#jennifer down

[origami-houses]

[luthqrs]

my girl did not hear a single word

[gardenofhera]

'A ROCK THE SIZE OF MY FIST' BY JENNIFER DOWN

September 11, 2017 | The Lifted Brow

Photo by Alexina McDougall. Supplied with permission.

1.

There are so many things in the world that I love. Dozing in the sun at the beach after swimming, limbs exhausted, salt drying stiff in my hair. Cutting up vegetables into neat, symmetrical pieces. Any food preparation, really, particularly if I’m listening to a good podcast. The way my dog presses his warm flank against my leg. Fragrant flowers: daphne, freesias, gardenias, violets, jasmine. Dramatic flowers: peonies, magnolias, proteas, foxgloves, hydrangeas, pansies. The strange sick swelling in my chest evoked by certain moments in particular songs, even happy ones, as though my body is unable to metabolise so much emotion. Flying into a city at night and seeing the lit gauze of its streets from the air. The scrunch of a stranger’s fingers at my scalp when the hairdresser gives me a perfunctory shampoo head massage. Cycling on a balmy night when the streets are quiet. Taking a bath when I’m a little drunk. Most things when I’m a little drunk, when my body loosens and the world softens at its edges. The quickening I get when I think of an idea for a story, or a solution to a problem of plot, or when a knot of words unravels in a clean sentence unexpectedly. Stretching out my muscles, sitting on the floor with my nose to my knees. The pearly pink light of a winter dusk.

So many happy memories. My grandfather pricking our names into the skin of green tomatoes in his garden so that when they ripened fat and full, the size of my fist, they were tattooed for us. He told me and my sister the fairies did it. Or him seated at the old player piano with its yellowed keys, badly in need of tuning. He’d never had lessons, and could not read music, but he had a wonderful ear, and turned out credible show tunes and ragtime numbers. He had a non-Parkinsonian tremor in his hands, which more or less disappeared when he played; or, at any rate, did not interfere with his playing. I remember the thud of the sustain pedal beneath his foot, the warped, tinny tone of the notes.

I remember the thud of the sustain pedal beneath his foot

The rare bioluminescent algae I once saw at night down in far-east Gippsland, at a friend’s parents’ house, sparkling in the black salt lake water. My friends and I lay on our bellies on the wooden jetty, transfixed by it. Phosphorescence as bright as the constellations in that country sky. Starlight prickled all around us.

Mountain hiking alone, very happy, a thirty-three-degree afternoon; lactic acid burning in my calves, hot air burning in my lungs; body feeling strong and capable.

Dancing with a friend at a Lee Fields show on a hot summer night in Berlin, moving in helpless ecstasy as he sings La-a-a-a-dies, right at the front of the stage, ahead of all the sober Germans; Fields reaching out to shake our hands at the end of his set, the three of us laughing and spangled with sweat.

Last week I cut through the Fitzroy Gardens at nightfall, walking home from work, and saw the jonquils with their tender faces turned to the sky. The Gardens smelled earthy. It was the last week of winter. The air was blue. The streetlights shone in that way that always makes me think of the line in the Sara Teasdale poem – all the lights are dim and pearled – and overhead, the leaves were sibilant. I watched a man throwing a ball for his dog again and again using one of those moulded plastic scoops, and it pleased me in a gentle way because I could see the dog was having a really good time, and it made me think of my own dog, who is not so interested in chasing balls as being as he is in being touched.

But when I’m depressed, all of it ceases to matter

Pretty light, cold air, turned soil, a quiet walk, a stranger’s kelpie: these things mollify me at my normal, baseline level of mental health. They are enough to constitute a pleasant walk home. But when I’m depressed, all of it ceases to matter. The world is still there, but it’s ugly and futile. My brain attaches semantic attributes to the shapes of things so that I recognise them as ‘a dog’ or ‘some jonquils’, but these stir in me no feeling, no mild joy.

In a dissociative episode, I might doubt that I am, in fact, seeing a dog chasing a ball, and become momentarily convinced that rather than crossing through the Gardens, I was obliterated by a car as I crossed Victoria Parade.

This was not, by the way, leading to a metaphor about the old black dog – which I’ve always found an idiotically benign metaphor for a debilitating and endemic illness with a high mortality rate. Sometimes a dog is just a dog.

In Teasdale’s Spring Night she laments a loss:

'Oh, is it not enough to be Here with this beauty over me? My throat should ache with praise, and I Should kneel in joy beneath the sky. O, Beauty are you not enough? Why am I crying after love?’

So many things in the world that I love, so many happy memories. But, as Teasdale wrote, there are times when none of it is enough.

2.

To frame depression as beautiful is to imagine it, falsely, as John Everett Millais’ Ophelia: an alabaster body wreathed in wildflowers, drowning prettily.

3.

Driving in his old Holden Commodore, my dad played his favourite rock and roll tapes and told me stories about the songs. Jimi Hendrix’s ‘The Stars that Play with Laughing Sam’s Dice’ was said to be a code for LSD, the name of which I also recognised from another of dad’s tales about ‘Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds’; ‘Tears in Heaven’ was written for Eric Clapton’s son, who’d fallen from a 53rd-floor balcony and died; ‘Wish You Were Here’ was about Syd Barrett, whose breakdown led to his eventual departure from Pink Floyd. My parents always talked to me as though I were an adult, so even at five or six, I had developed a strange collection of stories, many of them tragic, about these fantastically gifted but ill-fated stars. They were friendly ghosts to me, those dead rock stars in swimming pools. Poor Jimi. Poor Karen Carpenter, poor Janis Joplin, poor Buddy Holly. Poor Jim Morrison, Robert Johnson, Mama Cass, Marc Bolan, Sid Vicious, Muddy Waters. Many of them hadn’t died from anything related to mental illness at all, but their stories swam together in my head. Car accident, heart attack, heroin. Some drug overdoses were dubiously accidental.

