#listen i scared myself badly enough that i signed myself up for therapy. that's how you know it's bad

[orcelito]

ive got an exam in a bit over an hour and im cramming for it bc i spent all of yesterday thinking about trigun instead of studying. whatup

[giftfromblythe]

Construct

There’s a papier-mâché girl 

unfolding in your head

She lives in your mirror, 

she sleeps in your bed

And somehow you know

If you press just right

The whole thing will crumble

You’ll be alone in the night

She’s oh-so fragile

See how she bends

But her beauty’s the sort

You hope never ends

So you coddle and guard her

As slowly she grows

Until at last she’s complete

And oh how she glows

Suddenly you’re seized

By a terrible need

To tear into her

And see if she’d bleed

But if you hold back

From leaving a scar

Someday you’ll find

That she’s who you are

This is a more recent poem, written about a year and a half ago.  It’s a celebration of how far I’ve come in my recovery.

I used to…not exactly struggle with self-harm.  It didn’t manifest as a long term, consistent urge, but rather as occasional impulses to injure myself in some small way.  Usually when I was feeling trapped or fake—I’d wish for some physical sign of what I was going through because it didn’t seem real otherwise.  There were days when I’d wake up with bruises on my arms from where I’d bitten myself.  I know now that my brain was lying to me about my suffering not being real or worthy of help just because it wasn’t physical (in fact, in a lot of ways it was physical, but I didn’t have the context to know that yet), but at the time it seemed true.  I scared myself with it sometimes, with how intense it was and how it seemed to be escalating.  During one of those times, I called one of the therapists at my college’s counseling services and they were able to talk me down from the urge.  I called again the next time it happened, and every time after, increasing my therapy sessions so there was less time between people checking on me or asking a friend to check in if I couldn’t go to therapy that week.  I was surprised by how much having people supporting me helped.  Maybe I shouldn’t have been surprised—support was what I felt I lacked in the first place, when I felt trapped because I thought I had to go it alone.

I gradually managed to grow past those self-harm urges by working on both my self-esteem and my anxiety in therapy; I felt trapped less frequently, so I got the urges less often, initially, and then my self-worth grew enough that even when I did feel trapped or fake, I could remind myself of the things about me that are real and beautiful, of the people that see those things in me and will offer help if I ask.

Sometimes I still get the urge to self-sabotage if not self-harm, but even that is growing less and less frequent.

This poem uses the imagery of building a girl—a self—out of papier-mâché to describe how (re)building my self-esteem has felt throughout my recovery.  It was slow going and felt as if it could fall apart at any moment, messy and frustrating but with a beautiful result.  Sometimes I wanted to stop, wanted to tear it all apart because it was something new and that scared me, but in the end it was something I wanted too badly to give up.  And now I’ve found that the promise at the end of the poem is true: I am that beautiful self I reconstructed.  Perhaps I was all along and just couldn’t see it.

As always, thanks for reading.  I hope this story gives you the impetus to get help if you need it, just like I did all those years ago.

Take care, listen well, and share your stories.

—Blythe

[merflk]

just to be quiet.

pairing: katie bell x angelina johnson words: 1827 link: ao3 soundtrack: quiet - lights

for the @hprarepairnet​  Quidditch Player Ships Challenge

At first, it was a choice.

When she first went back to her regular life, nothing was wrong with her speech. She didn’t like talking about the war, but it wasn’t hard to do, per se. It was just hard to find the right words. She wasn’t the only one with this problem, and the British wizard society practically exploded with initiatives in which people could express themselves and their trauma in different ways. Creative writing, arts… Some of her friends took up painting. Alicia was really into slam poetry for a while. Katie just kept giving her heart and soul to Quidditch.

Things were easier on the field. She felt more alive. She had no intention of going pro, or anything, but she loved playing. It was an outlet. When she was out there chasing those points, the war couldn’t hurt her for a little while. So every time someone tried to talk to her about it and she struggled to find her words, she went out to the field instead.

One day, she realised that she couldn’t… She couldn’t talk about the war anymore. When she tried, her throat seized up, and she couldn’t get her vocal cords to work. It was like the subject emptied her of words altogether.

It was scary, at first, but it was so easy to ignore… All she had to do was stop trying. She was far from the only person who was dealing with the war by trying to put it behind her. No one realised something else was happening. She didn’t realise it herself either.

She’d always been quiet, and working as a magical engineer meant that she didn’t have to communicate verbally at her work much. Before long, she just fell silent. By then, she knew it wasn’t a choice anymore. But it took her a little while longer to admit it.

Her parents freaked out. She complacently let them sign her up for all kinds of therapy, and bore it all for a few months. Nothing worked.

She started obsessing over words like a person with an eating disorder can obsess over calories. She hoarded them. She listened to people as much as she could – podcasts, audio books, videos… She wrote them down. She wrote so much down. Her third therapist thought that might be the key. It wasn’t.

She had a secret that she couldn’t tell anyone else.

She stopped going to therapy after a particularly bruising assessment by her fifth therapist. She refused to tell anyone what had been said, no matter how much her parents begged her to explain. She put her foot down. They were devastated, but they didn’t want to lose her, so they tried to make their peace with it, living for the hope that perhaps, in a few months, they could try again. When those months started adding up to a full year, they reluctantly started learning sign language. They still couldn’t accept that this was their new normal.

Katie’s obsession started dying down a little bit. She had started spending less time on the Quidditch fields over the months, and now she picked that up again. She felt the wind in her hair and the rain on her face and she felt a little more like herself again.

It was around that time that Angelina came back into her life.

Angelina had gone to study abroad after the war; her own way of dealing with the fall-out, Katie supposed. She needed distance from the scene of the crime to process it all. That was alright. She’d always said she’d return someday, and Katie had believed her.

They kept in touch, at first, but soon their communication was sparse. It wasn’t until Angelina came back to Britain that she realised the full extent of Katie’s speech impediment.

It had been partially deliberate from Katie’s side. It was nice to have someone not constantly worry about her. Being mute seemed to have turned into a sign on her forehead that said ‘seriously unstable’.

Letting Angelina see the full extent of it was hard, and she flinched when she caught her surprised and worried expression. She steeled herself for the inevitable questions – for the underlying current of awkwardness that most of her communication with other people now had.

The questions didn’t come. Angelina processed this new development quietly. After a few minutes, in which Katie was wildly trying not to let her eyes tear up, Angelina smiled at her and changed the subject. She leaned into yes-or-no questions. She paid close attention to Katie’s mannerisms and expressions. Fifteen minutes later, Katie was crying after all, from sheer relief. Angelina just laughed – that bright, loud, free laughter that Katie had adored so much at Hogwarts – and wiped away Katie’s tears.

She wasn’t the first person to show Katie some understanding – far from it. Some of her colleagues had been great about things (Michael Corner especially) and Alicia had definitely stumbled her way through learning to adapt to Katie’s new form of communicating. But, somehow, the fact that this was Angelina made things different. More important.

I’ve missed you so much, she realised in that moment, staring at her. It made her flush. She wasn’t ready to acknowledge that.

Still, she wasn’t surprised when she woke up from a nap one day, sprawled across Angelina’s lap in the summer sun, and realised that she was in love with her.

It seemed almost inevitable. The sky was blue, you had to wake up from every single nap, and Katie Bell was in love with Angelina Johnson.

They spent most of their time together at that point. After two consecutive months of sleeping on Katie’s couch (barring five or six nights where they’d crammed into Katie’s one-person bed), Angelina decided she might as well move in. Katie had no objections.

She was already in so deep when Angelina finally started asking questions.

“Why did you stop going to therapy?” she asked softly one night.

Katie froze and, in very quick succession, felt betrayed, stupid and then embarrassed. Had she really thought this moment wouldn’t come?

They were sitting on the couch together. Katie had her legs draped across Angelina’s lap, but she pulled them away at her question so she could pull them up and hide her face against her knees.

She shook her head.

Angelina sighed. “Katie. You haven’t talked to anyone about this. That’s not right.”

She shook her head again, a little frustrated, and lifted up her head to glare at Angelina.

Angelina didn’t budge. She just stared her down until Katie’s shoulders drooped.

Finally, Katie shifted on the couch, crossing her legs underneath her to free her arms so she could sign more easily.

It wasn’t working, she signed.

“Do you have any idea why?”

Katie’s secret stared her in the face. So big, so shameful. She couldn’t keep the tears from welling up. When Angelina saw, she scooted over to her and put a hand on her knee.

“It’s okay,” she said softly.

Angelina flinched when Katie pulled away from her, but she was just reaching over to the coffee table to grab a notepad and a pen. She sat up straight again and took a deep breath. Angelina didn’t put her hand back and Katie missed the heat immediately.

She stared at the paper. She wasn’t sure how to sign this properly. But she wasn’t sure how to phrase this properly either. But…

She looked up at Angelina, beautiful and sincere, waiting patiently for her answer. She had been waiting for months.

Katie took up the pen.

She said that no one would be able to help me talk again if I didn’t actually want to.

And there it was. The big secret.

Therapy didn’t work, because every single therapist she’d seen was trying to get her to open her mouth and speak. Katie played along, and she tried, but she couldn’t, because she didn’t really want to. Her obsession with words, her desperation, it wasn’t because she wanted to speak but couldn’t: it was because she didn’t want to speak ever again, and that scared her.

She handed Angelina the notepad.

Everyone was trying to heal her. First and foremost, their goal was to get her to speak again. It was what she should want, that much was clear. Being mute was a sign that something was seriously wrong with her. Being mute was a defect. She had to speak. She had to speak.

Angelina’s eyes widened as she read the sentence and Katie ripped the notepad out of her hands again, suddenly needing to tell her more. Angelina leaned over to watch her hand as she wrote.

I never wanted it enough. But I had to want it. That’s what they all said. That’s why I couldn’t. I tried to force myself to want it. It didn’t work. Nothing worked.

“Katie,” Angelina stammered.

She took Katie’s hands into her own, drawing her gaze back up to hers. She was still crying. One of her tears hit the paper.

Angelina took the notepad and put it back on the coffee table. Then she took Katie’s hands into her own once again. Softly, she caressed the back of her hands with her thumb.

“You don’t have to speak, Katie.”

Katie’s eyes widened when she heard the words. Something inside of her started to knit itself back together.

“Katie,” Angelina said again, her name an answer on her tongue instead of the endless question it had become, “You never have to speak again.”

Katie’s few tears turned into a torrent. She choked out a sob.

Angelina shook her head, astonished at the weight that her best friend had been carrying on her shoulders. She leaned over to pick Katie up, pulling her onto her lap and wrapping her in her embrace. Katie put her full weight into the hug, pressing her wet cheek against Angelina’s perfect collarbone.

How long had she wanted someone to tell her that? Since the start? Since before it even happened?

Why did she have to speak? Why did she have to want it so badly? Why wasn’t this okay too?

Of course she wanted it to be a choice. But she was pretty sure the only reason she was physically incapable of speaking is because people expected her to do it. And in this moment… In this moment…

She still didn’t want to speak. But she was pretty damn sure that right now, she could.

She brought up her hands to sign a clumsy thank you.

Angelina laughed and pressed a kiss against her crown. “You’re welcome.”

She hesitated for a moment, and then kissed her head again, more slowly this time. “You’re perfect, Katie,” she added softly.

Katie let out a whimper and reached up. She put her hand onto Angelina’s cheek and angled her head up.

This time, Angelina didn’t hesitate. She brought her face down and pressed her lips against Katie’s.

[surveys-at-your-service]

Survey #332

i’m even more tired than before to try and think up song lyrics, i’m pasting from Word and then fucking off to bed lmao.

