in under 4 hours.

I wasn’t aware how dangerous it was to be motivated by metrics and aesthetics. I was constantly running toward “being enough” through my body shape and size. But the finish line was always the same distance away no matter how skinny or fast I became, I was never enough. Without my realising it, I’d spiralled into the depths of an eating disorder I’d worked so hard to escape.

* * *

It’s an incredible mental and physical feat to complete a marathon. What’s even more astounding to me is how well I managed to run at all that day. I was at the lowest weight I’d ever been, in the first year of a master’s degree, in the middle of nursing placement with a chest infection and literally running on empty. But somehow, despite this, my body carried me to the finish line, even after all the hurt and punishment that had been inflicted on it. I ran. I didn’t stop. And when I ran I felt freedom, because I could channel my anger into something other than sickness. I marvel at how my broken heart slams around inside my chest. Apparently, it still wants to do its job. In pieces and on fire, it fights.

The month before that race I spent a week at an interstate university sport competition. I spent every single day that week living off butter menthols and alcohol, skipping time out away from my team to go running every afternoon to burn up calories that I really didn’t have to spare. Because I didn’t believe I deserved a spot on that team. Because if I didn’t deserve court time then I didn’t deserve to eat.

Because that’s what shame does, it pushes you and pushes you because nothing you ever do is enough. When you feel pain like that you want to disappear, you want every inch of yourself to fade into the background. You don’t want to be seen, you don’t want to feel anything, because if you do you feel everything at once and all that’s left is the horrors of what you and others have done to you.

Years later, I find myself sitting on the bathroom sink, brushing my teeth until my gums ache because I still cannot get his name out of my mouth. It’s the moments right before falling asleep and upon waking up where I forget the events of that unigames, that everything has changed, that nothing is normal any more. My glow fades as I remember, I remember everything and my stomach drops, because I wish I could get that moment of forgetting back, or better yet, that moment in the past. But I can’t, and I start and end my day with an ache that won’t go away no matter how hard I try.

* * *

I live life like the whole of it is a masquerade ball and the theme is happiness. I have the right collection of curated masks to don; every one of them concealing all the effects of anxiety and MDD and disordered eating in my life. I appear to float through life with a feather-like lightness, all caution thrown to the wind and with a sanguine and self-assured disposition. But that is all part of the plan.

It is an obsession in our culture to conduct ourselves in a manner deemed acceptable according to community norms and unspoken rules. We vehemently seek the invisible stamp of approval from the people around us, committing ourselves to their expectations and policing our every move to ensure we measure up to the yardsticks. And this is escalated exponentially by social media.

The continuity of that in the grown up’s life is that I have a dichotomous existence as I battle emotional turbulence internally and yet do everything within my power to maintain a composed demeanour for the world to see and admire.

My heart aches a little when I think of how I have failed to acknowledge my own reality for so long and have sought to construct a false narrative. But now it occurs to me that there is absolutely no meaning in seeking acceptance from others when the starting point is not acceptance from one’s self.

I am now searching for the keys to unlock my caged emotions so that I might once in a while admit candidly before others that I am not always doing okay. And maybe, just maybe, it will be all right for me to be human.

* * *

We will never know the true measure of anyone’s pain, nor can we accurately gauge their proximity to failure or progress: what I deem to be a mark of success may not be the same as someone else. However, I realised the story I was yearning to read was, in fact, one more like my own. I wanted to hear the candid account of someone in the middle, maybe just past the hardest days of this illness, but not quite to the happy ending where you’ve reached the place you never thought you would. Those narratives are inspiring, and they give me hope for the kind of future I didn’t think I could have.

Anyone who has courageously combated a mental illness knows success doesn’t even need to look like a life of riches and luxuries, but more essentially a home, a healthy and loving relationship, and a career that supports you. But what I haven’t heard much of is from those of us in the middle. It’s easy to feel alone in your struggles and pain when you don’t fully resonate with the people and stories around you. A greater sense of comfort can be found in that very specific kind of camaraderie.