As a child I was mesmerised by Don McLean’s ‘Vincent’, which imagines the life of the gifted but blighted Dutch painter in bittersweet, folky tones. You took your life, as lovers often do, he sings, but I could’ve told you, Vincent / this world was never meant for / one as beautiful as you. The ‘tortured artist’ trope appears again and again in Western art, history and fiction. Woolf and Plath and Eliot and Cobain, and others too many to name. Of course, there have been thousands more institutionalised, medicated, subjected to experimental therapeutic practices, who suffered terribly from mental illness, but who history has forgotten. They were not known for their art, or for anything much, by the general public; they were washerwomen and abattoir workers and railway workers and accountants and schoolteachers and store clerks, and no one documented their lives. Their illness was ugly and shameful instead of something wretchedly exquisite that could be mined for their work. It cost them jobs and houses and marriages and children, and no one remarked, in rose-tinted recollection, on what poisonous genius it all might be ascribed to.

Some research suggests that that high levels of schizotypy...are positively associated with creativity

Some research suggests that that high levels of schizotypy – a cluster of personality traits which are evident, in varying degrees, in us all – are positively associated with creativity. Moreover, self-reported symptoms of depression and anxiety have been shown to be positively associated with psychometric ratings of schizotypy. But while a variety of studies have demonstrated a correlation between creativity and psychopathology, this link is not necessarily causative, if, in fact, it exists at all. Much of this research has been criticised for the way it defines and measures both creativity and mental illness. Much of it has been undertaken in the United States and in Europe. And much of it is conflicting: American clinical psychologist Kay Redfield Jamison notes that while individuals with bipolar disorder are overrepresented in creative professions, “[the] lack of association between unipolar depression and creative occupation is seemingly inconsistent with studies that have found an elevated rate of depression in artists, writers and composers.” How can we possibly find the answers when we’re effectively asking questions in one language, and answering in another? How can we know so much, and so little? And what role do situational or environmental factors play in depression?

A 2015 report by Victoria University and Entertainment Assist surveyed a cross-section of almost three thousand people who worked in entertainment industries across Australia, from performers to technicians. It found that Australian entertainment industry workers experienced symptoms of depression at a rate five times higher than in the general population, and attempted suicide more than double as often as members of the general population. They experienced ‘moderate to severe’ symptoms of anxiety at a rate ten times higher than in the general population. But the report concluded that rather than being linked to an inherent susceptibility toward mental illness, these statistics were attributable to a range of factors associated with working in the industry – financial instability and poor wages, irregular work hours and sleep disturbances, and rampant bullying, racism, sexism and sexual assault. The report recommended the development of industry-specific early intervention programs. Anecdotally and through personal experience, I know many of these problems are present in the literary industry, too. And I can posit half-baked theories about my own anxiety, for example, in relation to my writing: most writers I know are hyper-sensitive people, and most good writers are finely attuned to others and to their environments. This sensitivity is often a positive trait in terms of their work; in day-to-day life it can be terrifying, smothering and exhausting.

For centuries, people have made art despite their depression, not because of it

It is indubitably critical that we better support people dealing with mental illness, irrespective of their occupation. But we must, too, dispel the idea that anguish breeds art; that depression is somehow fecund.

The painter Edvard Munch was famously fearful that, cured of his illness, he would no longer be an artist: “[Treatment] would destroy my art. I want to keep those sufferings.” But a century on, we know more about mental illness, though there is undoubtedly much more research to be done. For centuries, people have made art despite their depression, not because of it.

Photo by Justin Wolfers. Supplied with permission.

4.

The sound of depression, for me, is The Drones’ ‘Shark Fin Blues’, or Harmony’s ‘Cacophonous Vibes’, songs which move me enormously, but to which I can only bear to listen when I’m well. Both songs that build slowly, with restrained guitar and drums giving way to frenzied, distorted noise, both songs that feature swelling female backing vocals as the male singer’s voice cracks and shreds with emotion. Both songs whose berserk grief is most keenly felt when they’re played at great volume.

5.

My GP, a fiercely intelligent, emotionally astute physician who has treated me since I was a child, retires. At some point in the months that follow, the efficacy of the anti-depressant I have taken on and off for three years begins to wane, and I decide to consult a new doctor. I find a general practice near my house, and make an early-morning appointment. The doctor is in his early fifties, perhaps, and he’s handsome in a TV doctor way – crinkly eyes and wavy grey hair. The bio on the practice website informs me he is also interested in music. I sit in his cold room with its leadlight window and explain that for some time now, I have been feeling progressively more and more depressed. I am articulate, I am lucid, I am stolid. Perhaps too stolid. Perhaps one should not be able to discuss their despair with relative equanimity.

The handsome doctor sighs. The way I like to approach mental health is to treat it holistically, he says. Then something about being reluctant to prescribe medication to every sad person who walks into his office. He asks if I’m familiar with the therapeutic pie. I am not. From his desk drawer he extracts a photocopied, hand-drawn pie chart, which he places on the table between us. Medication, he tells me, is just one part of the therapeutic pie. On the chart, this is marked as ‘DRUGS’, and represents 15 per cent. Another segment the same size is labelled ‘PLACEBO’. The next segment is ‘DOCTORS COUNSELLORS’; 30 per cent. The largest segment, the remaining 40 per cent of the pie, is made up of the following:

1. HEALTH – OUTDOORS

2. WORK – FEELING USEFUL HELPING OTHERS

3. LOVE – CREATIVITY

Supplied by the author.

The good doctor sighs almost imperceptibly. His demeanour changes; he becomes abrupt. He prescribes a different variety of SSRI. The dosage on the new script appears radically different from my current drug. When I query this, he tells me the chemical composition is different. I ask whether I should taper off the current drug. The doctor says no; I should not take it anymore. I should have three days ‘clean’, with no medication, then start the new drug the following day. He barely looks at me as I scuttle from the room, still wearing my winter coat.

SSRI discontinuation syndrome is, in fact, well-documented, a fact I’m aware of from previous medical advice; when withdrawing in the past, I’ve been told to gradually lower my dosage. But my depressed brain is passive; no longer able to argue; no longer trusts its knowledge, so I don’t mention it.