What was the last video message you received on your phone? I think it was a clip of Doris (Sara's beardie) eating and just being her perfect self? Was your last birthday cake homemade or store bought? Store-bought. One thing you miss about middle school? Shit, nothing. Middle school was the worst. Do you have any shirts signed by famous people? No. Have you ever entered an art competition? Yes. Would you ever pierce yourself? No. I am very much about having a professional do your body mods/art. Plus, I have tremors in my hands. Do you live in a safe neighbourhood? Supposedly. We haven't lived here nearly long enough to know. What is the last thing you did that shocked someone? /shrug Do you often find yourself questioning your future? Only always. Have you ever been for a ride in the back of a truck? Yeah. Do you like your license photo? I hate my permit picture. Are you into superheroes? Who’s your favorite? Not very, but I like 'em enough. I always say my favorite is Deadpool, but I know he's technically an anti-hero, but whatever. If you don't include him, uhhhh... maybe Spiderman. Have you started watching any new TV shows recently? No. Have you ever been able pet a normally wild animal, like a tiger or dolphin? No. :( At least, not to my recollection. Have you ever eaten snow? Yeah. There's actually a winter treat 'round here that you make with snow and sugar called snow cream. Good stuff. What is the messiest area in your home? Right now, the spare room/my wanna-be "office." What’s your favorite computer game genre? Still horror, like video games. Do you have any exes your parents never liked? No. Have you received financial help from your parents in the past 5 years? I'm completely financially dependent on them still. Are you a fast or a slow eater? I eat like, stupid fast, but without being messy. People *cough*Mom*cough* will absolutely point it out, but I seriously can't help it. Making a conscious effort to eat slow feels way too weird. What was the last thing you purchased from a small local business? I don't know. Is there anyone in your family/household whom you frequently argue with? No. Have you ever used chewing tobacco? Ew, no. Tell me what's on your mind? I've been considering yet again reaching out to some tattoo parlors and asking if they're open to hiring someone to handle the front desk and take care of business besides actually performing piercing and tattooing, given my tremors. My group therapy has kinda been encouraging me to use the possibility for social exposure, and besides, I'm very comfortable in the environment and just general aura of tat parlors. I'm sure I'd have to answer the phone, handle money, and obviously talk to costumers, but I know and accept that. I've been at such a stagnant point with my social anxiety in particular that I have to start pushing back harder, and doing this I feel would be one of the most relaxed, social job positions I can hopefully handle. I don't dare to even try this though until I get vaccinated to protect my immunocompromised mom. Writing this all out has actually been pretty encouraging about this idea... Do you wish you never dated someone you dated? Yeah, Tyler. It was such a "I'm lonely and he was nice in high school, so we'll try it" situation. I got nothing from it. Are you scared of growing old alone? Pretty badly. What are you listening to right now? I'm listening to/semi-watching John Wolfe play the remaster of Resident Evil 2. What breed was the last dog you saw? He was a German shepherd. Would you ever go swimming during a thunderstorm? No. Any time a thunderstorm was brewing and I was in the pool, I'd always get out. What is the next concert you will attend? Mom and I plan to see Ozzy when/if he reschedules his tour after he had to cancel with his Parkinson's diagnosis. What was the name of the last pet of yours that died? Teddy. :/ What's the highest science class you have taken? I don't know, actually. What makes you squeal like a school girl? No shame, seeing Mark and Amy do something cute together actually does this, lmao. What’s your favorite symbol? (i.e. the pentagram, the cross, etc.) Do fictional ones count? Because in that case, the Halo of the Sun from the Silent Hill franchise. I'm getting it tattooed somewhere at some point, I'm thinking the left side of my neck. I'm either gonna fashion it in a way where it looks branded on or carved into me. Have you ever been on anti depressants? For all of my pre-teen, teen, and some of my adult life. Apparently, I've only had one truly educated psychiatrist out of no less than a dozen I'd seen, because he fixed me right up. He taught me that those who suffer from bipolarity should avoid anti-depressants; they ramp up your bipolar symptoms. Instead, mood stabilizers are favorable. And what do you know, after I was prescribed a stabilizer and a catalyst for that medication, my depression decreased dramatically and became handleable. Have you ever starved yourself? Kinda. What’s the stupidest name you’ve ever given a pet? I had a guinea pig named Harry Potter. For no particular reason lmao. I'm not even a Harry Potter fan. Do you have nice legs? God no. Do you like fedoras? Okay so I know I am in the strong minority, but I actually do, haha. What is your favorite food group? Carbs. @_@ Have you ever got told that you should be a model? No, but one of the most flattering indirect compliments I've ever gotten was being mistaken for one. Jason's phone wallpaper was one of my favorite pictures of myself with my first snake, and someone asked him if I was a model. ;v;' What song is in a language you don’t speak, but you love it anyway? "Donaukinder" by Rammstein is one of my faves. Who’s a villain you sympathize with and why? SOBS Darkiplier bc his origins are so damn tragic and unfair. What book do you think should be directed as a film? Was The Giver ever made into one? I don't remember that book well, but I do recall it being absolutely beautiful. Have you ever found a stranger’s note somewhere? If so, what did it say? No. Have you ever edited Wikipedia? No. Have you ever edited any other wiki? Yeah. I have thousands on the Silent Hill wiki, where I'm one of the admins. I'm also a content moderator at the Team Ico (Shadow of the Colossus devs) one. Every now and again I used to go on the meerkats wiki as well, where I mainly fixed the fucking nightmarish grammar. Very briefly, I edited at the Dragons of Atlantis wiki as well. Do you get scared when you know some virus or sickness is being passed? Not very, but of course I still acknowledge the risk and am more conscious of hand washing and stuff. What popular social media platforms AREN’T you on? Snapchat, I don't actually use my Twitter, I don't have a personal Instagram... There may be more, idk. Is TikTok a "social media platform?" Because I don't have that, either. What was the name of the first porcelien doll you got? Never had one, given I was afraid of dolls as a kid. What’s your favorite Paramore song? "Decode." Would you be happy with a life without romance? To be entirely honest, I'd feel like I was missing something. Was your childhood happy? Mostly. What fundamentally matters do you? Love, kindness, peace, all that gooey stuff. Is true world peace ever possible? As much as I hate to admit it, I don't think so. The human population is far too big to come to a unanimous agreement on anything. Do you hold yourself to higher standards than you hold others? Yeah. Would you ever own a pet black widow spider? No. I'm getting more into the idea of owning invertebrates (I jabber enough about wanting tarantulas, and there are others, like mantises, I'm interested in as pets), but black widows, I'm not into the idea of having. Too venomous for me to be comfortable risking. If you have a job, what is the longest shift that you've worked? N/A Do you know all of the words to "Bohemian Rhapsody?" FUCK YES I DO. ^ Do you sing it with all of the different voices? sho nuff Do you own more than one copy of a certain book? No. Do you like interpreting poetry or just reading it for fun? Both. I love symbolism, so I get joy out of digging for subtle meanings in poems. Do you have a favorite Dr. Suess book? Yeah, it was always Green Eggs and Ham. Do you watch The Walking Dead? If so, favorite character? Not the show, but I've watched let's plays of the games, haha. In which case Clementine is inarguably one of the best female characters in a video game universe. Who has/had the most mature romantic relationship you’ve seen with your own eyes? Uhhh. I mean I never saw them much, but probably my late grandmother and her last husband. He was fucking incredible to her, and Grammy adored him as well. They helped each other so much and just obviously had the purest love between them. When was the last time you got something for free (legally)? What was it & have you enjoyed it so far? Lmao do balls in Pokemon GO count? Their occasional free boxes are the reason I can play the game because PokeStops are essentially non-existent here, so yes. What is the one fruit you can’t stand to eat? How about vegetable? The first one that came to me were oranges. I enjoy orange juice, but I just caaaaannot with the white veiny shit that you can't totally get off when peeling it. Without that, I might actually enjoy them, but idk. As for vegetable, asparagus is absolutely abhorrent. When’s the last time you actually recited the pledge? If you aren’t American, do/did you have anything similar in your country that you do during a time at school? Probably not since high school. Last person you shared food with? Ummm I have no idea. It's really just Mom and me here and we eat our own stuff. What was the last song you heard for the first time and enjoyed? I believe it waaas... "Down In The Park" by Marilyn Manson, maybe. If your life was a TV show, what would be the theme song? My inner high school emo just screamed "All Signs Point to Lauderdale" by AD2R. Who are some of your favorite female fictional characters, and why? Gahdamn, there's a lot. I don't feel like going through a mental list in my head and then describing why. A character (in anything) you wish hadn’t been killed off? Vol'jin; I think the entire WoW fanbase will forever be pissed about it. It was THE most "lul we dunno what 2 do w/ him anymore, let's let a totally random, unnamed, unimportant demon kill him" like what the fuck, Blizz. Most of his "oomph" was in the book, and I just really wish they'd done so much more with him in the game. Has anything “cute” happened in the past week? Off the top of me noggin, no. When did you last say “I love you”? Did you mean it? Yesterday to Sara. OF course I did. Is there someone who pops into your mind at random times? Hi, PTSD, how are ya. Have you ever slept all day? Essentially. When I was on a larger dose of my anxiety med, I physically couldn't stay up for barely even five minutes, and when I'd lie back down, boom, I was OUT. I stayed on that dosage for I think just that one day, it was so bad. Can you have kids? Well, I have a functioning menstrual cycle, so I would assume so. Doesn't mean I will, though. What colors of mascara have you worn on your lashes? Only black. Do you like eating sour things? Hell yeah, I love sour stuff, candy in particular. Do you like pickles? fuuuuck yeah Did you ever have a really close friend move away? Yeah, in elementary school. I feel bad I can't remember her name at the moment... What's the most creative thing you've ever done? I mean, I guess the things I've written in RP. What's the most creative thing someone has done for you? For me? I don't really know. Do you like to watch ghost-hunting shows? Sure, they're some of my favorites. What’s something you’d like to be better at? Social interaction. Have you ever stayed up to talk to someone who was sad? Yeah. Do you think you would make a good parent? No. I know I wouldn't. The only time I ever wanted kids was with Jason, and honestly, I really hope I don't end up with a man because I never want to deal with that urge again and make a mistake. I'm just in no way emotionally fit to be a mother. How many best friends do you have? Just one. What do you cry over the most? My PTSD, honestly. I never sob about it anymore, just shed some tears. What language did/do you take in high school? Latin for one semester, then all four available for German. Which sports do you follow? None. Who was the last person you talked about marriage or having kids with? About marriage, Sara. Kids, the subject was lightly touched upon with Girt, though "with" was never a part of it, but obviously implied seeing as we were dating with long-term in mind. Have you ever been in a house fire? No, thankfully. Have you ever made out for one straight hour? them is rookie numbers Are you any good at remembering phone numbers? No. I literally don't even know my own, nor my mother's. I need to fix that. Who is your best friend of the opposite sex? Girt. Do you have a bookshelf? If so, just one or how many? No. If I gave you twenty bucks what would you do with it? Save it to go towards Venus' terrarium. Is there a movie from your childhood that you still watch today? Well of course! I'm unashamed to watch any "kids" movie I enjoy, like Disney ones. Most "kids" movies tend to be better than those intended for adults, it seems... Are you afraid of mice? Oh no, I adore mice and I think had a pair as pets before I got rats. What type of souvenir do you usually purchase when on vacation? I can't really answer this; I haven't gone on nearly enough vacations to develop a theme. I can say confidently though it'd probably be something small. If you could see any musical on Broadway right now, what would it be? I don't enjoy musicals. Have you ever watched Doctor Who? One or two with Sara, yes. I know we at least watched the weeping angels episode. If you read, which book or series did you enjoy most as a child? Warriors by S.E. Hinton. Sometimes I wanna get back into them, but I am YEARS behind and more into Wings of Fire anyway, so. I don't read nearly enough for both. How do you get rid of your hiccups? Literally no trick seems to work for me. I just suffer lmao.

[hmajorgirl]

so here I am for old times sake. it’s been 5 years and a lot has changed. but i’m kinda still the same. maybe my inner monologue doesn’t sound as self-assured as it did when I was 15. maybe i don’t romanticise the shit out of every 2 second eye contact i make with cute strangers. maybe i don’t grammar well anymore because i think it’s a cute look. Oh wow. so much of the world has changed. facial recognition, instagram shops, the pandemic... so many new songs i play on repeat until i’m sick of them. i’m a lot less motivated than i was before, and i’m ashamed to admit that. i have smile lines. i feel more and more defeated everyday (actually, we’re trying to work on this). but yh the sad emo vibes never quite dissipated like i dreamed they would, i felt so betrayed by the order of things and the way of the world that i lost a lot of hope. gave up on myself (a bit... a lot sometimes). but other times, it’s gucci. i feel like i’m definitely more cringe than cheesy now. not sure if that’s a good thing, pretty sure it’s not. 

hmm. what hasn’t changed? still unfortunately in love with love, but i can mostly see the difference between real life and the cute shit that happens in my head. i’m learning to have faith, to trust. to start living life and exist in the same dimension as other people because even though it sucks, it’s better than existing alone in your head. i realised that studying will only get you a quarter of the way to things and unfortunately stopped that shit. it wasn’t a good idea because i didn’t pick anything else up. i’m still writing songs. still singing them badly. BUT my singing has improved marginally:) i still love my parents, family is all good (touch wood). still a bit too impressionable but we’re working on building a stronger willpower and independence. still love taylor swift. still want to run away to the creative industry. still want to runaway sometimes (in general). I still write! sometimes. wow, i guess some things really just don’t change. 

The good? Hmm my eyes have been opened to the multi-dimensions of wealth and inequality and cultural differences that exist in the world. I am thankful for that and didn’t know that money could buy so much. but simultaneously feel disheartened that the discrepancy is so large between people at birth. inequity is real and idk how i feel about that because i really believed in the natural justice system. and then I was so caught up in these feelings of betrayal and injustice that i forgot that i am lucky enough to have the opportunity to change things. I forgot about it for 5 years and now it feels like it’s too late. i know it’s not. 

that was a digression. 

the good. okay. hmm discovered korean dramas and the mastery that is cinema and how it evokes emotions through stories and idk that’s just a piece of my soul coming together. i work out occasionally. sadly i stopped dance but i’m vowing to sign up for classes once i have the money. i got a spotify membership and spend my days making playlists for myself and it’s one of the best things that has ever happened to me. I really hate how my inner core is so soft and romantic, it’s not fit for the capitalist society that we’re living under. i have friends, i like them, they like me. there is a guy, maybe. there were a few guys actually. i’m not sure how long this one is going to be around for GAHHH omg imagine if i re-read this in five years time and i’m laughing at myself because he screwed me over so bad idk. i have bad self-esteem issues. i am kinda joking, kinda not. okay, i like him but let’s move onto another topic. i’m trying my best to adult and be honest with my feelings and approach things with feigned maturity to mask my pre-teen thoughts. let’s leave it at that:)

i remember that taylor said that the lucky one was the hardest song to write for the red album. because it was solely about her and her life. no guys (apart from the second verse but okay that’s not central to the song). it’s the same for me. i don’t want to talk about the direction of my professional life because it scares me more than messing my life up romantically. for now, i’m beginning to see the role of passion and interest in work and it’s importance. I’m trying my best to walk towards that direction because i know that ultimately i want a career that I would love to work overtime for. but i’m still trying to balance the scales between what i want and the confinements of reality. i need to make money. sometimes it feels like an either or kind of situation and i don’t know what to do. but maybe this is just standard 20 year old thoughts. okay but we have 2 months left of uni so i’m going back to studying. i hope that when i look back on this i would have a 2:1 bachelors (but let’s be honest we want a first) 

some final thoughts for 25 year old me because why not make your tumblr a time-capsule? dodie-style. 

what are you listening to right now? I’m listening to 21 by gracie. Are you seeing anyone? Honestly, I don’t see you in a steady relationship because i feel like your self-esteem will get in the way of things - either that or you get your shit together and focus on your career too much. I hope it’s the latter. I hope family is all well and healthy. call them. right now, if you’re not living with them. DEAR GOD PLS don’t still be living with them. OH GOD DO YOU HAVE YOUR OWN FLAT/HOUSE?? where are you by the way? london? what are you doing right now career-wise? how’s it going? is it what you want to do? does it fit in with your life plan? please tell me you have a life plan by now. i hope i’m proud of you. i hope you’re working hard. how are you? really? are you rich enough to afford therapy and weekly spin/pilates sessions? what’s up with your social circle? are you still writing? ARE THERE DRONES EVERYwhere? How’s chloe? Elizabeth? Jason? Update me, what happened with the guy - i want to hear a story. do you cook now? did you manage to turn your personality type from a 2/9 enneagram to a 3? bitch we gonna work on this. do you still write songs? can you sing? you don’t have kids right lmao pls no god help us. what’s your yearly salary post-tax? did you start dancing again? did you start to learn piano again? what happened with the pandemic? how long were you quarantined for? do you still make spotify playlists haha? what tv series are you currently binging? do you hate me? please tell me your still blogging ur life on ur private instagram. how many followers do you have now? who are you having conversations right now with on facebook? what are your colleagues like? are you less people orientated now that you’ve realised that they cannot provide you with the love that you are depriving yourself of from yourself? DO YOU READ? are you the perfect health-freak, ig-girl, smart business woman, go-getter in her white suit at the glass media company that you dreamed about being at those dark spin sessions? GOD IMAGINE. I hope you are but i don’t have faith right now. pls tell me you don’t teach (or you teach and ur salary is insane in a good way). are you a journalist? you didn’t go into consulting right? did you study again after uni? are you the screenwriter that you’ve dreamed about? did your poetry account blow up and now you’re a full time poet? I still kinda hope you work at a nice glass office (brand consulting, advertising, media, journalism) and wear cute coords suits to work. and i hope you’re writing on the side because it’s who you are. I hope you’re reading lots and I hope you’re super smart and switched on. I hope you’re memory has improved a lot. I hope you’re in love, I hope he loves you back and I hope you know that too. I hope you have a great and healthy relationship with your parents and see your extended family and grandparents often. I hope everyone is healthy and I hope you took your parents to duck and waffle like you wanted (don’t do it when you’re poor though). I hope you’re taking care of your health and eating well. I hope you’re still dreaming in a realistic way. I hope you have great mentors and a supportive friend group. I hope you’re living your best life. re-read the defining decade. but i hope you don’t reminisce to much anymore and don’t write too many songs because you’re 25, time to break out the novel shit. I hope you’ve travelled alot. I hope you spend a few more summers in china falling in love with life and yourself again. how is your chinese? are you still a romantic? tell me, have you changed, if at all? do you read the news? are you less cynical about yourself and more realistic or less optimistc about the world? I hope you are. contingencies are important.

are you excited for the future? I hope you are. if not, please change, you have time, all you need is faith and diligence. hope you’re holding up well. Me? at 20? I’m excited about what my 25 year old self is going to be like, like i was excited to see what my gcse results were going to be like. I hope the results are the same. work hard. i love you. hope you love yourself more. BELIEVE IN YOURSELF. have faith. :) i can’t do much for you, but i hope i did a lot to get to where you are right now. hoping is useless, i’m going to work now. 

take care x

[aquaminwrites]

Skin Deep: 08

Pairing: Yoongi x Tattoo Artist!Reader (M/F) Genre: Friends to lovers, slow burn. Eventual smut. Rating: 18+ Warnings: Sexual situations, the 95 line being...the 95 line Word Count: 5.5K

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 (links removed due to tumblr issue)

A/N: Only two chapters left! Say it with me--FINALLY. I hope you enjoy.  PS. Smut next chapter. That is all. Let me know what you think!