In the not so distant past, my prospect was bleak and observed through the sadness of hollow eyes. There were days at a time spent in bed with anguished tears that turned into desperation and hate and then back again. I quit my job due to the rapidly declining and fragile state of my mental state. I pushed away friends in fear of burdening them with all my pain. I almost failed out of uni. I wasn’t capable of being in a healthy romantic relationship, not to mention the difficulty of explaining the large gaps in my dating history due to mental breakdowns and the sheer lack of desire to be romantically involved at all.

I have made three suicide attempts, with the most recent being earlier this year. It’s like a cancer. Except instead of deteriorating your body, it goes for your mind and the pain emanates from there. It gets worse, the pain doubles by the day. But instead of the cancer taking your life, you’re left there, in a state of agony and no reprieve in sight. If you’re here in this place my sweet friend, please know I have walked there, too. And I promise you it can, and will get better than this.

* * *

Today, I am in a newly reached sort of remission. The warmth of sunlight has finally started to melt the heaviness of a long winter’s snow. My mood has found stability, and while my successes aren’t quite tangible, I have achieved many small victories through the help and guidance of therapy and medication. In a world that values speed and instant gratification, I remind myself that to travel at a slow and steady pace is nothing short of admirable. These hurdles are not insignificant and in that, I stand proud.

I guess it’s hard to come to terms with; there’s fresh fruit on my kitchen counter. It’s not even bruised, and neither is my skin. There are no dishes in the sink these days, and no blood either, and there is food in the fridge. And this is what it means to no longer be living in the fast lane. Getting your shit together requires a level of honesty you can’t even imagine. There’s nothing easy about realising you’re the one that’s been holding you back this whole time.

But sure, I preach positivity and beg my friends to feel self-love, but the joke is that I still sweat over the fact that I haven’t done enough sit ups today to earn my dinner. I know I should love this body; it breathes, it swims, and it damn well knows how to love everything on this Earth other than itself. I stopped eating in first year uni, and still can’t see myself naked in the mirror. All things considered, this is my history. How could I know anything else?

I imagine most of my life playing out like this; in the way that the hot summer’s night will always grow cold again, the way the sun stops shining, how sometimes a hug doesn’t feel long enough and other times it’s suffocating. When you tell someone something but they only hear “I’m still breathing", so they leave thinking that you’re okay because you looked okay and that must mean whatever they say it means. When the pills stop working, when you can’t sleep more than three hours, when your heart is beating so fast and hard you can feel it in your throat. When the words you want to speak get stuck there forever, when your loneliness becomes a comfort. When your bed seems to feel more safe than being with friends, when you feel good for a little while until the darkness begins to settle again.

Maybe it is my fault. The truth is I always planned on dying young; a handful of pills and a bottle of vodka for breakfast, or getting too cozy with an electric socket. It was close, but I made it, and I’m glad. But once you’ve given yourself to the thought of a short-lived life, once your future becomes a back-up plan, getting by is the only thing that matters.

My heart aches a little when I think of how I have failed to acknowledge my own reality for so long and have sought to construct a false narrative. But now it occurs to me that there is absolutely no meaning in seeking acceptance from others when the starting point is not acceptance from one’s self. I am now searching for the keys to unlock my caged emotions so that I might once in a while admit candidly before others that I am not always doing okay. And maybe, just maybe, it will be all right for me to be human.

My future includes sips at fresh coffee, mugs made in classes I took with my friends, an apron for when my clothes get too dusted from making bread, and long runs through the rain. My future looks like a basket full of blackberries and my mother’s recipe book. At some point, I’ll stop crying when every new year introduces itself. I’ll spend my years reading and loving and never being afraid of improving myself because there’s still so much to learn. My future wasn’t always so precious to me, but now that I know what it looks like, there’s no chance I’m going to miss it.