My depressed brain is passive; no longer able to argue; no longer trusts its knowledge

For a week, I walk around in a daze. I am forgetful. I am unable to concentrate long enough to finish typing an email. My fingers neglect to hold objects; my coffee cup slips to the floor. When I blink, my vision shudders. The world seems vertiginous. These are common withdrawal symptoms. Months later, this episode will enrage me. But for now, I start the new medication. I wait for it to take effect. The days are so long.

6.

Depression is different things to different people. For some, it’s sleeping all the time to escape consciousness. For others, it’s being kept awake all night by bleak insomnia. It might involve overeating, or disordered eating, or not eating at all; it might be able to be disguised in front of family or colleagues, or it might be readily apparent; it might manifest in physical symptoms, like fatigue, headaches and muscular pain, or in behavioural symptoms, like withdrawing from loved ones, difficulty performing personal hygiene tasks, and substance abuse. It might be several of these things or none of them. Symptoms might change, or disappear and reappear with different episodes.

I am descended from worriers on both sides of my family tree. My grandparents were of an era and class that rarely treated, if acknowledged, illnesses like depression, bipolar disorder and clinical anxiety. My maternal grandmother was raised by her father and her grandmother after her mother left, or was told to leave – I’ve heard several versions of the story – following what would likely today be diagnosed as postpartum psychosis. My maternal grandfather learned yoga and meditation, in the community hall classes where his florist wife, the same woman abandoned by her mother as a baby, taught flower-arranging techniques on a different weeknight. He used to practice daily, after arriving home from work, to alleviate his anxiety. My mother recalls sneaking into her parents’ bedroom as a child to peek in on him where he sat at the foot of his bed, concentrating on his breath, and tickle his feet.

After the handsome doctor and the therapeutic pie, it takes me two months to conjure the velleity, energy and confidence to seek out another GP. In this time, my depression worsens so that I begin to fantasise about stepping out in front of the trucks that hurtle past on the major arterial I cross walking to work. As it happens, the new physician is thorough, sympathetic and practical. She takes copious notes, then gives me the K10 to fill out. The Kessler Psychological Distress Scale is a simple checklist-style test that asks the patient to self-report the frequency of a range of symptoms associated with clinical depression and/or anxiety. It is not infallible, but it is a quick, simple and cost-effective starting point for assessing the mental health of someone you’ve just met, and how to best proceed with treatment. Based on my score, the doctor decides to increase my dosage, with a view to switching medication if it remains ineffective. She will consider psychologists she believes to be a ‘good fit’ for me, and give me a referral. She will get the ball rolling with a psychiatrist in case I require one at a later date, to avoid waiting lists should things become critical. She draws my blood and tells me I need more iron, more vitamin D, and so on; that these dietary factors won’t cure depression, but have been linked to it. She makes a plan with small steps, achievable by even someone paralysed by depression.

She makes a plan with small steps, achievable by even someone paralysed by depression

It takes many months and yet another change in medication, but slowly, things begin to change, and I begin to feel human once more. It is not lost on me how fortunate I am to have found this doctor. And I’m acutely aware, even as I write this, of the privilege I hold, and the ways in which it enables me to seek medical advice and receive treatment, even when the process is fraught with difficulty. I’m a white, cisgender, able-bodied woman; a tertiary-educated native English speaker with higher-than-average medical literacy.

I’m aware of my brothers and sisters incarcerated in detention centres, who, having already suffered traumas greater than I can imagine, and fled their homes, are subjected to further human rights abuses sanctified by the government whose protection they sought.

I’m aware of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people who experience, daily, the ongoing violence of colonialism, and whose health outcomes – already poorer than those of non-indigenous Australians – are at the mercy of a largely white-centric healthcare model.

I’m aware of people of colour and people who experience quotidian discrimination on the basis of their ethnicity or religion. There’s a wealth of medical literature identifying racism as a pathogen of depression and anxiety.

I’m aware of the LGBTQI+ community, who face a variety of barriers in accessing medical care, such as homophobia, transphobia and heterosexism, as well as unique risk factors for psychological distress associated with their sexuality and/or gender identity; indeed, LGBTQI+ people have the highest suicide rates of any population in Australia.

I’m aware of people whose physical disabilities present a challenge in accessing certain services and buildings, and those whose hearing impairments or intellectual disabilities, for example, can render communication difficult.

I’m aware of migrants and non-native English speakers who may experience complex linguistic and cultural barriers to accessing healthcare – and the native English speakers whose literacy skills make it arduous or daunting to navigate the system.

If it’s this hard for someone like me to get the help I need, there are many, many others for whom it’s nigh on impossible

I’m aware of children in out-of-home care, exposed to far greater rates of physical, psychological and sexual abuse than any of us would like to imagine possible – often at the hands of the very figures supposed to protect them.

I’m aware of people who can’t afford the price of getting to a clinic, or the prescription, or the psychologist, or the outpatient care.

Photo by the author.

7.

Once I stood with some friends at the top of a colossal waterfall. We were humbled by its size and splendour, and kept discovering in it new wonder as we examined it from different vantage points. A stranger took a picture of the four of us standing in front of it in our spray jackets. In the photo, the waterfall’s scale is not readily apparent, but our faces are full of joy. Before we turned to go, one friend joked that we each pick up a rock from the ground and hurl it into the water while naming something we wanted to let go of. She cried Manipulative people! and we all applauded and laughed. The second friend yelled her ex’s name as she flung a sizeable rock into the rushing water. The third hollered Workplace sexism! as her stone sailed toward the falls. I was self-conscious, torn between a pisstake and sincerity. It was the daggy, theatrical kind of faux-symbolic act my friends dream up all the time. Sometimes when we eat dinner as a group, we go around the table and say our favourite thing about the day. We clap for one another’s potluck dishes, or driving stints on long car trips. At last I tossed my rock and yelled Bad mental health! The other three whooped and cheered. It felt like a naff team-building exercise, but it was oddly cathartic. That’s it, said a friend as we walked back to the carpark. You’re cured. We laughed and laughed. This was in 2015, before last year’s episode; at the time, I was perfectly healthy. But I was under no illusion, as I hurled a rock the size of my fist into the white-rushing water, that I was divesting myself of the complex bundle of neurological, genetic, environmental and personality factors that, every so often, causes me to unravel.