You can’t remember the last time you were so nervous.

Showing up unannounced at someone’s place is completely unlike you, but after your talk with Namjoon, you feel emboldened and want nothing more than to see Yoongi again. Two weeks is the longest you’ve been without hearing his voice or seeing his face since the two of you became friends all those months ago. You hadn’t realized how much you’d adapted your schedule to include him until he was suddenly gone.

You manage to slip through the lobby of the building just as another resident is leaving, riding the elevator up to the seventh floor. You find yourself standing in front of his door now, nothing separating the two of you except a slab of wood.

You knock. Once, twice, three times.

You’re met with nothing but silence.

The breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding escapes your slightly parted lips in a sad sigh, and you think to yourself that maybe you should have called or texted him beforehand to at least make sure he was home.

But Hoseok said he’d been holed up in his place for the last few weeks, not even stopping by HopeWorld to watch Jimin and Jungkook dance like he usually did, even before he’d known you.

You wait another minute before you lower your head, and begin to dejectedly turn on your heel. It’s at that moment that the door swings open, and you’re suddenly face to face with a very stunned looking Min Yoongi.

God, it feels like an eternity since you’ve seen him. His inky hair is a little unkempt and dark circles are forming under his eyes, his loose black t-shirt hanging limply off his frame. He looks a little thinner, sallow, and it breaks your heart to know that you are the cause of this.

“Y/N…” he whispers out, voice pitched slightly in confusion. “W-what are you doing here?”

“I…” you begin, unsure of what to say. You offer up a small smile. “Can I come in?”

That seems to snap Yoongi out of his daze. “Yeah,” he replies, stepping aside to usher you in. “Yeah, of course.”

The apartment is just like how you remember, albeit a little messier than the last time you were there. Yoongi used to joke that he never really had company before, and ever since you started frequenting his place, he kept it pretty much spotless. It seems as if he’s reverted to how it was before—not horribly messy, but definitely more cluttered than it had been since your last visit.

“Do you want anything to drink?” Yoongi asks as he moves from the doorway over to the kitchen.

You shake your head, gesturing to the couch. “Can we talk?”

You notice as he wipes the palms of his hands against the denim of his jeans. “Yeah. Yeah, sure.”

You sit down on one end of the couch, and Yoongi sits on the other, as far away from you as possible. You look over at him and frown.

“Do you hate me?”

He seems shocked by your question, whipping his head over to balk at you. “What? No, of course not. Almost the exact opposite, actually,” he states with a forced sounding laugh.

You bite at your lower lip before quietly asking, “Then how come you’re all the way over there?”

He gapes at you momentarily before acquiescing and scooting a little closer. Not close enough to make you uncomfortable, but not far enough to make it seem like he’s avoiding you.

Your lips quirk up just a touch before you’re turning away from his gaze, staring down at your feet. The two of you sit in an awkward, uncomfortable silence before you finally speak up.

“I’m sorry.”

Yoongi can’t help the scoff that escapes his throat. “Don’t do that.”

You immediately look back at him, confusion painting your features, your forehead creasing slightly as your brows furrow. “What?”

“Don’t apologize,” he clarifies, sounding so tired, weary down to his bones. “Don’t apologize to me like you did something wrong. It just makes me feel like more of an asshole.”

Your lower lip begins to tremble without your permission, and you clasp your hands together in your lap as you return to fixing your eyes to the ground. “Sorry,” you rasp out again. “And…sorry for saying sorry.”

You can’t see him, but you can tell that Yoongi’s shoulders are slumped, his back hunched as he sighs loudly beside you. “Look…this…this isn’t how I wanted this conversation to go. When I’d imagined us having this talk in my head, it was so much simpler. And I just—h-hey, are you crying?”

“No,” you hiccup, hastily swiping at your eyes, fully turning your head away from him. You feel the couch cushions shift as Yoongi moves closer, and then you feel his arms winding around you as he tugs you to his chest.

“Baby,” he murmurs, rubbing slow, comforting circles against your back. The term of endearment doesn’t escape your notice, and you allow yourself to relax against him, breathing him in for the first time in weeks. “Please don’t cry.”

“I’m not crying,” you mumble, which is immediately followed by a sniffle. Yoongi croaks out a laugh, his shoulders shaking gently as his grip on you tightens. You find yourself laughing too through the tears, and you swear you feel the gentle press of his lips against the crown of your head.

“We’re really bad at this, huh?” He asks quietly once you’ve calmed down.

“Yeah,” you can’t help but agree, though you make no attempt to move from his grasp. He takes that as a sign and grips you tighter.

“I should be the one apologizing to you,” he admonishes. “The way I spoke to you that day…I had no right. It was fucked up. I shouldn’t have tried anything, shouldn’t have tried to kiss you, especially after the run-in with your ex. Definitely shouldn’t have blown up at you afterwards, as if it was your fault, or something.”

Yoongi sighs, his voice starting to waver.

“When you never called me back or texted me, I just…I assumed you hated me for what I said. I figured that I lost my chance with you, the first person in a really, really fucking long time that I’ve ever cared about. I’m not…I’m not good with emotions, and I’m not the best at expressing myself when it comes to these things. But all I know is that you are the only person in the entire fucking world that I want to be with every single day.”

You shift away from him just enough that you can look into his eyes, his confession startling you. This is the first time you’ve ever heard Yoongi speak this way, and you bite your tongue as he continues.

“I want to learn everything about you, and I want to learn new things with you. I want to teach you piano and sound production, and I want you to teach me about tattooing and its history. I want to be able to hold your hand and wake up beside you, and it kills me every day that I can’t, because I want to. I want to so fucking badly. And when I said those things…the way you looked at me made me feel like we were strangers all over again. And I fucking hate myself for hurting you, Y/N. You deserve better. You deserve more than I can give.”

The silence that settles between the two of you is palpable, and Yoongi can’t help but shy away from your eyes. He sniffs loudly, trying to play it off as if he isn’t on the verge of tears, and you let out the breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding.

“What if…” You clear your throat, taking hold of one of his hands. You love his hands—they’re the hands of a musician, of a creator, of a poet. “What if I don’t want ‘better’?”

Yoongi looks at you, confused. “W-what?”

“What if I don’t want ‘better’?” You repeat with a little more conviction. “I still owe you an apology, Yoongi. Even if you don’t think that I do. I led you on—maybe because I liked the attention you gave me at first. But I do really like you. And I promise you that I’m not lying about that. I should have told you sooner. And if Namjoon hadn’t showed up at my shop that day, I know that things would have been different. What if we’re both just fucked up, damaged people, and all I want is you and everything that comes with you? What if I want you to teach me piano, and to teach you about tattooing? And what if I just want to kiss you in front of your friends just to get them to shut up?”

At this point, it’s hard to tell what Yoongi resembles more—a human, or a fish out of water.

After a second, he blurts, “Wait, what?”

You can’t help but giggle at that, bringing your finger under his chin to close his mouth before dropping your hand back to grasp onto his. “Everything that you said that day was right. Sometimes I feel the need to save people, and it can be self-serving. And maybe that’s why what you said stung so much, because no one has ever been that transparent with me before. But honestly, looking back now, I needed to hear that. The reason why I never called you back or texted you was because I was too scared to listen to the voicemail you sent me. I thought maybe you’d gotten drunk and called to yell at me again, to tell me that you never wanted to see me and that whatever this was,” you gesture between the two of you, “was over. And I didn’t want us to be over. Not when we hadn’t even begun.”

You sigh, shaking your head.

“I spent a long time being part of a couple, and I lost a lot of who I was in the process. And then through therapy, and by just being alone, I was able to figure out who I was again. I felt empty for a really, really long time. And then when I met you,” you smile, biting your lip slightly, “it was the first time in forever that I actually felt whole.”

Yoongi tilts his body to face yours fully, his eyes shining with desperation. “I need you to know how sorry I am about what I said. It could have been a conversation, but instead I just…fucking exploded. If I could take it all back, I would. Every day, I think about how lucky I am to know someone like you. You make me a better person, and I actually like who I am when I’m with you. When I said I wasn’t expecting to fall for someone like you, I meant that I never expected to know someone as kind, as smart, as talented, and as earth-shatteringly beautiful as you. I mean, look at me. I’m basically a goblin by comparison.”

That earns a genuine laugh out of you, and you swat genially at his chest as you shake your head. “I don’t know. You’re pretty cute for a goblin.”

“I mean it,” he insists. “Well, not so much about the goblin part. But the rest is all true. I never had a reason to like myself before I met you. And then you came into my life and you changed everything. You mean so fucking much to me, you know? The two weeks we spent apart were some of the most miserable I’ve ever experienced, and that was just because you weren’t there with me, in my studio, sitting on my couch, pretending to draw and watching me work on my music instead. I don’t know how you did it, but you became my everything, and I just…I need you.”

“If it’s any consolation,” you admit, “I was miserable without you, too.”

Yoongi shifts to scratch at the back of his ear, a bashful smile on his face. “That kind of makes me feel a little better, yeah.”

You giggle, and then take a second to just look at him again. You take in the softness of his gaze as he watches you, the tiniest upward curve of his lips, the way his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. His eyes dart down to your mouth, lingering there for a moment, and it takes a second to register how close he is now. You can nearly count every single one of his eyelashes as you feel the warmth of his breath dancing across your skin.

Yoongi blinks, his eyes searching yours. Finally, he asks, “Can I kiss you?”

You breathe out the tiniest sigh of relief, unable to stop the smile that spreads across your face. “Yes. Please.”

Your eyes flutter shut as he brushes your hair away from your face, and you feel your heart thrumming in your chest at the anticipation. But to your surprise, you feel Yoongi’s lips press gently against the curve of your neck, over the lines of your peony tattoo. The sensation makes you shiver, and you can tell that he’s smiling gently against your skin.

Yoongi continues, kissing softly up your neck as you tilt your head to give him more access. His lips find the edge of your jaw, and you feel your heartbeat pulsing in your ears. He trails sweet kisses along your cheek, his hand coming to caress your face. He angles you towards him just slightly before his lips finally find yours, and it’s like the entire world falls away until there’s nothing remaining but you and him.

His lips are soft, but also a little hesitant as they move with yours, almost as if he’s still asking for forgiveness. You bring your hand up to cover his own that’s cupping your jaw, pulling away for just a second. He doesn’t shy away from your gaze, and you smile, running your thumb along his fingers in a comforting gesture that tells him It’s alright, I’m sorry too, I want you, I need you, I forgive you.

And so he kisses you again.

You tilt your head slightly to change the angle, deepening it as he lets out the tiniest moan against your mouth. His tongue traces along the seam of your lips and your hands move to card through his soft, silky hair as you open for him. Everything about him is overwhelming—the taste of his tongue as it slots against yours, the feel of his hands as they slide under your shirt, thumbs massaging gentle circles against your waist.

Months of longing and desire, secret subtle touches and fleeting glances all culminate in this moment, and you allow yourself to sink into the feeling of kissing him, kissing Yoongi, the man who completely changed your life without you noticing.

He shifts and pulls you onto his lap, your knees falling on either side of his waist as you straddle him. Yoongi tugs you impossibly close, so close that you’re grinding against the growing ache that begins to stiffen in the confines of his jeans. You place a hand on his chest and pull away from him, though you don’t want to, and press a soft peck to the corner of his mouth.

“I spoke to Namjoon.”

Yoongi’s hands don’t stray from your hips, but he narrows his eyes, lips flattening into a thin line. “You really want to talk about your ex? Right now?”

You sigh, running the pad of your thumb along his cheekbone. Like a man starved for affection, he leans into your touch, eyes fluttering shut momentarily as he basks in the sensation.

“I just…” You begin, taking in all the details of his beautiful face. “He was a big part of my life, but I want you to know that I don’t have feelings for him anymore. I don’t want that to ever be a thought that crosses your mind. He knows how I feel about you, and he respects that. But when I got together with Namjoon, we rushed into things. And I don’t want to rush with you.” Your eyes dart down to the growing bulge in his pants before shifting back up to look at him. When you do, he’s blushing. “Is that…is that okay?”

Yoongi replies by kissing you again, and you swear, you’ll never get sick of this feeling, of his mouth slanting against yours.

“I waited my whole life for you,” he breathes against your skin, pecking you once, twice, three times. “I can wait a little longer.”

You scrunch up your nose as he peppers kisses all over your face, unable to stop yourself from giggling like a teenager as he nuzzles against you.

“Go on a date with me,” you whisper against his mouth, your nose grazing his.

He raises an eyebrow, though his eyes remain closed. “Aren’t I supposed to be the one asking you out?”

“What can I say, I’m a progressive woman,” you joke, moving off of him. You rise, tugging him up with you. He immediately loops his arms around your waist, your arms curling around his neck as he pulls you close. “So, what do you say?”

Yoongi tilts his head back, pursing his lips as he sucks in a breath through his teeth. “I don’t know…”

“Yoongi!” You whine, a pout beginning to form.

He looks down at you and laughs, only making you frown more. “You’re cute, you know that?”

You start to blush, burying your face into the crook of his neck. “Shut up.”

“Are you being shy?” He teases, pinching your side until you yelp and swat at his arm. “Ow! I’m just kidding, yeesh.” Yoongi leans down and kisses your cheek, and you feel your blush deepen. “Where do you want to go?”

You take his hand, leading him towards the door. “Anywhere, as long as I’m with you.”

—

The two of you wander for a while, hand in hand, finally just being able to enjoy each other’s presence without holding anything back. You find yourselves near the waterfront, where the summer carnival is set up in a large, empty lot. Colourful lights twinkle throughout the stalls and midway rides, the smell of deep-fried food wafting through your nostrils. The laughter of children fills the air, along with different kinds of music from all sorts of directions, creating a melodious cacophony that only a carnival can produce. The ferris wheel lights up the evening sky, and you think to yourself that there’s nowhere else you’d rather be.

Yoongi gestures at the ring toss game. “Want me to win you a stuffed animal? Or are you too progressive to let me try to impress you?”

You roll your eyes, leaning into him. “Half these games are rigged, aren’t they?”

“Y/N!” He whines. “Let me try. Please?”

You can’t help but chuckle before finally conceding. “Okay. But don’t spend more than five dollars or I’ll feel bad!”

“Too late,” he hollers, handing the woman who runs the stall a ten dollar bill. She chortles at the two of you, commenting on What a cute couple you are, before handing Yoongi a dozen rings. Your face is beet red as you slap a hand against your cheek, watching as Yoongi takes aim at the rows of green glass bottles in front of him. He only needs to make one ringer in order to win a prize.

He makes five.

“And you doubted me,” he gloats, unable to hide the smugness from his tone as he hands you an ostentatiously large stuffed bear. “Where are you gonna keep this thing?”

You hug the plush toy to your chest, chin resting atop its soft head. “I don’t know. My studio has some room. Or maybe my apartment.”

Yoongi grasps your free hand and the two of you wander down the midway together. “You know, I still haven’t been over to your place.”

“You will,” you say simply, smiling up at him. “Eventually.”

Yoongi nods, understanding that your privacy is extremely important to you. You continue to walk along the rows of booths together, talking about nothing and everything all at once. It’s almost as if the two weeks of radio silence never happened, and you are so thankful for that because being with Yoongi just feels so right. It would have been a terrible shame if the two of you were to never speak again because of what was essentially a misunderstanding. But as he links his fingers with yours, giving your hand a gentle squeeze, you forget about everything aside from this moment, and the way he looks at you with nothing but affection in his catlike eyes.

You’re heading over to the food vendors when all of a sudden, you hear a familiar voice calling out your name.

“Y/N-noona! Yoongi-hyung!”

The two of you turn to see none other than Jimin and Taehyung—the former is waving frantically at you, while the latter is busy stuffing a giant soft pretzel into his mouth. Jimin drags Taehyung over to where the two of you are standing, opening his mouth to say something before staring at your joined hands and openly balking.

“FINALLY!”

“Jesus, Jimin, keep your voice down, we’re in public,” Yoongi grumbles, clearly embarrassed. You lift yourself up onto your tiptoes and peck him on the cheek. He then turns to you, his eyes wide as saucers. “We’re in public!”

“When did this happen?” Taehyung asks, his mouth full of pretzel, though you can tell by his eyes that he’s trying to smile as he chews.

“It’s new,” you admit, resting your head on Yoongi’s shoulder. You can tell by now that he’s not super comfortable with public displays of affection, if the shy apprehension on his face is anything to go by, but you just can’t help yourself. Now that you’re able to hold him and touch him whenever you want, you never want to let go.

“It’s just a date,” he grumbles out, clearly a little embarrassed. “Don’t make a big deal of it.”

You reach up to flick right between his eyebrows, and he yelps out a protest. Turning back to the other two, you say, “We were just going to grab something to eat. You want to join us?”

“Sure!” Jimin claps. “I haven’t eaten yet. Tae-Tae was supposed to share his pretzel, but…” He glances sideward at his friend, who lets out a tiny burp. “He inhaled the whole thing.”

“I’m a growing boy!”

“You were supposed to share!”

“Hyung will buy you fries or something,” Yoongi mutters, gesturing to the food stall. “Can one of you guys go grab us a table? We’ll be there in a second.”

“I want fries too!”

Jimin scoffs. “Taehyung! Don’t be greedy!”

“I’m a growing boy!”

Yoongi turns to you, his eyes glazed over with indifference. “Should we just let them starve instead?”

You tap your finger against your chin, pretending to be contemplative. “Well, Taehyung did have that pretzel just now, so it’s not like he’ll die right away…”

“The fuck?” Taehyung practically hollers before Jimin shushes him by smacking the back of his head, gesturing to the numerous children in the close vicinity. “The fuck,” he repeats, in a hushed whisper.

“Go get a table,” Yoongi barks, shoving a pointed finger in the direction of the seating area. The two younger men immediately straighten up and scuttle away, but not before Jimin snatches the infant-sized teddy bear from your arms, pretending as if it’s an actual kid. Yoongi sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose as you loop both arms around his middle, pressing a kiss to his chin. A dusting of pink flushes his cheeks as he mumbles out a whine. “Baby.”

“I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of hearing that,” you grin, reaching up to peck at his lips. “C’mon. The line is moving.”

“Says the woman clinging to me like a koala.”

You raise an eyebrow with a smirk, detaching yourself to hold onto his hand instead. “Not a fan of PDA?”

Yoongi opens his mouth to retort, but instead just ends up chuckling sheepishly. “Not sure, to be honest. Never really had a girlfriend to have PDA with.”

You give his hand a light squeeze, your tone purposely flippant. “Oh, so I’m your girlfriend now, huh? I thought this was just a date.”

He glares at you. “Don’t start.”

You can’t help but laugh, your other hand coming to rub against his lean bicep. “I like you, Yoongi.”

He looks down at you, his eyes soft with affection. His free hand rises to tilt your chin slightly skyward, and he kisses you on the mouth, witnesses be damned. “I like you too.”

The two of you finally detach from each other long enough to grab a tray of fries, hot dogs, burgers, and fountain drinks. You meander over to where Jimin and Taehyung are sitting with your stuffed toy, the bear occupying its own seat on the picnic bench. Their eyes light up at the sight of all the food, and Yoongi fixes Taehyung with a glare that has him folding his hands in his lap instead of reaching out to grab at the fries.

“So,” Jimin drawls, mouth half full of deep fried potato as he watches the two of you. You’re sitting beside Yoongi, who is eating with one hand, his other draped protectively around your waist as you lean into him. “Now that you two are finally together, when’s the wedding?”

Yoongi almost chokes on his burger, and you cough loudly as the pop you’re drinking goes down the wrong pipe.

“This is our first date,” Yoongi hisses once he’s sure he isn’t going to die.

You vehemently agree. And then you have to ask, “How long have all of you been waiting for this to happen?”

Jimin ponders, drumming his fingers against his chin in faux-thought. Finally, after a dramatic pause, he replies, “The second Yoongi-hyung brought you into HopeWorld for the first time.”

Your eyes widen, and you turn to Yoongi in disbelief. “You liked me for that long?”

He’s clearly embarrassed now, chin propped up on his free hand, eyes darting everywhere but the three (four, including that giant bear) of you. He mumbles out something you can’t quite hear, and you poke him hard in the ribs until he speaks up. “I may have liked you since the moment we met,” he admits.

“You what?” You cry out in disbelief. “But you were such a dick to me at the bar that time!”

“Because Hoseok was all over you!” He protests. “Do you know how annoying it was to see one of my best friends flirting with you, and you looking like you were into it? I thought for sure I had no chance.” His eyes soften, and his grip on your waist tightens. “I mean, look at you. I still can’t believe you like me back.”

You look down, biting back a smile when you hear the sudden click of a camera and a flash of light. Confused, you glance up at Taehyung, who has produced an older looking film camera out of seemingly nowhere, his big, boxy grin on full display.

“Sorry,” he says, not sounding apologetic at all. “Too cute of a moment to pass up.”

You simply laugh, shaking your head.

I’ve got to ask Tae for a copy of that photo.

—

The night winds down, and you and Yoongi bid farewell to Jimin and Taehyung. Yoongi insists on walking you back to your apartment. As much fun as it was to hang out with the others, being alone with him, strolling hand in hand, is definitely your favourite part of the night.

The two of you talk about nothing and everything on the long walk back to your place. You talk about your separate careers, what to name the giant teddy bear (you offer to name it Hoseok, just to bug him—it works, he glares at you for a solid sixty seconds), and the infamous choreographed dance that Yoongi still has to do for you. He jokes that he’ll just offer you a lap dance instead, but immediately retracts it once he seems the glimmer in your eyes.

You finally reach the front steps of your building, and you turn to Yoongi, setting the bear on the ground for a moment.

“I’m glad we had a chance to talk and sort out our shit. I had a lot of fun tonight.” You smile, as his hands find your waist, tugging you closer.

“Me too,” he agrees quietly as you loop your arms around his neck. He doesn’t waste any more time, dipping down to kiss you.

Your fingers twine through his hair as he presses you flush against him, the tiniest moan escaping you as he nibbles on your lower lip. You’re drunk on the taste of him as his tongue dips into your mouth and he crowds you against the brick wall, hands wandering lower grip at the curve of your ass.

He’s sinful and surprisingly dominant as his lips move with yours, one hand sliding down the back of your thigh to hitch over his waist. You cling to his shoulders and let out a whine as he grinds into you, the thick sound of saliva permeating the air as you lose all sense of time and space, wrapped up in everything that is Min Yoongi.

You wanted to take things slow, but having his body flush with yours, being able to feel his heartbeat against your chest, you’re starting to question your own rule. You want to break it badly, so badly, and you’re about to say fuck it and invite him upstairs to have your way with him when he pulls away from the kiss, moving to run the tip of his tongue along the shell of your ear.

“I want you so bad,” he pants, and you can tell, by the stiffness in his jeans that is pressing deliciously against your core. His teeth nip at the most sensitive part of your neck, and you gasp out his name. But just as suddenly as this all starts, he’s moving away, lowering your leg and sliding his hands back up to a respectable position on your waist. “But I’m trying to be a gentleman.”

You think that you probably look insane, hair mussed and lips kiss-swollen as you pant, eyes searching his. “What…” You begin, but need to start over as the air returns to your lungs. “What was all that, then?”

Yoongi winks at you, pressing an almost comically chaste kiss to the curve of your cheek. “Something to think about for next time,” he offers.

You huff out a laugh, your forehead dropping against his shoulder. “You’re making this really hard for me.”

Yoongi narrow his eyes playfully. “Did you just make a pun?” He asks, eyes darting down to the semi he’s currently rocking, that is still poking you through his pants.

Bursting out laughing, your body shakes as he joins in, and the two of you just stand there outside your apartment building, holding each other without a care in the world. After a moment, you look up at him, your hands coming to rest on either side of his face. You pull him in for another kiss, thinking about all that time wasted not being able to touch him this way since your first meeting nearly six months ago.

You pull away, hands resting on his chest. You can feel his heartbeat against your palm, and he looks at you with eyes full of affection and longing.

“I’ll see you tomorrow?” You offer, and he nods with a smile.

“See you tomorrow.” He kisses you one last time before scooping the teddy bear off the ground, dusting it off and handing it back to you. “Goodnight, Y/N.”

“Goodnight, Yoongi,” you reply, almost sounding bashful as you slip through the front door. You can’t help but giggle as you watch Yoongi waddle away while adjusting his crotch through the window. You shake your head and head to the elevator, biting your lip as you hug your teddy bear close to your chest.

You reach your apartment, and once you’re inside, you lean against the door, and let out a huge sigh of happiness. You place the bear gingerly on your couch before pulling your phone out of your pocket, scrolling through your contacts until you find the familiar name. You click it and bring your phone to your ear, flopping down onto your bed with a giant, stupid smile on your face.

Junghyun’s voice fills your ears as you snort out a laugh. Seems like he’s been waiting for this call for a long damn time.

“So, when’s the wedding?”

[listentotheshityousay]

these wordless longings

from the siren!jeremy au

There are so many things Jeremy doesn’t know how to say. Even after he gets his voice back, he has trouble stringing together the thoughts he wants to balance on his tongue. Words are foreign in his mouth. Sometimes he chokes on them, unable to spit a single syllable through his teeth.

It doesn’t bother him, really. He’s lived without his voice for five years, can articulate himself just as easily through his hands and facial expressions, and he could live without saying another word for the rest of his life.

But there is Michael, who lived in a silent world of Jeremy’s making, who now lives in a world of otherworldly sounds whispering in the silence. Michael, who somehow loves Jeremy despite everything he’s done, who lights up with delight whenever he hears Jeremy’s voice.

There are so many things Jeremy wants to tell him. So many things that Jeremy doesn’t know how to say, neither with his voice nor his hands.

-

“You’ve been staring,” Chloe remarks as she closes her locker. Her tone is mild, without a single trace of accusation, but Jeremy flinches all the same.

Sorry, he signs, and she recognizes it easily enough. He’s been signing that a lot in the past month.

She shrugs, and Jeremy’s eyes follow the movement from her bare shoulders down to the burn scar stretching across her right arm, from collarbone to elbow. “You don’t have anything to be sorry for.” Then she gives a deliberate smirk. “Your boyfriend is going to be jealous if you keep ogling me, though.”

Jeremy sputters at that, which makes her cackle, the delighted sound soothing away the jittery guilt under his skin.

“At least you’re subtle about it. Rich keeps looking at me like I murdered his puppy.” She pauses. “Or more like he murdered my puppy and he expects me to make him pay for it.”

Jeremy grimaces. He knows the feeling, from both sides of the situation. Rich had brushed off Jeremy’s apologies, saying how it wasn’t Jeremy’s fault, he was okay, they were still friends. But it doesn’t change the fact that Rich flinches away whenever Jeremy comes within a foot of him, that he never really smiles as wide as he used to.

“I mean, I electrocuted him pretty badly.” Chloe doesn’t express any guilt about that, which Jeremy is oddly grateful for. “His scars are worse than mine. He should know that we’re even on this.”

If only it were that easy. Then maybe Rich would stop leaving the lunch table in a hurry every day. Maybe he would stop making excuses to avoid hanging out with their friends after school. Maybe he would actually mean the words when he’d laugh, uneasy, and say I know it wasn’t my fault.

Jeremy can’t blame him. The only person to blame is Jeremy himself, after all.

-

Everybody makes way for Jeremy at school nowadays. People avoid his eyes, giving him a wide berth, and don’t even dare to say his name when he’s around.

Michael likes to joke about how it’s nice that they never have to force their ways through crowds anymore, but Jeremy can tell that it bothers him, the way Jeremy is treated like a threat. Like a criminal.

Jeremy thinks they have the right idea. Everybody should be scared of him. It’s safer that way.

He thinks Michael should be scared, too.

-

“Do you want Michael to be scared of you?”

Jeremy chews on his lip, fidgeting under his therapist’s calm gaze. Over a month into his state-mandated therapy, he still feels uneasy talking about Michael. He can talk about anything else—the nauseating sensation of having something else possess his body, the lingering resentment over his mom’s abrupt departure, the guilt over Rich and Chloe and Jake and everybody else at school who is going to mandatory counseling for three more weeks. But when it comes to Michael, Jeremy doesn’t know what he wants to say. Doesn’t know how to express this craven need to never let him go, this desperate compulsion to push him away.

No. Jeremy hesitates. Yes. He lets out a frustrated huff. Both. I don’t know.

“What do you think will happen if Michael were to be scared of you?” She asks.

He raises his hands to say he’d be safe, but he pauses, because that’s not true. Michael would stay by Jeremy’s side regardless of how scared he was, because that’s the kind of stupid, reckless, loyal person he is. Nothing. It makes Jeremy want to cry. Nothing would change. He’d still be with me.

She scribbles something on her note pad. “Do you want him to be with you?”

Jeremy always wants Michael to be with him. He almost fucking caused the apocalypse because he was scared of Michael leaving him. He shouldn’t be.

“But what do you want?” Her tone is gentle, but the question makes him ache all the same.

What I want isn’t important, he signs.

“Jeremy.” She puts her pen down. “You’re allowed to want things. You’re allowed to say that you want them.”

Michael says that too, sometimes. You’re allowed to be selfish. Whispered clumsily against Jeremy’s mouth in the dark. Scratched onto a post-it note slipped inside Jeremy’s biology notebook with skinny hearts surrounding the words. Signed in rapid gestures for Jeremy to see right before he enters his therapist’s office.

Sometimes, Jeremy can almost believe it.

-

How did it go? Michael asks.

Excruciating as always. Jeremy climbs into the passenger seat and buckles in. Thanks for waiting.

I was doing math homework anyway, no biggie. Michael turns the ignition in preparation of the forty-five minute drive home. It had sucked, initially, to discover that the nearest therapist who was both qualified for dealing with demonic possession and fluent in ASL was so far away, but the long drives are now Jeremy’s favorite part about going to therapy: inside an enclosed space, with the car’s stereo volume turned up high and the audio jack plugged into his phone, blasting music that Jeremy sings along to the whole way home. He messes up the lyrics sometimes and can barely rap, but he gets to be as silly and loud as he wants, and Michael smiles through every minute of it.