To conceive of depression as Ophelia is a delusion borne of privilege

When I read an article in a major daily newspaper suggesting depression is “less a treatable pathology than a spur to spiritual discovery,” I’m struck by the recklessly out-of-touch attitude and dismissiveness of literal decades’ worth of research. How one treats their mental illness is a highly personal decision, but one best informed by medical advice and the patient’s individual needs in relation to their diagnosis. To conceive of depression as Ophelia is a delusion borne of privilege, and only an affluent white woman could describe therapy as the “best fun ever […] Enjoyable, satisfying.” Romanticising it risks discouraging people from seeking the treatment they need, or from continuing their existing treatment. It undermines the severity and the danger of the illness. “Sorrow, at least the knowledge of it, adds depth. And of course beauty […] We know that huge proportions of poets and thinkers suffer depression. Perhaps they're the chosen – prescients, warning us that life is too short, too precious to tie to the treadmill.” What utter codswallop, I think. What irresponsible bullshit.

It must be nice to have the luxury of conceptualising clinical depression as a “melancholy hinterland” instead of a cognitive and emotional wasteland. To divide a circle into segments and pass it across a desk as a remedy for “spiritual malaise”. Must be nice to think of a sweet-faced, chlorotic woman slipping silently below the river’s surface.

[andfangs]

i'll leave my love between the stars

[slasherscream]

Crazy Ass Girls Gang ft. killing the reader’s rapist

warnings: yandere behavior, subject matter is rape/sexual assault, gore warning in some parts - YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED

TIFFANY VALENTINE:

Tiffany knows something happened to you. Call it woman's intuition. Maybe just call it true love. Or obsession. Whatever it is she can sense a hole in you. A gaping pit of misery that you try and hide. Try and fight against.

Tiffany tries to help, when you let her. Most of the time you don't. Instead of admitting to being so depressed you can’t move or eat, you'll feign physical illness. You pretend you're crying because some part of your body hurts. Tiffany knows better. Knows it’s something in your soul itself. Aching. 

Tiffany let's it go on for as long as she can stomach it. The relationship was still so new. You'd just moved in together. Just finished pulling your separate lives into one. Picking out the throw pillows, what color to paint the walls. Argued playfully over bedding and mattress firmness. Is it too early to push? 

She watches you at the breakfast table, on the really bad days, eating mechanically, no joy in your movement or behind your eyes. She doesn't want there to be anything between you. Any secrets. Any distance. If you're hurting she wants you to lean on her. To need her as much as she needs you. To know she’ll catch you, no matter what it is she’ll catch you. It’s enough to leave her in tears every time you put on that awful fake smile. 

She wakes one night, blinking into the darkness. For a moment, she's not sure what woke her. Moonlight streams in from the window. The sound of the fan whirring across the room. Her eyes begin to drift shut again when she hears a muffled sob come from the bathroom. Her hand falls to your side of the bed, instinctively. She closes her eyes when she realizes how cold your side has gone. How long ago did you wake up? How quickly did you decide to crawl from bed and hide from her again? Always hiding. 

It's too much, now. You crying alone in the bathroom in the middle of the night is too much. She throws open the door and takes you into her arms, cooing softly, own eyes watering at the way you go limp against her so quickly. Here she'd been trying to give you space and what you needed was her affection, her tenderness, the whole time.

"What's wrong, huh, baby-doll? You gonna tell your Tiffany what's wrong now? Please?" She whispers against your hair, kissing the crown of your head.

You haven't said the words out loud in so long but you're tired of fighting the demons, and the nightmares, and the misery, all on your own. You've held it in so tightly since you met her. As if you'd taint her just by saying the words. But you love her, and you just want to stop hiding.

When you tell her she goes still. For just a second. Her arms tighten around you like a vice. She begins to rock you gently, cooing reassurances in your ear. She tells you to let everything out and you do. Now that you know she’ll still love you. That she’ll still be here for the aftermath. You can’t stop yourself.

By the end you feel exorcized. Alive. Softened and made new by the level of tenderness Tiffany had shown you. She gathers you from the floor of the bathroom, wipes both of your tears away and kisses you gently. She tucks you back into bed and asks only one more question: 

“What was their name again, sugar bear?” You don’t hesitate to tell her. It warms her heart the way you curl into her side without anymore hesitation. The space between you gone now. 

You sleep deeply that night. You wake up to an empty bed and are surprised. Usually, no matter how late you sleep in Tiffany is still wrapped around you. Just as much a night owl as you, early mornings are rare.  

You pass by the laundry room, notice that the washer and dryer are both going. You thought you did all the laundry a few days ago. You peek into the washer and notice how red the water is. Tiffany must have been attacked by the creative spirit, gotten messy using some paint. 

You hope she didn’t use acrylics this time, the stains never come out. 

You walk through the house calling for your girlfriend. No answer. You step out onto the back porch and there she is. Bathed in the early afternoon sun. Your whole body relaxes when you see her in the garden, bent over, planting a whole new row of flowers. She’s absolutely covered in dirt. You smile, feeling happier than you have in ages. You rush out to join her in the sunlight and throw your arms around her. 

“I love you, Tiff.” You cover her face in kisses, ignoring the dirt.

“I love you too, baby-doll. I love you more than anything.” Tiffany kisses you back, sweet and passionate. Playfully, she spins you to lay beneath her and revels in the sound of your carefree, shrill laughter. 

She hopes they can hear you, just barely, through the layers of dirt she buried them in. With their last breath she hopes they hear your laughter and realize they didn’t break you. 

JORDAN LI:

You weren’t answering your phone. Not their calls. Not their texts. It was enough to have them shrugging on their jacket and stomping out of their dorm into the cool night air.