-

He doesn’t talk verbally with anybody but his dad and Michael. And even with his dad, it’s sporadic and fleeting. With Michael, he makes more of an effort, because Jeremy’s voice is one of the few sounds he can truly hear, and Jeremy wants to give Michael everything that is within his power to give.

And now that there is an incredible amount of power laying dormant in his soul, the possibilities terrify the ever-loving shit out of Jeremy. This entire mess started with the idea that maybe he could give Michael’s hearing back, and honestly, the knowledge that he could do that—he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t tempted to make use of the power sleeping within him.

(He won’t. He promised Michael. But the temptation will always be there.)

And just the fact that he hasn’t learned his goddamn lesson when he brainwashed forty people and almost killed his friend’s Ancient mom and screwed over his friends forever, it makes Jeremy want to scream. To take a shard of glass to his throat and sever his vocal chords so he can do no more harm. More than anything, he wants to find the words that are clawing their way out of him, to give shape to the guilt and fear and greed roaring inside him.

-

You should’ve let me break his nose. Michael throws himself onto the couch at the back of his basement. He’s been fuming for a while. I could’ve just said he ran into me by accident.

People don’t run face-first into fists, Jeremy signs in exasperation.

Who said it was gonna be my fist? Michael responds with a grim face. I have perfectly serviceable elbows.

Jeremy snorts at that in spite of himself and Michael cracks a grin, but it slides off his mouth after a moment, replaced by a furious scowl.

I should have punched him.

You can't drive me to therapy if you have detention, Jeremy jokes, but it falls flat. The words that he's been swallowing down rattle in his ribcage, and he wishes he knew how to say them without being ripped apart by them, without forcing Michael to make a choice. Unbidden, the words Dustin Kropp said earlier come back to him. A danger to society like you shouldn't be allowed to be in public. It's surprising that Jeremy doesn't hear that one more often, to be honest. "It's not like he was wrong."

He doesn't realize he's said that aloud until he hears the sound of fingers snapping twice and his attention automatically refocuses onto Michael's pale, outraged face.

What the fuck? Michael stands up and walks up to Jeremy. We went over this. You can't blame yourself for everything.

Something about the way Michael advances on him—like it doesn't even occur to him to fear being close to Jeremy, like Jeremy isn't a fucking danger to everybody around him—douses Jeremy with white-hot anger. I'm not blaming myself for jackshit, he signs aggressively. I'm saying that he's right; I'm dangerous. People have every right to be scared of me.

I'm not scared of you. Michael is standing only inches away, and Jeremy wants to drag him in and kiss the stubborn line of his mouth, wants to scream until Michael can hear what the whole world is saying, wants to tell Michael never leave me and force him to listen.

"You should be!" The words scrape against his throat as he yells them much louder than he intended, but he can't be quiet now. Can't stop the flood of words that rip their way out of him, the things he doesn't know how to say but needs to say anyway. "You shouldn't want to be with me, not after everything I did. I almost killed people—hell, I almost killed an Ancient. I almost ended the whole fucking world. And yeah, that wasn't what I wanted, it was the demon, whatever, but I chose that. I was the one who made the choice to let the demon possess me, to hell with the rest of the world, as long as I got what I wanted. And you know what?" 

And here it is, the ugly truth that he can't deny: 

"I'd do it again. If it came down to choosing between you and the rest of the world, I'd burn down the world in a heartbeat." He covers his face with both hands, unable to look at the stunned look on Michael's face any longer. "I'm not safe, Michael, and I don't think I'm really sane, either, if I'm saying shit like this."

For the longest moment, there's nothing but the ragged sound of his breathing and a voice deep in his soul, chained and trapped, hissing he’ll never feel safe around you again, knowing how deep your twisted obsession of him runs.

He can’t help but think, good.

And then warm hands curl around his wrists, tugging his hands down, and Michael’s forehead presses against Jeremy’s, forcing him to tilt his face up, and then Michael’s kissing him, hard and insistent, licking into Jeremy’s gasping mouth with a hunger that makes Jeremy’s knees nearly buckle. He kisses back on instinct for about five seconds, whining into Michael’s mouth and shuddering at Michael’s responding growl, then regains his sanity and pulls away, trying to tug his wrists free. But Michael holds on tighter and chases his mouth, and in the ensuing struggle Jeremy trips backwards onto a beanbag chair, Michael following him down.

“Ow,” Jeremy complains about his sore ass. Michael echoes the sentiment as he rubs one of his knees. “What the fuck, Michael?” One of his hands is free now, but Michael still has one of Jeremy’s wrists in a vice-grip. “Let go of me.”

Michael twitches, his grip loosening for a second before it tightens again. He raises his free hand to respond. No.

“Michael.” A thread of desperation creeps into Jeremy’s voice. He needs Michael to get away from him, because if Michael keeps holding onto him like this, Jeremy’s going to fool himself into thinking he could keep Michael forever. “Did you hear a single word I said?”

Yes. Michael glances down at the hand he’s keeping around Jeremy’s wrist, then looks back up to meet Jeremy’s eyes. “I love you too, asshole.”

Jeremy blinks, then makes a pained noise. “I literally just said I’d sell my soul and the rest of the world to the devil for you. That is not supposed to be your response.”

“It was the most romantic bullshit I’ve ever heard,” Michael says, slow but firm.

“That’s not romantic; that’s crazy.” A slightly hysterical despair seeps into Jeremy’s chest. Michael is making no move to get away from Jeremy, and he isn’t sure if he should be relieved or chagrined. “Also, was that a deaf joke? Because it’s not funny.”

“Fuck you,” Michael says, signing it with his free hand. “I’m hilarious.” He lifts Jeremy’s captive hand to his face and kisses Jeremy’s palm slowly, gaze fixed on Jeremy’s eyes. Jeremy swallows a whimper before it can escape, but he can’t hide his shudder at the contact. “And you love me.”

Jeremy curls his hand around Michael’s jaw, slides it back to cup the back of his neck, and Michael lets him. Lets Jeremy pull him in so that he’s half-hovering over Jeremy, their noses brushing, his knees between Jeremy’s. Even after everything Jeremy’s done, after everything he’s confessed, he’s still so unafraid of Jeremy.

“You should run,” Jeremy whispers against Michael’s mouth. “Or I might never let you leave.”

Michael laughs, low and breathless. “Sounds perfect.”

Something breaks loose in Jeremy at that, the inside of his chest flooding, hot and all-encompassing. He pulls Michael in for a bruising kiss, hauling him closer with both hands, tangling fingers into hair and hoodie, trying to press into Michael, leaving not even an inch of space between them. “You idiot,” he mouths against Michael’s skin, kissing up Michael’s cheek, nipping at the shell of his ear. “I love you. God, do you even know how much I love you?” Everything is spilling out of him—the want, the desperation, the fear—poured into his words so that Michael can feel every single part of this love of his, twisted and deep and true. “I love you so much it scares me.”

“ I know.” Michael pushes closer; doesn’t flinch away from the raging current, this flood of emotion that Jeremy cannot contain, overflowing in his words and voice and magic. “I hear you.” Instead he trails kisses down Jeremy’s jaw and neck. “I know.” He brushes his lips against Jeremy’s, his words hot and sweet as they’re breathed into Jeremy’s mouth. “How could I be scared of you, when you love me just as badly as I love you?”

-

I’ve thought about it, Michael tells him the next day as they sit in the waiting room of Jeremy’s therapist. And I think you shouldn’t worry about making stupid choices.

Thought you said it was romantic? Jeremy snarks, and Michael swats him.

In theory! Didn’t work out in practice, remember? Michael gestures around them. One more consequence of Jeremy’s obsession. But back to my point. You don’t have to worry about making shitty decisions, because I’m not leaving you. Ever.

That’s not something that might be entirely within Michael’s power to guarantee, but Jeremy wants to believe it anyway. So my crazy possessive stalker-y declaration doesn’t scare you, huh.

Like I’d ever be scared of you. Michael snorts, but his smile is soft and fond.

And that’s okay, really. Michael doesn’t need to be scared of Jeremy. Jeremy’s going to be scared for the both of them.

Besides, Michael adds, the corner of his mouth quirking up in a mischievous grin, it’s kinda hot.

Jeremy can’t help the shocked, scandalized laugh that bursts out of him. You have some really questionable kinks, dude.

Michael flips him the bird. I’m just saying.

What, you want me to tie you to my bed and never let you leave? Jeremy jokes, but the way Michael flushes a dark red all the way to the tips of his ears makes him realize he’s hit pretty close to home. He feels his own face go hot at the image of it. Seriously? You’d let me do that?

I’d let you do anything to me, Michael signs, going impossibly redder.

“Jesus Christ,” Jeremy says aloud, unable to help himself, and he catches the way Michael shivers, responding to the sheer lust in Jeremy’s words. He takes a moment to shut down the ideas springing up in his hormonal teenage mind, focusing on the terribly sobering prospect of facing his therapist in the next two minutes instead of the incredibly hot prospect of Michael trusting him so much. We’re kinda crazy, aren’t we.

Crazy for each other, hell yeah. Michael makes a kissy face at him.

Jeremy shoves his shoulder. My therapist is going to have a fucking field day with me.

And speak of the devil, his therapist is poking her head out of her door and calling his name now. Michael follows Jeremy’s gaze, sees that it’s Jeremy’s time to face the music, and grins at him. She can be buddies with my counselor. He thinks we’re a hot mess.

Jeremy grimaces as he stands up, and Michael laughs.

But he also thinks that we’re going to be okay. Michael takes Jeremy’s hand to give it a reassuring squeeze, then nudges him towards the open office door. And I think so too.

Maybe Jeremy’s therapist will agree, once she hears the words Jeremy has finally found to talk about Michael. As he steps through the doorway, he realizes that there’s so many things he wants to say. Things he wants to tell his therapist, his dad, his friends. Michael. And he thinks, for the first time, he might know how to say them.

[oh-electra]

I went back to therapy today.

I started going to therapy last year after having a really, really rough time and it all went so badly. I was so scared at what I had turned into- I had entered into the land of suicidal and all my hair was falling out, Id spend every single day crying my eyes out and would be in bed by 7pm. I was also told my my GP I sounded “borderline agoraphobic”.

Now most my issues stem from somewhere unknown that I’ve had for quite a while and then they were drawn out from a combination of loneliness in a new city, the only friends I had moving away and an emotionally abusive relationship that made me feel more worthless than anything else ever had. So when I was fed up I signed up for the mental health care plan looking for some professional help.

Instead what I got was a mess. At the consultation at my doctors I spoke to a lady I had never met before because my GP was too busy to see me. That lady decided that I was stressed because first year of uni is hard (she didn’t listen when I repeatedly said “no I’m not stressed from uni and this ISNT my first year!”) I then went to a psychologist who decided that my break up was the cause for my sadness (actually ma’am but finally having the courage to end it with someone who put you through emotional hell is something I’d call an achievement. I was however sad about the entire relationship though. I knew from the first time we spoke on the phone something wasn’t right and yet I put myself through that any way. I spent months and months begging someone to love me only to be told I was naive to expect to be loved- so yeah a little mad about that relationship but definitely not the break up) and then the 3rd person I met told me a I should feel guilty about all the school work I wasn’t doing and that to fix my depression I should have berocca instead of coffee in the morning (????!!!!!). Eventually I left and I never bothered trying again.

Things have really changed for me now though. I’m doing a degree that I’m in love with and I’m so determined to take it as far as I can. I’ve decided I’m not going to stop until I have PhD to my name. I’ve also met a girl- love of my life- who has changed my life forever. I decided to try therapy again though because I still have my really bad days. Like really, really bad days. But now I have thing, big important things, and an entire future to look forward to. I don’t want this chemically imbalanced Brain of mine to get in the way of that. So today I went to therapy.

It all went so much better than I could have expected. The place was beautiful! I mean try searchijg ~masculine aesthetic psychology office~ on pintrest and you’ll find the place. Imagine books on every shelf, dark coloured walls and loads of brown leather, science magazines and model brain replicas decorating the place. Amazing! The guy was like out of tv show too- full suite and dress shoes, cute round glasses and slicked back hair. Amazing!!!

We spoke for nearly an hour and a half. He asked good questions but mostly listened. He never made me feel silly about anything. He took my seriously the entire time. He made suggestions, gave advice and mostly just made me feel so safe and comfortable. He told that he thinks, and this is not a diagnosis, but maybe I have bipolar 2 disorder (the more mild of the two kinds of bipolar) and that’s something we could work with. He also isn’t super keen on the idea of putting me on antidepressants (for the sake of my hyper mania) and that’s also something we can work with too.

I’m going back in two weeks and I’m genuinely so excited. It feels very good knowing that I’m doing something to genuinely look after myself. Like even when I’m not feeling so so so down I’m still going to be looking after my brain and my thoughts and my feelings and my heart. I’m excited to learn how to be the best version myself that I can be and I’m excited to learn how to thrive in order to achieve all the dreams I have for myself and to enjoy this beautiful like I know I can have. I like that I finally feel some hope for myself. It’s just a spark but it’s enough.

[assbuttyourlife]

When We Were Young - Chapter Twenty-Eight

Pairing : Misha/OFC

Warnings : Language, Fire, trauma, PTSD, family members death (including child), therapy, flashbacks (not in every chapter), injuries, cheating. Sexual content. Violence. Non Con/Threats of rape. Long fic. Angst, fluff, Smut. Mention of suicide.

Words : 6344

Summary : After her grandmother’s funeral, Lily must return to the place she lived in when she was young and has to confront the ghosts of her past. She will run into an old friend that she thought was lost forever.

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Tags : @jhudawnareeves

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CHAPTER 28 - Confrontation

Mr Adams' farm was situated a few feet away across the road, hidden from the Hagen's property, which was perfect for Lily who didn't want to go back to her house without confronting the old man first.

His property was smaller, but she would have to cross his fields before she could reach his house.

He was surely old and retired now, but his business was obviously still running: the fields were full of vegetables, the fruit trees were well kept and the corn fields were all ready to grow through next season. She also could hear the horses in the stables, and on her way she crossed path with a few working farmers that she didn't know.

She had no idea if he was here, or what she would find inside of his house, what she would say, how he would react seeing her after all those years, no idea if he was still healthy enough to remember everything he did (or didn't do), but she was determined to at least try to hear him out.

She was walking through the corn field when she felt her phone vibrating in her pocket for what appeared to be the hundredth time. She wasn't surprised to see Misha's name lightening her screen, but she didn't pick up.

Katie and David tried to reach her too, probably because Misha asked them where she was and why she wouldn't answer, but she didn't want to talk to anybody except for Mr Adams, at least for now. They would all have to wait.

When she heard the ringtone signifying she had another voicemail, she sighed but didn't stop walking, not bothering listening to it. She knew it was Misha being all worried and warning her she should be reasonable and call him. She didn't need this right now. She was actually tired of listening to him.

She was still mad he lied to her. Actually she was doubting everyone since she found out the truth. Dr Dorville, her psychiatrist, for example… did she know? Did she play with Lily the whole time? The corrupted doctor who took care of her at the hospital recommended Lily to Dr Dorville at the time… did he explain the whole case to her or did he lie even more?

And her grandmother… She wondered how much she knew. She signed all the medical records and she was already by her side when she woke up at the hospital. She knew everything that happened that night so she must’ve talked to someone first… Never in her life had she thought she would once doubt her own family, but here she was, drowning in her confusion.

She wondered what her mother would think now if she could see her. Would she be proud of her for getting justice? She liked thinking it was indeed the case.

Maybe she was with her right now... maybe she was guiding her steps and pushing her to do this...

She wasn't sure of anything, but she knew she would not be at peace and she couldn't live with herself until she spoke to Mr Adams. Just talk...

Her heart was pounding when she stepped on his porch, and she had to take a deep breath before pressing his doorbell.

She almost ran away when the door opened, but she didn't and came face to face with a young woman she didn't know.

“Hello. May I help you?” the woman offered politely.

She must've been in her thirties.

“Um... yes I... I'm looking for Mr Adams. Is he here?”

“He's resting. Maybe I can leave him a message?”

“Thank you but I would actually prefer talking to him. I'm... I'm an old friend. I knew him well when I was young and I just wanted to say hi since I'm in the neighborhood for a few days.”

“Oh, I see. Well maybe you can come back later? He always rests after lunch, you should be able to-”

“ PENNY WHO'S HERE? ”

Lily's heart stopped when she heard the old man grunting with his raspy voice. He sounded rude, but he must legitimately not have been very pleased to be woken up by the doorbell.

“Well aren't you a lucky one... please come in, I'll go get him.”

“Thanks.”

Lily stepped inside of the house and followed Penny to the living room where she offered her to sit on the sofa.

The house was well kept but still very rustic and dark, giving Lily a very uncomfortable feeling, and it smelled like alcohol and medicine which didn't reassure her a bit.

Penny reappeared a few minutes later, pushing Mr Adams in his wheelchair, and Lily could’ve sworn her heart stopped beating for a little while.

She was excited but terrified and mad at the same time.

Penny settled Mr Adams across the coffee table facing Lily but he didn’t look at her right away, he was too busy smiling at the young woman taking care of him.

“I’ll bring your coffee in just a minute. Can I get you anything to drink, Misses?”

Oh geez, Misses??? How old did she think Lily was exactly?

“Just a glass of water, thank you.” she politely replied.

She actually needed the water badly, she was so nervous her mouth was dry.

Mr Adams finally looked at his visitor and frowned, studying her face closely.

“You look just like your mother, Lily. Delight for my eyes.” he announced with a surprisingly sweet and sad voice. “Except for that red hair of course...”

So… He remembered. That was a good start.

She was determined not to show any emotion and stay strong. She didn’t even thank him.

“I see I don’t need to introduce myself. I’ll take that as a compliment.” she nodded with a weak smile.

“It is one. What brings you back here?”

Straight to the point… he didn't even try to pretend he thought she was dead…

“You don’t look too surprised to see me, considering...”

“Why would I be? My son told me he saw you at your property a few years ago. I’m surprised you didn’t show up at my house earlier to be honest, especially when he told me you were with Misha.”

So he knew that they knew at least a part of his plotting.

“Yes, we wanted to see what was left of the house.”

She didn’t want to dive into the drama right away.

“I thought you were here to finally sell the place.”

Of course he did… the tension in the room became thicker and thicker.

“No. I didn’t want to rush things at the time. I needed to think about it first.”

“And? Did Misha succeed making you feel guilty if you sold it?”

Lily cleared her throat and rubbed her moist palms against her jeans before taking a sip of water. She didn’t like his tone at all.

“It’s my decision, not his, he knows that. It’s officially for sale now though.”

Mr Adams chuckled and took the cup of coffee from Penny’s hand.

“Right… don’t tell me you’re here to sell it to me now, I’m too old for this and your mother’s gone so what’s the point anyway?”

“No, um… I’m here for answers actually.”

Mr Adam's eyes sparkled when she said that. She could’ve sworn he wanted to have that conversation for a long time.

“About?”

Lily side-eyed Penny who was listening to their conversation from the armchair near the fireplace, but she didn’t move and nodded at the old man. She understood there was no way their talk could be private.

“About what you did in 1990.”

He was just like stone… showing no emotion, not moving a finger, but he still had that disturbing sparkle in his eyes.

“And what do you think I did in 1990? Or should I say… What did Misha tell you I did?”

Would it be like that? Would he still blame Misha and his family for everything?

And more importantly… was he in fact right to do so?

“Why do you think Misha has to do anything with this? He doesn't even know I’m here.”

“Hah!” he chuckled. “Come on… You think I don’t know he’d been putting his nose in your business? He went everywhere in town to interview people. I’m not completely stupid, and I know he still has influence on you. I don’t know what he’s trying to do but I’m pretty sure he’s searching for trouble… as always. But tell me Lily... I know he's married now, and from what I've heard you were not the bride... how come you still hang out with him?”

He must've been upset his plan to separate them failed, and to be honest, Lily felt something close to satisfaction knowing he screwed up with that part of the story.

“I understand your surprise, Sir... someone in town was very determined to spread the rumor we all died in the fire. Call it a miracle or... destiny, who knows?”

The old farmer chuckles sarcastically. “My poor child, you're so delusional. He got you good, huh?”

Lily started to feel anger rising in her chest and that wasn’t good because she didn't know how long she could contain herself.

“Why? Why do you hate him that much? Why do you hate Rebecca? Why did you twist the truth to make them disappear? I don’t understand.”

Mr Adams gave her his best fat laugh. It almost scared Lily.

“See? They still have influence on you. You’re blind and clueless, little girl. He will destroy what’s left of your family… which is your properties first… and then you. You have nothing else left anyway. And by the way who said I did anything?”

She clenched her teeth and tried to stay calm.

“You’re not answering my questions.” she firmly pointed.

“And I won’t. You’re accusing me with no proof, just because your dumb teen crush told you what he wanted you to believe so he would look like the hero. Be careful Lily, I warned your mother back then, I’ll say it to you too: when the Krushnics will have what they want from you, they will destroy you just like they destroyed Mary. And they’re half way done already from what I can see.”

What was that supposed to mean? She clenched her teeth and her nostrils flared. He was infuriating.

She had some proof though...

“I found the letters you sent to my mom.”

“And? Did it burst your little bubble? I truly loved your mother, Lily, and if Rebecca hadn't been here, I'm certain she would still be alive today, and we'd probably be happy together. If someone's responsible for your family's death, it's not me. Look somewhere else.”

Lily's eyes widened a little and she clenched on her glass.

No... Rebecca would never hurt her mother... It was not possible... or was it?

When he saw her reaction, Mr Adams laughed so hard that it made him cough and Penny immediately stood up to help him.

Lily could feel the sting in her eyes, but she fought with herself not to show him how she felt.

“Look at you! You should’ve talked to her at least before coming to me, sweetheart… there are probably a million things she didn’t share with you… same for Misha.”

Ugh! He called her 'sweetheart' and her stomach twisted. She hated it!

“You’re searching in the wrong place. I won’t tell you more. I loved and respected your mother enough to warn her, she didn’t listen. You’re exactly like her… But I still owe her to protect you too. Run Lily, run far away from that hippie family as fast as you can and never look back. That's all I can do for you today.”

God she was even more confused than before she came here and she had zero information, just more doubts!

“I need to rest now if you don’t mind… Penny?”

“Wait! You can't just-”

“I'm too old for this, I can do whatever the hell I want. If you decide to not listen to me, that's your problem, not mine. I'm done.”

He nodded at his caretaker and she stood up immediately, bringing the old man and his answers away from Lily.

***

She woke up early the next morning, all sweaty and panting from the nightmare she just had.

It was the same nightmare she always had, even years after the 1990 events. She hadn't dreamed about that for something like a decade, but it came back that night after she spoke to Mr Adams.

She was locked outside her burning house and all she could hear were the screams of her family and Misha dying inside, calling her name. She could do nothing except screaming back at them and as hard as she was trying to get inside of the house, she had never been able to.

She had to take deep breaths and study the room she was in before realizing where she was. She forgot she was still in Litchfield, staying at the same hotel she shared with Misha when they came here together a couple years ago.

She got out of the bed to go take a shower and went downstairs at the restaurant after hearing the atrocious noises her stomach made. She was so disturbed and so tired yesterday that she didn’t even think about eating something.

She checked her phone quickly while eating her pancakes and wasn’t surprised to see the dozens of missed calls/voicemails/texts she received from Katie and Misha. She didn’t read everything, she knew it was just full of where are you? and why aren’t you answering your damn phone?

It was time to clear her mind now, so she decided to go to Brooke Park to take a long walk in the nature, just like she used to do with her grandfather.

She took her time and walked the whole morning. It was so peaceful, which was exactly what she needed to think.

Problem was, she still didn’t know what to think about that messed up story. She was still as lost as when she left Seattle, if not more.

She wanted to trust Misha and his family because her mother did so she felt like it was the right thing to do… but what if her mother was wrong after all? They hid very important information from her, about her own family. They had no right to do that, it wasn’t something easy to ignore. Plus she was pretty sure they still knew things she didn’t and the simple fact that they weren’t speaking was enough to make her angry. She was supposed to know everything that happened, it was her life, her past, her family.

Maybe she would just have to take a step back from them after all... including Misha.

But she loved them so much...

And then there was Mr Adams who clearly loved her mother, and hated Rebecca and Misha for some obscure reasons. But then again... did he know something she didn't? Was there a darker side in Rebecca's life that she didn't know about because they hid it to her her whole life?

She sat on a bench without thinking where she was, she was just tired of walking after a while, but when she looked up to observe the nature around her, she saw she was sitting on the exact same bench she was with Misha when she won the bike race, right before they had to run to the hospital for his appendectomy. She smiled weakly and slowly shook her head remembering that story.

“I knew I'd find you here.”

Lily didn't even look at him, she closed her eyes and sighed deeply. Of course he flew here... of course he found her... of course he had to insist.

Misha sat next to her and waited, crossing his arms but not saying anything. He seemed calm and in peace with himself... exactly the opposite of Lily.

“You're very quiet for someone who keeps calling and texting.” she sarcastically pointed out.

“Yeah... I kinda figured you didn't want to talk. But do you have the slightest idea about how worried I was?”

Huh... maybe it was just a facade then, he sounded actually worried. But... worried about what? Her flying away from him without a word or... her finding out the truth?

She scoffed. “I'm a big girl now, Misha.”

“You may be an adult, yeah... but you're acting like a child. I was worried sick, Lily! You could've at least told Katie where you were going so I would stop imagining the worst when I was actually supposed to work!” he raised his voice a little, unable to contain and hide his anger anymore. “And if you came here to talk to Mr Adams, I suppose you're not as smart as I thought either... especially when you promised me you wouldn't.”

She turned to look at him, narrowing her eyes. He looked pained and... furious now. All the muscles in his face were tensed, his jaw clenched, his eyes dark. The hint of sadness reappeared in his gaze too...

“Why? Are you afraid about what I could've learned?”

She saw him clench his teeth even stronger, obviously filtering his next words in his head to avoid saying something he would regret.

“You mean about me or my family? No, Lily... I'm not afraid, you already know everything you need to.”

“Oh... and who decides what I need to know about my own family then? You? Because that's exactly what you did.” she spat venomously.

Misha rubbed his face and sighed in his hands.

“Have you been to his house yet? Have you talked to him?”

“What difference does it make?” she was looking everywhere but in his direction.

He was slowly starting to be tired of her little game, she was not answering him and she was clearly distrustful right now, but he needed her to talk. He needed to know what was going on in her head.

“Why don't you just answer the question? Or better... why don't you tell me what you think I did, or what you think I'm responsible for... it will be faster that way.”

She puffed and looked down at her shoes.

“I don't know what to think anymore, Misha. You lied to me. Everybody lied to me pretty much my entire life. I don't know who to trust anymore. It's that simple. I thought I knew you, I thought I knew everything about your family, I thought I knew my mom, my grandmother... and it turns out I was wrong.” her voice was shaky as she was on the edge of tears.

Misha didn't reply, still leaning on the bench with his arms crossed.

“I did talk to Mr Adams.” she confessed, still without looking at him.

“Was it helpful?”

“No... he didn't say much. I just realized he really hates you and your mom. He didn't clearly say why though, and I have to admit I'm a bit curious.”

Misha uncrossed his arms and bent over a little so he could see her face, but she was still avoiding his gaze.

“We were living for free in the huge farm he wanted to buy, and your mother trusted us more than him despite his love for her... that's why.” he laughed bitterly shaking his head.

“Is that it?” she was a little surprised... she didn't know someone could hate people and be that mean for such a lame reason.

Misha lolled his head “Well... I wasn't exactly the neighbor of the year, especially when Darius was involved but... does it justify what he did?”

She didn't answer because she didn't know what to say. Mr Adams never admitted he started that fire in 1990.

Misha immediately understood why she was so silent.

“Of course... that's only my word, right? And you don't trust me anymore. You know... I've been mistrusted my whole childhood, and disliked later, everybody was judging me on my lifestyle and not for who I was, but I never thought you'd be one of those people. I thought you knew who I really am.”

She closed her eyes, ashamed of herself. If her grandfather was here right now, he probably would be ashamed of her too, that's the exact opposite of what he had taught her. But still, she couldn't help the awful feeling he betrayed her and was still hiding things from her.

“So what now, huh? What's going to happen for us?” Misha sighed shakily, visibly scared of what she would reply now.

Lily shut her eyes tight. “I don't know... I... I think I need to step back from all of this for a while or I'll end up crazy.” she swallowed the huge lump forming in her throat, not believing what she was about to say to the man she loved more than anything.

That was exactly what Misha didn't want to hear, and he had trouble keeping a straight face, tears threatening to fall already.

“Is that really what you want?” He almost whispered. If he had talked louder, he probably would've broken down in front of her.

But if it was deeply what she needed, he would stand down too, but not without fighting first.

“Yes... I have to, I'm sorry.” tears poured down her face when she opened her eyes, but she was totally unable to look at him when she said that. She needed to go, but she still loved him, and it still hurt.

Misha wiped the tears from his face quickly.

“Have you gone to the farm yet?” he suddenly asked with a determined voice.

She looked at him with a puzzled look, surprised by the sudden change of conversation.

“Uh... No. I didn't plan to, But-”

He stood up fast, stepped in front of her and offered his hand to her. “Can I show you something? If you wanna go after that, I'll let you go. Promise.”

She frowned, looking at his hand waiting for her.

“What now?” she sighed.

“Please. It won't be long.”

She looked around her hesitant but finally accepted his hand and stood up.

She owed him that at least.

***

In the car, she tried to ask him why he was taking her to the farm, but Misha stayed quiet or replied vaguely. He just said she needed her to see something before taking her final decision.

Oddly, it didn't comfort her at all, it just meant she was right: he was indeed hiding more from her. She was a little scared about what she would find there, and why Misha was being so secretive about all of this.

He stopped the rental car at the end of the road as usual and waited for her to make a move.

“I don't understand what we're doing here” she admitted. “I thought our last trip was the end of all of this.”

Misha looked outside, following the main path with a sad look.

“Yeah... for you maybe. I just want to show you something. After that, it will be over and we won't come back, if that's what you want, but you have to see it first.”

And just like that, she was even more terrified!

She sighed. “Okay, fine... Let's get this over with.”