They’d had a bad feeling about letting you go out alone tonight. You always partied together. Usually with Jordan’s friends, who had become yours. Jordan hated the old group you used to run with. Disloyal. Stupid. Selfish. Now she wishes you’d at least taken one of those fake groupies. At least then you wouldn’t be alone. 

She walks through the party, a brick wall, shoving people aside as she calls your name. Anxiety prickles the skin at the back of her neck. She jogs up the stairs, taking them two at a time. She throws open door after door, music from the party too loud to even fucking think. 

Jordan’s angrier by the second, wondering if something happened to you. She hopes you just lost your phone. If someone stole it she’ll break their fucking jaw. 

The last door in the hallway, she sees two bodies on the floor, one moving against the other in the dim light. She rolls her eyes about to slam the door shut and go look for you in the kitchen again. As she goes to close the door she stops dead when she hears a whimper from the floor. The tiniest noise of pain, a drowsy “stop”. The scene looks different now.

She steps into the room, forgetting about you for one second, heart pounding in her ears. Jordan pulls the person on top off by their hair, hard enough to hurt. When she sees it’s Rufus she let’s out a laugh of anger and blasts him across the room with her power. Hard enough that he leaves a dent in the wall. 

Jordan turns to the person on the ground, hoping the short distance between them and Rufus will make his fucking pheromone bullshit wear off. 

“Are you-” Her blood stops. It’s you, on the floor. Your outfit torn and ripped. Tears are running down your cheeks but your eyes still have that drugged shimmer that might as well be that walking roofie’s calling card. 

“Jordan?” You mumble from the floor, dazed and confused. 

Rufus makes a sound from across the room, getting to his feet. Jordan stops breathing as she turns. They make eye contact. Fear in one pair. Anger so strong it’s inhuman, in the other.

Jordan’s across the room in an instant. Her fist breaks his jaw with the first blow. Everything after that is a blur. She comes back to herself when she feels a stabbing pain shoot through her fist and she pulls her hand away with a hiss. Bone fragment cutting into her hand. 

The haze of the rage falls away and Jordan realizes how wet she feels.  She looks down at her clothes. Sees how soaked in blood they are. Then her eyes fall to the mess she’s left on the floor. She almost throws up. Shakes her hands and feels brain matter slide off of them.

She thinks, what the fuck did I just do? What the fuck did I just do? 

“Jordan?” You call from across the room, sounding less drugged. 

She looks over at you and tears burn her eyes. Numb, she climbs off the body and rushes to you, looking you over. The tears fall when she sees the bruises, the small cuts. You must’ve fought him, even through the haze of his powers. You’ve always been a fucking fighter. She should have fucking been here. She doesn’t want to touch you with the blood on her hands but you don’t give her a choice, falling into her arms sobbing. She forces back her own. This is her fault. You’re the only one who deserves to cry. 

“I’m so fucking sorry.” Jordan mumbles, hands shaking as they leave bloody smears across your skin. What else can she say?

NANCY DOWNS:  

Secret keeping doesn’t work with Nancy. No matter how small of a secret, or a lie, she can sniff it out. Furthermore she hates when you lie. About anything. You should always tell each other the truth. You're one soul in two separate bodies, as far as Nancy is concerned. 

Even before she did the spell to bind you to one another permanently. 

Because of the magic she can feel what you’re hiding now. She had a suspicion before. But now she knows. Now she fucking knows. She’s furious, and heartbroken, and she knows. 

You still try and hide it, though. As if you can hide anything from the other half of your fucking soul.  

“Enough, Y/N.” She spits at you one night, when you’re trying so hard not to think about it. Not to feel. 

She doesn’t know why you’re blocking her out. Not letting her feel it with you. Whatever you suffered. Whatever harm that befell you it would be avenged times three if you just let her in.

Nancy’s magic has always been stronger. She was being kind before. Hoping you would come to her on your own. She sees now that you need to be encouraged. She’s still gentle, somehow, as she invades the sanctity of your mind. For one instant your consciousness is her consciousness, and you’re both one being, sharing every thought and feeling. 

She sees it. Feels it. Lives what you lived, in that single moment. She pulls herself out of your mind, eyes hauntingly empty. They meet yours, register you, and fill with tears slowly. You reach out, in sync and Nancy pulls you to her. You can’t tell apart the sounds of your voices as you start to scream and sob. 

You pass out, eventually. Either from exhaustion or a spell Nancy placed on you. You wake in your shared bed to her standing over you, covered in blood. A knife in one hand, something meaty and dripping in the other. When your eyes adjust fully to the moonlight you realize it’s a human heart. 

“It’s okay, Y/N. You're safe now. You’ll always be safe, with me. You understand?” Nancy coos, petting your face with the hand holding the knife. It cuts you. You start to cry and you’re not sure if it’s from relief. 

JENNIFER CHECK:

You come home from the party you attended quietly. You open the door without a sound. Kick off your shoes. Put down your bag. You’ve shut yourself into the bathroom before she can even ask how it went. Immediately, her hackles are up. Irritation and concern. You know she hates being ignored. You never ignore her. You didn’t even say hello. 

Jennifer knocks on the bathroom door, trying to keep her voice playful as she asks what your deal is. You don’t respond. The sound of running water is the only thing she can hear. She pounds on the door, getting nervous. 

Then she picks up the smell of prey. You smell like prey. Dried sweat perfumes your skin, the sweetest smelling kind, that only one emotion causes: primal fear. The faintest whiff of blood and tears.

She breaks down the door. You don’t even notice. Don’t even look away from the mirror. You just go on trying to wipe the blood from your face. Your lip is busted. Hair a tangled mess. Scrapes along your cheek and neck, collarbone. Your clothes are a mess too. Rips and tears in fabric that was pristine a few hours ago.

“Baby?” Jennifer says again, feeling sick. Still nothing. 

She reaches out to touch you, gently. You come alive, jolting away from her with a scream. It’s the type of fear she’s heard a thousand times. Right before she rips out an organ or a throat. 

It’s the breaking of a dam and you fall to the ground, sobbing, still trying to wipe away at your skin. Any bit of skin you can reach. Jennifer tries to wrestle the rag from you. You’re being too rough, you're only human. You’re so breakable. You fight against her, sobs getting louder. 