She went out of the car and Misha led her to the main path. They walked in silence, side by side, and when Lily finally found the strength to look around her instead of staring at her shoes, they were already at the cross path between the pond and the cottage. She could've sworn something had changed since the last time she was here, and she had a very weird feeling but she couldn't put her finger on it.

She didn't say anything at first, but when they arrived at the orchard, she couldn't hide her feelings.

“Hey! Do you see that? It looks like it's been weeded... last time we were here it was a terrible mess!”

Misha simply smiled. “Yes. It's been weeded. Keep walking.”

He kept walking even if Lily stopped to study the area. He didn't sound surprised, which was not good, and she had to run to catch up with him to ask him why.

“Hey! Why do you run like that? What's going on here? Who came here to weed the orchard? Is is Mr Adams?”

Of course Misha didn't answer. “Keep walking, Lily.”

She stopped and crossed her arms. “I'm not taking another step until you tell me what the fuck is going on with MY fucking property!”

She was so angry and so tired of all his lies and secrets, she would have answers, and he would answer now!

Misha stopped and turned around to look at her.

“You and your attitude...” he sighed. “Do I have to carry you? You won't believe me if I tell you everything now, so you keep walking or I'll take care of it.”

He stared at her with an insisting and very intimidating, (but still extremely sexy) dark look in his eyes.

“And don't even think about running away, I run faster, you have no chance.”

Lily scoffed.

“Asshole.” she quietly mumbled when she resigned to walk again.

“You'll pay for that.” Misha warned.

 Oh... he heard.

He playfully slapped her butt when she walked passed him.

“Did you just-”

“Walk!” he laughed. What was with this place making him so... childish!?

She walked so fast for the rest of the way that she was panting when they arrived in front of the main house where Misha finally stopped.

“Will you at least look at it?” he noticed Lily was looking everywhere but the house. She was currently bending over to catch her breath. He knew she was terrified but insisted anyway.

She rolled her eyes, slowly straightening to take a look at her former home.

“Really this is getting ridic-”

She couldn't talk anymore, the air escaped her lungs too fast when she saw her old house completely restored.

Nothing was burnt anymore, everything was clean and painted, the tower was rebuilt, nothing was broken, and the landscape was perfectly tended outside.

It felt like she stepped back in 1990.

“What the... Mi-” she swallowed his name, unable to talk more.

“Alright... don't be mad at me before I explain everything, deal?”

“YOU DID THIS???” she screamed, her eyes popping out of her head.

“Lily... you're being mad at me.” he fairly pointed out.

Actually she didn't know if she was mad, angry, sad, confused, scared, nostalgic or grateful at that moment. She was a walking wreck of emotions.

“I'm... I... Misha what...” she sighed in defeat. Trying to form a sentence was useless right now.

Misha took her hand and realized how shaky she was.

“No, I didn't do this... Well at least not alone. Can we sit a moment?” he offered and sat on the wooden bench near the main entrance.

She followed him and was grateful to sit because she wasn't sure her legs could hold her any longer. When she sat facing the house, the tears ran down her face without her being able to control them, but she tried to sniffle them back.

“I... I really was upset about you planning to sell this place so I talked to my mom and Sasha and they were surprised I wasn't the first one thinking about buying the place. I have to admit it didn't even cross my mind, I don't know why... probably because it will always be yours to me.”

“You... you bought it?”

He chuckled weakly “No, not really. I asked my fans for help actually... Random Acts bought it with their help, and some of them are working with the volunteers to rebuild it. It's not done yet, but they've done a great job so far, don't you think?”

So that's why she had no idea who made the offer a few months earlier...

“Why didn't you tell me?”

“Because I knew you wouldn't be happy about it until you see the house completely done. It was originally planned for next spring, I wanted to show it to you for your next birthday. It would've also given me more time to find the answers we're still seeking.”

She shook her head and wiped the tears from her face with the back of her sleeve.

“I never signed any papers allowing this...” she raised an accusatory eyebrow toward him.

“Yeah um... I know but you were about to and you were not supposed to see it now so...”

“So you tricked me.” she finished his sentence harshly.

“If that's the way you wanna see it...”

She closed her eyes and shook her head before looking back at her house.

“Misha... you live at the opposite of the continent, what will you do with such a huge property?”

“That's the good part actually” he smiled tenderly. “One of the volunteers working for Random Acts, Lucy, has a project, she wants to create a shelter home for kids and teens. My mom wanna help too. It's the perfect place, Lily... they can work on the farm and live here until they're old enough to start a life on their own.”

She thought about it for a moment and she had to admit it was theoretically really not a bad idea. It actually even felt way better than selling it.

“I told her we would have to wait for your consent of course, but I actually love the idea. This place was everything to me and my brother when we were teens, I guess it would make a huge difference for other young people in need too.”

“I... I don't know what to say.”

He took her hand.

“Don't say anything then... Do you want to look inside? A few rooms are ready, not everything though, but we can definitely visit.”

She looked at him and couldn't turn her gaze away from him all of a sudden.

“I can't believe you did this...” she whispered.

He didn't know if she was happy, sad or mad at that moment.

“Well... I knew you wouldn't do it, but I also know selling the place doesn't feel right to you.”

She never talked about that with him, nobody knew she hated the idea of selling... he just knew her too well, and at that moment she felt like her heart exploded with love for this man, swiping all the secrets he kept from her.

Misha stood up and led her to the front door.

“Uh... do you have the key?” he asked a little embarrassed, scratching the back of his head.

“What? You fucking bought the place, you should have the key!”

“Yes, I should... except Lucy has all the keys and nobody's working here this week because we're waiting for some materials' delivery... and since I left Vancouver in a hurry to find you without planning to show you all of this, I didn't take my keys.”

Her face suddenly fell and her eyes popped out.

“Aren't you supposed to film right now???”

“I am... but like I said... I was fucking worried.”

He left the Supernatural set during filming to jump in a plane to find her??? He was probably in trouble because of her...

“I'm sorry...” she whispered and covered her mouth with her hand.

“It's fine, don't worry. But I'll have to go back tomorrow or they'll probably kill Cas for good this time.” he laughed.

Lily chuckled nervously, opened her purse and handed him the key. He opened the door but didn't step in.

“After you.” he offered.

She looked inside and her heart was pounding so hard she thought everybody could hear it in America at least. She stopped in the entry, shocked by what she was looking at.

The wooden stairs were rebuilt and all clean, the high sculpture of two dogs was proudly decorating the room, the same exact paintings were hanging on the dark yellow walls, the old suitcases were still waiting under the stairs, the steel vase was on the small table in the archway except there was no flower in it... everything was exactly like it was in 1990.

“Holy shit...”

“I wanted it to look like I remembered it.”

She didn't say more, she slowly walked further to the kitchen. The white counters, the double stove, the huge silver fridge, the marble center counter with the big pots under, the books, the bar with the view to the backyard, the stools... everything was here!

“Misha how... how did you do that? It looks exactly how we left it!”

“Lots of people and patience, very determined fans, good cleaning tools... and a bit of money does help.” he chuckled. “the breakfast room and Ryan's bedroom are not ready yet though.”

Ryan... God if Ryan could see this... if he could still run inside the house, sliding on the long marble halls laughing his ass off...

“There is something I want you to see.”

Lily chuckled “Something else you mean.”

Misha smiled and took her hand to guide her up the tower stairs. Those same stairs that completely burnt and collapsed trapping her mother while she tried to save her children. It even cracked the same way when they stepped on it.

They arrived in the tower, in front of what was her old bedroom. It smelled like fresh paint and fresh wood though.

“They can do whatever they want with the other rooms, but I wanted to do this one myself...”

He pushed the door open before her and she completely broke down crying as soon as she stepped inside.

Of course he had to rebuilt it the exact same way, with the same bed,the same patchwork blanket laying on it, the white sheets, the light garland that made it look like little fireflies, even the dream-catcher she made with her grandfather was hanging on the wall among the pictures of her family.

“Oh my God...” she whispered shakily.

Misha walked right behind her and wrapped his arms around Lily, burying his face in her neck. She raised a hand and placed it on his arm around her when she felt his warm tears running down her skin, so she turned around and hugged him tight.

“Since that fucking night in 1990 I hoped I could come back in this room with you and I knew it wasn't possible... until I ran into you at the airport and you told me you still owned the place. I had to do this, and I had to be here with you at least one last time to say fuck to fate. Now you can decide whatever you want, you can do whatever you want, my impossible dream came true, I'll be okay now.”

Lily sobbed in his arms, holding tight on his chest, unable to speak.

“I can say fuck to Mr Adams at the same time... because he definitely tried to stop me and that's one more reason for him to hate me, but I don't care.”

He pulled away from her just a bit to study her reaction. They chuckled at the same time when they both saw their wet faces.

“Are you mad?”

Lily scoffed “I'm not certain I can define my emotions right now. Look at that! I feel like I'm sixteen again, but without the drama. I just... I can't believe you did this.” she was just amazed and shocked.

“There is absolutely nothing I wouldn't do for you, Miss Hagen, you should know that.”

He tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, leaned his head and softly kissed her lips, savoring every second of it. It's been a whole week since they haven't been that close to each other, and Lily had to admit it felt incredibly good to feel him close.

They pulled away but Lily couldn't open her eyes.

“So this is it. Now if you still want to go without me, I will respect your decision, even if I really don't want to.” he swallowed the lump in his throat.

She opened her teary eyes and stepped away from him, walking toward the window to look outside absentmindedly. The view from her room was stunning, she could see the woods and as it was high, she could even see the orchard. It was a very strange sensation to be here after so long, she was forty years old but felt like she was still a teenager inside. The only thing that was missing were her mom and Ryan.

And just like that, she remembered why she came here in the first place, and that someone was responsible for her family's death, Mr Adam's words resonating in her head.

"He will destroy what's left of your family, which are your properties first... and then you."

Silence became thick and heavy in Lily's old bedroom. Misha didn't dare talking nor moving, too afraid of what she would say next. He just stood there, facing her back and trying to contain his nervousness while she was looking outside.

It was time to make her decision. Sometimes it's easy, and sometimes doing the right thing hurts like a bitch.

This time she knew exactly what the right thing to do was.

[searchingforaplacetocallhome]

Almost Easy - Pt 5

Setting: New Orleans**

Characters: Michaela “Mickey” McKenna & Johnny Tran

Warnings: Angst, Drama, Language (trigger: domestic abuse)

Background: Mickey is one of these characters that stuck with me through the years, because she never really got her story told in a way that satisfied me. Originally from Los Angeles, she comes from the Fast and Furious setting. She was an undercover police officer, sent to infiltrate pretty much like Brian O’Connor did. Rather than Dominic’s crew, she drew the attention of Johnny Tran. When the lines between her cover and her true identity blurred, she became involved with Johnny. He was controlling to the point of abusive, knew she was a police officer all along, but still kept her around. She was his personal toy. So when Brian shot him, she saw her chance, and escaped. Moving to New Orleans, she discovered she was pregnant, had her baby boy, and has been going at it alone, building up a new life, thinking she’s free of her past…

** Mickey is currently and NPC in an AU Supernatural story set in New Orleans, but she deserves to have her story told and there is no reason the two don’t mesh.

Word count: 2199

Pt 1 | Pt 2 | Pt 3 | Pt 4

Part 5 - Not Your Fault

“That’s not Johnny.”

Mickey physically distanced herself from the video Steve was showing her on the laptop, by taking a step back and crossing her arms over her chest. Rubbing her hands over her own arms, she tried to rub some warmth back into her bones.

“Unfortunately the baseball cap hides his face from the cameras, so 6’3’’, light colored skin, dark hair, and fit build is about all we have for a description.”

“And you’re sure he’s the one that gave my son the toy?”

“Beatrice said she noticed Matthew with the new toy around 11:15. With cameras from the parking lot across the street and down the block, this was the only person who was in the area at that time.”

Her eyes darted to the screen and the image frozen there. Mickey didn’t know anyone that tall, at least not anyone with hair and not built like a brick shit house. “What about my street? I know at least two neighbors across the street with cameras in their yards.”

Steve shook his head and reaching out, grabbed her elbows when she started to pace back and forth again. Drawing her focus back on him, he gave her the most sympathetic look that was meant to be comforting. It usually worked when they had to talk to the victims or their families, but Mickey had never thought he would be using it on her. It was oddly comforting.

“None of the cameras had a good enough view of the street. Mick… I know this is frustrating, but we will get you through this.”

“I’m not frustrated. I… I’m scared.” Tears blurred her vision. Blinking didn’t make them go away this time. Reaching up she brushed the wetness from her cheek. “I am scared I am losing my mind.”

Using his foot, Steve pushed the chair beside him out from underneath the table, guiding her to sit down facing him. “I said it before and I will say it again. Talk to me.”

More tears spilled down her cheeks. He was being so helpful and she was giving him nothing. When he reached up and brushed tears from her cheek with his thumb it only made more spill and she lost the fight to keep her emotions to herself. Scooting forward, he wrapped her up in a hug and burying her face against his shoulder, she let the tears flow.

She had no idea how long she sat there, sobbing, but by the time she got enough of her composure back to stop the flow of tears, her nose was stuffy and she was sure her eyes were red and puffy from crying. “Thank you,” she mumbled when he handed her the tissues.

Giving a squeeze to her knees, Steve stood up, but she didn’t pay attention to where he went. Her eyes searched around and found the computer screen again. It had gone black, but when she brushed a finger over the touch pad, the still from the security camera appeared on the screen again. It triggered nothing, and she breathed deeply through her mouth to blow her nose.

Steve returned with a big glass of water, sitting back down beside her, he rested his elbow on the table, head resting on his hand as he waited patiently for her to compose herself. “What did he do to you?”

“Ugh.” She knew the question was coming. It was inevitable really. When someone was that scared of someone they were once in love with, it was a logical question. You didn’t need to be a detective for that one.

“I have been a police officer for a long time. I have seen more cases of domestic abuse than anyone ever should, not to mention the murders. There is very little that can still shock me.”

“I know.” Brushing a lock of hair behind her ear, she picked up the glass and took a few sips of water. “I’ve never talked about it, you know. Aside from my handler, there isn’t really anyone who knows the truth. When I left L.A. I just… I left it all behind and I didn’t look back.”

“Ignoring it, doesn’t make it go away. Trust me, I have tried. The only way to truly give it a place is to work through it.”

Mickey managed to chuckle a little. “Is that what your therapist told you? You’re actually listening now?”

Steve shrugged and gave her a goofy ‘busted’ smile. “Eh, sometimes she has a point.”

“I thought of it… going to therapy, when I moved to Baton Rouge. It was still so fresh though, and so unreal that I actually got out, and was still breathing. I didn’t want to look back, so I didn’t.”

“The past has a way of catching up to us, though.”

“Yeah… I didn’t expect it to be literal though.”

“He’s dead though, Mickey. He can’t hurt you anymore.”

“Then who is doing this? Who would even know Johnny said that to me? No one was ever around when he lost his temper. He always waited till we were alone. To the outside world he looked like the perfect boyfriend for the longest time.”

“And behind closed doors?”

“I never knew what to expect.” Giving Steve a wry smile she turned her eyes up to the ceiling. It still made her feel stupid, but she knew why she had stayed with him and took the verbal and physical abuse.

“Tell me about the good times.”

“He would do little things, sometimes big things, but it was mostly the little things. Turning up the music on the radio and pulling me in to dance around the living room. Sending me flowers with sweet little notes. Watching the sunset on the pier. Making silly faces when I was in a bad mood until I laughed. He made me feel like I was the center of his universe.”