“Baby stop fighting me!” Jennifer begs, uncharacteristically.  Between your sobs she makes out the words of you needing to clean yourself and her eyes fill with tears. She didn’t know she was capable of tears still.

“Stop.” Jennifer commands, voice going inhuman, harmonic. You go still, entranced by the full force of her power. Jennifer feels the tears falling down her cheeks. Watches your own tears cut bloody, miserable lines down your face. 

She takes the rag and gently wipes at your cuts. She peels away your ruined clothes. Starts the bath and places you inside it. Every time her hold on your mind starts to wane, and that animal fear of harm kicks back in, she speaks to you. She doesn’t let the control slip until your body stops secreting that awful smell of terror. 

“Who did this, baby?” She asks quietly, trying not to focus on the haunted look on your face. 

You don’t answer her. She swallows. 

“That’s okay, baby. I’ve got the scent anyways.” She tucks you into bed, orders you into a dreamless sleep that you couldn’t hope to fight off. 

She doesn’t come back home until the morning. The blood beneath her fingernails makes her itch. The smell of the monster she killed is putrid in her nose. She showers under water so hot it singes even her skin. When she crawls into bed beside you, before she falls asleep, she thinks about how hungry she is. She curls her entire body around yours.

She hadn’t been able to stomach even the thought of eating your fucking rapist. 

CARRIE WHITE:

You’d just moved into this house together. It was a nice enough neighborhood. Cozy. Nothing too big or expensive. The dorms at university had been too loud and hectic for Carrie. For this semester you’d decided you needed to build a life together. 

She’d never been happier than she was while painting the walls with you. Picking out lamps, and blankets, and a shoe rack. She remembers the way she’d used telekinesis to haul the heavy couch inside while the two of you held your hands underneath and pretended to carry it. The elderly neighbors all watching from their porches with dropped jaws. When you took one hand away to wave at them Carrie had to rush you both inside before she actually dropped the couch from laughing. 

You went to class together. Cooked and cleaned side by side. Carrie tailoring clothes for money and you tutoring. It was good. Life was good. After years of suffering, you were her heaven on Earth. 

Carrie came home from grocery shopping, humming quietly to herself. She knew you were home but didn’t call out for you. You’d told her you were tutoring someone this afternoon. Some of the subjects required a lot of focus, especially if you were already struggling with the material. She’d brought extra snacks in case they were hungry. 

She set the groceries down in the kitchen and walked into the living room. She froze in her tracks. You were there, and there was your student, on top of you. You locked eyes with Carrie, over their shoulder. They were holding you down. You’d been gagged to keep you from screaming. So the neighbors wouldn’t hear.

They were assaulting you in your own home. In the home you shared with her. Her vision whited out. 

She came to with your hands gently shaking her awake. She screamed when she saw you. You were covered in blood. In gore, and chunks of flesh. The sight alone brought back such horrible memories she turned over and threw up. You held her hair back, as if the blood on your hands was less awful than vomit. 

She tried to look…. To see what she’d done. But you won’t let her look past you. You’re sobbing and still trying to protect her. Even though she hadn’t protected you. Her whole world. Her angel, that God sent her, and she’d let you be defiled. She’d failed you. 

You fall apart in each other’s arms, trying to ignore the headless body a few feet away.

GINGER FITZGERALD:

You’d thought she’d under-reacted, when you told her. ‘She’s being unusually calm’ was your exact thought. But you were so tired, after years of holding in the dark secret. You were just relieved to have her acceptance, without hesitation, without disgust. 

She asked no questions that could leave you wondering about anything. On whether or not she thinks it’s your fault. If she thinks you should’ve fought back harder. If she thinks you’re weak. Tainted. Dirty. She says all the perfect words, everything you’ve ever needed to hear. She held you close and whispered them, and kissed you the same as always. 

She treats you no differently. You let yourself soften in the reality of a devotion that only Ginger can give. 

But you knew she was under-reacting. 

You walk into your living room a week later and see Ginger sitting on the couch, your rapist beaten within an inch of their life, bound and gagged at her feet. Her face lights up when she sees you. She grins like a wolf, canines sharper than usual. 

She stomps on their head as she skips to greet you, grabbing you by the hips. She ignores your gaping mouth when she kisses your cheek affectionately, “Brought you a little gift, baby.” 

“I almost just killed them, but I wasn’t sure if you wanted-”

“Wanted to what, Ging?” You cut her off, breathless, eyes glued to that hauntingly familiar face.

“Wanted the chance to make them suffer, before they die.” Ginger whispers, staring at you so lovingly you almost start to cry.

You tug her into your arms and laugh wetly when she starts to purr. You can see the way her tail wags beneath her skirt. She’s always so eager to please.

“I don’t know if I can do that, Ginger.” You admit into the skin of her neck. 

“Sure you can.” Ginger coos, taking you by the hands and leading you over to the shivering body on the ground. “I’ll show you how.”

She takes off the gag so you can hear the screams better. 

[vampir-el]

i can’t stand this fucking show

[crewman-penelope]

Favourite scene in a fantasy film

Labyrinth - Ballroom Dance

As the world falls down

[queenofshilla]

"No waving and smiling this time. I want you to look straight ahead as if the audience and this whole event are beneath you." — CATCHING FIRE (2013)

[canislupusangelus]

THEY DID THE THING!!!!!!!!!! The gingersnaps(and jennifers body) hallway thing!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[jareauism]

the leather jeather and the pose screams CUNTY DYKE. i don't make rules

[eyesontheskyline]

I think what a lot of people are not taking into account right now is the specificity of fandom culture / language.

Paget Brewster is not in fandom. She's excited about its existence, and who wouldn't be, right?? Imagine bringing a character to life that people care about enough to ship them with other characters and write stories and make edits etc. But being in a fandom is a specific culture that's different to being a fan of a show, and she very much gives the vibe with everything she says that she doesn't get that. Most people don't who aren't part of it.

Like I was talking to people in work recently about binge watching TV shows and one of them was like "oh I've been watching Criminal Minds recently, I ugly cried when Hotch's wife died", except (1) she said Hodge which means she's never seen his name written down, and (2) she probably then just went about her day without feeling compelled to like... spend every second of her free time for weeks writing a story exploring that moment that affected her. Like for her (and most fans), it's a TV show, you engage with the material as it is and maybe you really love it.

Paget is engaging with Jemily as if the Jemily people are fans of the interactions between Emily and JJ. She's had years of people sharing their 'favourite Jemily moments', which have all been platonic friendship moments, at least in the script's opinion. She has to ask her social media followers how to unblock messages, and what the deal is with people calling her "mother" and "mommy". She doesn't speak the language of fandom (or the language of Gen Z) and she's accidentally drawing a huge target on herself by hyping Jemily without knowing either literally what "is Jemily canon" means or emotionally what it means to people who are in fandom as opposed to being a big fan of the show.

Idk I just hope you guys will remember to be nice to her when this season comes out.

[0hwonderboy]

“Hoi, I’m Tim!”

7 months later and im thinking about this

[luthqrs]

JENNIFER ‘JJ’ JAREAU and EMILY PRENTISS in CRIMINAL MINDS 3x14 | 'Damaged'

[izzylimon]

🖤🦇 source: Velvet Gothic track: Enigma - Sadeness

[heavenlygirl222]

girlblogger movies

made by me 🧁🎀🩶

[slasherscream]

Crazy Ass Girls Gang ft. what type of yandere are they

warnings: yandere behavior - YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED

Tiffany Valentine / clingy, obsessive, manipulative 

You'd better be damn sure you want to be with Tiffany before you ever bring up dating her because there is no escape once you've embarked on the exciting journey of being her romantic partner.

But if we're being honest you never really had a choice. You think you met organically? Became close by fate? No, Tiffany saw you and wanted you and decided to have you.

It was love at first sight on her part.

You'll be friends for a few months as she weaves the inescapable web around you. Best friends, actually. You'll tell her absolutely everything about yourself. Learn everything about her in turn. It's pure bliss to have a friend like Tiffany. Supportive, charming, affectionate.

You can tell she loves you more than anything. Loves you more than anyone else has ever loved you before, and she isn't afraid to show it.

You probably already had a partner when you met Tiffany. She was heartbroken when you first told her. The heartbreak didn't last long. Why cry over spilled milk? She wants to take it slow with you anyways, make sure that this time every aspect of the life you build together will be perfect.

She's come in too heavy before. You can't rush perfection, her mother always told her. For you, the lesson is finally worth learning.

Everything can be a tool. In the right hands. And Tiffany's hands? Why, they're incredibly skilled. She uses your soon-to-be-ex as a diving board for your upcoming relationship with her. Even if you'd been perfectly content with the relationship until you met Tiffany, suddenly everything is awful.

Tiffany points out every mistreatment. Every cancelled date. Every strange tone they used when talking to you. Every shitty, unoriginal gift. Every moment they weren't enthusiastic enough about good news you had to share.

It gets to the point where you can't even look at them half the time. You'll end dates with your partner early just to go spend more time with Tiffany: "What do you think they meant when they said that, Tiff?" / "I think they forgot who they were talking to, sweetheart! They're lucky I wasn't around or I would've cut out their tongue."

Tiffany has you so wrapped around her finger she's not even the one who suggests the break up. She was still going to wait a month or two before she began to truly push.

But when you show up at her doorstep in the middle of the night, holding flowers and her favorite takeout, rambling about how you've been so blind and it's always been Her...

Well, she has to smile as she pulls you in, savoring the last first kiss your lips will ever gift another soul.

She almost forgot how good she is at getting what she wants.

Jordan Li / protective, obsessive, lucid

You're so sweet. It was the first thought Jordan remembers having about you. The beginning of the end. They haven't been able to stop thinking about you since that one fatal moment.

Jordan has plenty of other things to think about. Things that should outclass you in importance easily. Their ranking, Brink's careful mentoring, their grades. They tell themselves that it all still matters more than you but they know they're lying to themselves.

It scares them a little, how much they actually think about you. Not a minute can go by without their thoughts drifting to you.

Did you eat today? / Your next class is in ten minutes, let me walk you, I've got the time. / You were running out of your favorite perfume. Got you a new bottle. / You look upset. Did someone fucking say something to you?

They can't help the way they hover around you during every spare moment they can find.

Jordan knows your schedule by heart to maximize the amount of time you can spend together. It's a balancing act they have to play with their brain for the simplest of tasks: you can spend the rest of the day with Y/N but you have to finish grading these essays first.

They can't function properly when they go too long without you. They swing on their sparring partners too hard. Stare at the clock during lectures instead of listening. They rip textbooks and snap pens by holding them too tight.

Sometimes they have to give up and call you. If they can't go and see you for whatever reason the sound of your voice makes it better. Hearing you talk, the sound of you breathing, laughing. It helps. Calms the buzz beneath Jordan's skin. They dial your contact, glaring into space as they wait for you to pick up. As soon as you do their body relaxes.

They recognize that their behavior isn't normal. Always needing to know where you are, who you're with. Feeling sick when they don't know.

You're like a drug for Jordan. They know you're an addiction, the way you've crawled under their skin. No high on earth compares, and Jordan has fucking compared them all. They pull you into their lap, as close as they can get you and it's never enough. Nothing is ever enough.

"Please don't fucking go anywhere, yeah?" Jordan will mumble into the skin of your neck. Their grip on you is too tight, face twisted at the desperation they feel. It's not pillow talk. They're begging. Genuinely. They'd do anything to keep you this close, always.

"Of course not, Jordie." You coo back. They close their eyes and pretend the words are enough. Nothing ever is.

Nancy Downs / delusional, possessive, obsessive

As soon as Nancy wants you there's no other option for you besides her. You can either choose to go along with it or you can fight it.

Fighting against her is like fighting against the tide, though. You can tread water for awhile. Keep your head afloat, sure. But eventually you'll get tired. Nature wins. Besides, fighting against Nancy becomes unpleasant fast. Being hers is so much nicer. She's gentler that way, kinder.

You're allowed to have friends, she doesn't isolate you completely.

It's just your old friends sucked. They didn't appreciate you. Didn't look out for you. Selfish users just like everyone else. Moths are always drawn to the light, and she'll kill every moth that strays a little too close to you, before it ever gets a chance to singe itself on your warmth. It's a mercy, really. Living a life in the darkness and having one brief moment in the sun is miserable. Nancy should know. It almost drives her crazy when you're not around. If you ever left she'd want to be put out of her misery too.

Her coven, though? They're perfect. Her coven is a family. And you were the last missing piece of it.

Anything about your old life, the life before her, can be viewed as a threat at a moment's notice. Family. Friends. Memories you speak of a little too fondly. Even a hobby could do it. She wants your focus to be her. It's only fair, her only focus is you.

Even when she's not around. Even when you're completely alone you swear you can feel her eyes on you. Her magic drifting against your skin as if she was sitting right beside you.

Nancy's intensity can be scary but she makes anyone else's love seem dull in comparison.

Who else could love you like she does? Who else would die for you? Nancy wouldn't even have to think about it first. All she asks in return is for you to do the same. Live for her. Dedicate every breathe in your lungs to her.

It's not so hard, she'll lead by example.

Jennifer Check / manipulative, possessive, clingy

She couldn't give a shit about anyone else but you. Somehow you managed to sneak your way into her heart and she can't let go of you. Won't let go of you. You're the only thing that's keeping that small, soft, human part of her alive. You dragged that bit of her back from the grave she put it in, actually. So it wouldn't be fair for you to try and leave, after you made her weak again. Human again.

Her world revolves around you. Her priorities are her next meal and you. Of course she gets pissed off if you don't reciprocate her energy. Look at her, how could you ever put anything above her?

Jennifer wants you to be everything to each other, though she won't say it out loud. It shows in her actions.

You belong to her. Every version of yourself that exists in the world should belong to her. The version of you that you are when you're someone's best friend. When you're someone's partner. It's all hers. She won't let anyone else take root in your life in a role that she can fill. She'll do a better job anyways.

The enormity of her ego and the way she clings might seem at odds. She thinks she's a God walking amongst fucking cattle. But she sticks to you like a second skin. A hand always at your waist. Her lips always chasing yours, whining when you don't give in fast enough, when you don't melt like she does. Her grip iron clad when you hold hands. If you pull away too soon from a hug, from a kiss, she bites, she holds on with claws.

She coos at the marks she leaves on your skin and kisses all the scratches and bruises she leaves better. / "I'm sorry baby, you know I hate letting you go."

Carrie White / idolizer, protective, selfless

Not in her wildest dreams did Carrie think anyone could be as kind as you. People are cruel. Their first instinct is to cause hurt before they'll ever reach out a hand to help, to shield, to love.

But you're not like that at all. You're something ripped straight from a fairy-tale. The rare ones that her Mother let her read, that weren't hiding devil worship between their poetic words.

You're so patient with her. So gentle. You treat her like glass. You hold her close, and kiss her soft, and cup her face in your hands that are always so warm.

You say you love her in a breathless way, every time. Like even expressing how much you care makes you dizzy. As if she overwhelms you. She feels dizzy herself as she hangs on your every honeyed word. Clings to you every time you reach out your hands to hold her.

Carrie doesn't know if she believes in God nowadays, but if she did you'd be an angel sent straight from heaven. A gift, maybe, to make up for all the years of torment she endured from everyone she'd ever known.

She'd think you were some kind of God yourself, if you had any sort of abilities like her. But you don't. You walk around doing what's right, being good down to the marrow of your very bones just because it's who you are. You greet the world with your fists raised and you're only human, and it scares Carrie so much.

You're the last decent person alive and you'll throw yourself onto any pyre you see if it means doing what's right. Carrie loves that about you. It terrifies her.

So Carrie throws herself into the ring with you. Your sweet, gentle Carrie who you're always trying to protect. But Carrie doesn't need your protection. She's not the helpless little girl she used to be. She won't let anything hurt either of you, from now on. For the rest of your lives you'll be safe, happy. Together. Carrie would burn the world to ash if it meant not a scratch would befall you.

"You're an angel, Y/N. The most wonderful angel God ever made."

Ginger Fitzgerald / possessive, impulsive, protective,

Sometimes Ginger wishes everyone else in the world would disappear, besides the two of you. They're a hindrance.

She feels insane when she watches you. She feels her claws come out and makes herself bleed as she fights against the instinct to rip out every tongue that speaks to you, and every pair of eyes that's ever looked into yours.

She shivers when you claim her. The only time she enjoys being around other people now is when you're introducing her: "This is Ginger, my girlfriend." "This is Ginger, my partner." "This is Ginger, my best friend." "This is Ginger, my everything."

She loves being yours. Relishes in the way you say the word mine. She wants to lick the words from your mouth, the weight of your total ownership over her sweet and poisonous.

She wonders if you get the same pleasure from belonging to her. She wants you to. She wants to carve her name into your skin with her claws and have you moan at the first sharp sting of the letter G.

It's primal, the way she wants you. Beyond anything humans have words for. She leaves her scent on your skin and wants to growl when you wash it away with artificial soaps and perfumes. She sucks bruises into every inch of you that anyone else could see.

She wants you to do the same. Wants to roll onto her back and expose her neck, and have you bite so hard you draw blood.

Ginger's wanting comes with teeth. What she is demands she sinks her teeth into things, that she draws blood. Even when she loves you. Because she loves you, maybe. She needs to leave a mark on you. She needs to always be there. She needs the same from you.

Needs you to leave scars on her that she can touch when you're not around. Proof that you were there. Proof that you're coming back. You don't carve your name into things and then abandon them. When you own things you keep them.

When you're gone the world goes dim and cold. She couldn't survive in a world without you. She wouldn't even attempt it. What would be the fucking point?

"We're a pair. We belong to each other. Always, yeah?"