“You were.”

Mickey nodded. “It started with alienating me from friends. Making me choose him over them. I didn’t even realize it was happening until I tried calling one of my close friends and she told me in no uncertain terms to not call me again until I was done with ‘that creep’.”

“Did you confront him about it?”

“Oh did I ever! I was furious.” Closing her eyes, Mickey could almost feel the pain again, sending a shiver down her spine and making her reach up to touch her arm in the spot he always gripped her. His grip was always tight enough to cause a tingling sensation in her fingers. “Worst mistake of my life.”

“He hit you?”

“Until I couldn’t get up off the floor anymore. Punch after punch.” Every blow had made her wish that the next one would be the one to knock her out so she wouldn’t have to feel more pain. “Not the face though… never the face.”

“Of course, and probably was the perfect gentleman afterwards.”

Mickey shook her head and closing her eyes again, she felt tears roll down her cheeks again. “He would tell me to clean myself up after. If I wasn’t able to pick myself up off the floor fast enough, he would drag me to my feet. Sometimes I could barely breathe because my ribs hurt so badly.”

Her voice cracked and more tears flowed down her cheeks. She didn’t want to remember, but she needed Steve to understand just why she was so scared of Johnny.

“It didn’t stop there, did it?”

Her lips quivered, trying to hold back the sobs as she furiously shook her head. “After the beating came ‘the talk’. Often he would watch me struggling to clean myself up and he would tell me exactly why it was all my fault this happened. If I hadn’t raised my voice at him and accused him of those things, this wouldn’t have happened. What kind of friends did I have if they didn’t support me in my relationships?”

With eyes brimming with tears, she looked at Steve. “I actually believed him.”

Using a clean tissue, Steve gently wiped the tears from her cheeks, but new ones took their place. “He manipulated you into believing him when you were too vulnerable to fight back. It’s not your fault, you hear me?”

She nodded slightly. She could tell herself all day that none of it was her fault, but she couldn’t fight that little voice that told her she should’ve run for the door at the first sign of trouble and never looked back. She didn’t, so it was her fault.

Taking a few shaky breaths, she had to stop to blow her nose again. “After… after he convinced me it was my fault and he was satisfied I was cleaned up, he always insisted on… making love.”

Getting the words out, sharing those experiences with Steve was supposed to take some of the weight off. Supposed to. Mickey felt it weighing on her chest, like trying to breathe with cracked ribs.

A long silence fell between them. Steve finally broke it by clearing his throat. Grabbing a pen and his notebook, he scribbled something down and tore out the page, sliding it toward her across the table, he tapped it with a finger. “That is the number of the department’s psychiatrist. I am going to tell her to expect a call from you.”

“Steve...”

He shook his head. “I mean it. Three years is too long to walk around with this. You need to deal with this now, while Matthew is still too little to remember mommy crying all the time. It’s going to shake loose a lot of hurt, and there will be a lot of tears, but for yourself and that little boy upstairs, you need to do this. Now.”

More tears. So many tears. This was exactly what she had been afraid of, that once she started, she wouldn’t be able to stop crying. “Okay...”

“Tomorrow. You call her tomorrow. Right now we both need to get some rest. It’s getting late. There’s a patrol car outside. They will be watching the house all night.”

“I’m not sure I can.”

“Do you have anything to help you sleep? Take it.”

“If I do, I might not wake up when Matthew needs me.”

“You’re his mother. Someone has threatened you and your baby. Trust me, you will wake when he needs you. You need your sleep though.”

She watched as Steve packed up the files and the laptop, biting down on her thumbnail. A nervous habit. She was going to be alone in the dark. There was only so much the officers in the patrol car could see and keep an eye out for. So many places for someone to hide in the shadows.

“You’re gonna get through this, I promise.”

Mickey gave him a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes and returned the hug he gave her. “This too shall pass...”

“Indeed.” A finger tapped the tip of her nose. “Hang in there, kiddo.”

Her fist connected to his shoulder, getting a chuckle from him in response. Flipping him off with both middle fingers, she shooed him to the hall. Watching from the doorway, she made sure he was in his car and drove off. Giving a little salute to the officers in the patrol car, she closed and locked the door, checking it twice to make sure it wouldn’t open.

Closing her eyes a moment, she took a few deep breaths. “You can do this. You’re stronger than your fear.” Saying the words out loud felt a bit silly, but when she opened her eyes again, she felt a little more confident. Going around the room she straightened up, from the couch and coffee table, to the table. Gathering the used tissues and the glass.

Ring. Ring.

The shrill sound of the phone breaking through the silence caused her to lose her grip on the glass. It broke when it hit the floor, spilling water all over her socks. It was the land line, not her cell phone, which meant the handset upstairs was ringing too. Making a sprint for the phone to pick it up before it could ring again and wake up Matthew, she felt a sharp pain in her foot. “Fuck!”

She snatched the phone out of it’s cradle and hit the green button at the start of the ring, cutting it off before she could hear the echo from upstairs. “Hello?”

Silence.

“Hello? Anyone there?” she repeated, thinking she had probably spoken too soon, before the connection was made. Her question was met with more silence. “Hello?!”

Dead silence.

The line wasn’t going dead this time. Whomever was on the other end was listening. “Is it you? Huh? Are you getting off on this?”

Nothing.

Gripping the phone tightly in her hand, Mickey could feel her anger boil over. Fight or flight. Now was the time to fight. “Okay, listen to me very carefully, motherfucker. I don’t care who you are, but if you come near me or my child, I will kill you. You got that? You listening to me asshole? I am going to KILL you.”

Click.

[mikecardenmpreg]

recovery, etc.

so its been just about a year since i got back into therapy and i just want to say this because i didnt make it clear enough when it happened. when i went in for my intake session last december, they wanted to hospitalize me. like. that day. right then. they didnt even want to finish the interview. they just wanted to admit me. because people reporting numbers like mine were in hospitals on suicide watch. they did not want me to leave the premises. i had to assure them that i wasnt going to kill myself (even though i knew that wasnt a promise i could make). i had to sign a CONTRACT promising i would not kill myself before my first therapy session. the intake specialist was skeptical but he let me go (though he had no idea how i was able to function on a daily basis - jokes on him though because i wasnt functioning at all). he had a look in his eye that told me he wasnt sure letting my leave was a good idea. when i went to my first therapy session with ann a few weeks later, she also wanted to hospitalize me and again i found myself assuring someone i didnt know that i wasnt going to kill myself (and that still wasnt a promise i could make). a year ago i was so sick that i was nearly hospitalized for my own safety and for the safety of others. i smiled and joked and laughed through it all. i reblogged relatable sad posts. i tried not to make it seem like it really bothered me. but i was barely hanging on. 

i got my diagnosis on december 13th. i didnt talk to ann much but i told her just enough for her to deduce i had bpd. its something i knew for at least two years. i sat with my knees to my chest the entire session, uttering a few words here and there, picking at the fraying knees of my jeans. she took notes. she told me my numbers were concerning, that people with numbers like these are generally in inpatient care. i stared. nothing behind my eyes. i was a shell. she said “hopefully next time we meet youll be more comfortable with me and we can talk some more”. i felt like an asshole for sitting there and wasting her time. i thought i was a lost cause. i thought there was no way i was gonna get better.

and for the longest time i didnt. i was hurting so much. i was separated from all my friends and still dealing with the aftermath of not one but two absolutely devastating (at the time) rejections. i wanted to kill myself so badly but didnt have the means to do it efficiently and effectively (ive always been too scared to actually try to kill myself in case it didnt work - something ive told my therapist). i felt like the biggest fucking loser. i remembered the summer of 2012 and thinking (back then) that there was no way i could feel worse than i did then. i was wrong. how i felt in december 2016 through january-march 2017 was the worst ive ever felt in my entire life. looking back its mostly static. dont remember a lot of it. all i remember is being angry and suicidal and wanting to hurt everyone around me.

in april i started dbt. it took awhile for me to get into the class. ann had me take other classes to help cope with my other problems (anxiety mostly) and helped me process some of my issues until i could get into dbt. borderline is a little out of her area of expertise but she knows how to listen and is very very good at validating all my little hang ups (i love my therapist).

it took me a few weeks to see the value in dbt. for the first few months all it did was dredge up old shit and trigger me until i was hollow and numb. every week it felt like i was being ripped open and flayed. every week i got to relive a different traumatic memory. every week i disassociated to keep myself safe in this room of strangers (who were also disassociating to keep themselves safe). (disassociation is not a healthy coping mechanism) 

but then i went on medication for my depression and anxiety and the combination of that, dbt, and regular therapy sessions actually began to like work? like? thats wild? and i started to see changes in my life because i was learning how to communicate appropriately and deal with my trauma effectively. and i stopped dwelling on the things that made me feel bad and started diving in to the things that made me feel good. i started spending more time with friends and reaching out and actually putting an effort into being a better friend. i started being honest and open with my parents about my progress rather than being super secretive and hiding things. and somehow the constant stress dreams and nightmares and violent thoughts and suicidal ideations stopped. i was finally able to enjoy things again. i was even able to spend time with my parents and actually enjoy it. hell i even looked forward to seeing them and talking to them (which is a really fucking big deal).

there have been slip ups along the way. things have happened that have really bent me out of shape. but i was able to deal with those things and recover. last december i was prepared to ruin every relationship i had. i told my parents to not come to my graduation. i almost deleted all my friends phone numbers and unfollowed them on all social media so i never had to speak to them again. i was ready to isolate myself from everyone so that when i killed myself (which i was getting ready to do) i wouldnt hurt anyone.

im not gonna say that i cant believe that person then and the person i am now are the same people because i can absolutely believe it. there are times when i want to go back to my old ways because regressing is a lot easier than constant progress. and getting better doesnt always have 100% positive results. ive learned a lot about myself and others along the way. ive had to sever ties. ive learned that some people arent capable of change. ive learned that sometimes taking a break from the people you love the most is the best thing you can do for yourself (and for them). ive had to have hard conversations because getting better has forced me to learn that you gotta actually work for what you want. 

i havent been perfect this whole time either. i still havent learned how to value my own feelings over the feelings of others or how to accept that other people care about me. im sure some day i will. a year of therapy isnt going to fix everything. but some day ill have a breakthrough.

the whole point of this though is that if i can make it through my darkest moments and turn my shit around....anyone can. but its important to know beforehand that its a process. nothing happens overnight. nothing happens in a month. recovery is something you have to work at day and night for the rest of your life. its something you have to want. it doesnt come easy and its not pleasant. its not all soothing baths and flowers and handwritten journals. its crying and screaming and addressing your past traumas and welcoming them into your home like theyre family (and then accepting that they happened but not letting them dictate your every move). its being honest - brutally honest - with not only yourself but with others. its letting go of people you love and learning to exist in the void of loneliness (until the people you love learn to accept the new you). its showing up every week (or month or whatever) and saying something for once, even if you think its stupid, even if you think its irrelevant. recovery is ongoing. im about to finish my first year. i still have a lot of work to do and im actually kind of excited to do it? which is cool considering my contingency plan has always been to kill myself.

anyway. i just wanted to say that. i dont pat myself on the back very often but ive accomplished a lot this last year. and not gonna lie but ive referred to myself as “most improved patient” in my head multiple times these past few months. im in a pretty okay place right now. im glad im still here (despite the world getting worse literally every day). im glad i have people i can share that with. and i hope some day soon i can return the love and support ive been given tenfold :)

[thequietoftheroom]

I need to start using this again. I’ve sort of been neglecting it and posting my personal information on Facebook and Twitter, probably because more people started responding. But if my mental breakdowns are on display, I’m doing everyone a disservice and editing myself to call for attention. This is supposed to be about therapy, about talking to myself via my blog. I don’t mind much on tumblr because people hardly read things anyway since most people have moved to tumblr mobile by now and anything resembling an essay scares them away.

I’ve definitely gotten myself together again since I last wrote here but I’m falling, and I need this. I need help. I’ve got so many things weighing on my mind lately. First of all, I still have not finished paying off my debt to Chase. Putting my faith in the wrong hands because I wanted so badly to have a job, cost me the entire past months of sanity, which was worth 3 thousand dollars. I only have 700 left to pay, and I’ll be paying off 600 of that come my tax returns. It’s taken such a huge hit on my because I’ve had to use Christmas money and every last cent of any job I’ve worked from August till now to pay it back, Bank Of America doesn’t treat its customers much better and I was told that all major banks pretty much have the same leaders in corporate so that if what happened to me at Chase happened to me in Bank Of America, I could be kicked out of all banks in the city. Full stop. It was a wake up call to how naive and immature I am. The cost of trying hard to find the silver lining in every situation. No good deed goes unpunished.

Then there’s the fact that I’ve started gaining weight again. This summer took an emotional toll on me that I haven’t fully recovered from and both my piano playing and my exercising took a hit. I escaped in games and in food and didn’t take advantage of my special shakes when I had them. Now that I’m ready to get back out there I don’t have them and I have to take care of all 3 meals and 2 snacks on my own and I neither have the money or the drive to do that. I ended up, this time around at the supermarket, buying large bottles of fruit shakes to use as my main meals. At least breakfast and lunch. I’ve also been drinking a lot of water and have gone running twice recently. I’ve also started playing piano more. I’m still behind on lessons but I’ve been substituting the lessons with tutorials on how to play some of the more complicated compositions I’m into. I’m starting to be able to write music just by hearing it and gain better hand independence. I even think my singing, which in all honesty belongs in the shower or drunk karaoke, has improved significantly. Because I’ve let myself go my self image is starting to shatter. In November I shaved my head to come face to face with my hair thinning. I’m not bald and my hair is growing long and fast, but it’s thin enough to notice many splotches of skin, a constant reminder that I’m not as young as I’d like to be. I’m almost 30.

I’m almost 30. This is the first time in my life i’ve been able to come up with a plan of some sort for what I’m doing with it for the next few years. The light at the end of the tunnel. I can’t fault my parents too much because they were raised with strict expectations and gender roles that they very clearly thought their children belonged to so they never explored my interests in the arts, minus guitar. I’ve always loved singing and writing. I used to play on toy pianos all the time and when my sister got a keyboard it was amazing. On the first night i played Joy To The World by ear. But my parents only ever gave her lessons because piano is a woman’s instrument. I tried to learn on my own and I had tried to get my sister to teach me, but I was always so eager to excel that I couldn’t concentrate. I still can’t to this day but since I’m my own teacher I let myself explore chords and harmonies and things beyond the lesson that I’m currently in because that’s a sign of passion. Of love. And my depression almost took that away from me. With music I always find my way back.

Except with Christmas. The little elves that once constantly and painstakingly (to others around me, at least) converted my heart into a Yule Hall have vacated the premises. I didn’t feel anything this Christmas. Not even happiness. I kept searching in all the songs, the films, and the decorations for hope, for my heart to grow as the Grinch’s did. But it never came. For the first time in my life this December was just that: December. i was terrified. Never has my mental illness destroyed or taken from me something that was so important and pure, something that was one of my defining characteristics. And now it’s just gone. So i’ve been living with the constant fear since then that maybe my love of music will be next, or my love of films. Or maybe I’ll wake up one day and someone I love entirely will mean absolutely nothing to me. Not hatred or contempt. Just... nothing.

Then I’ve also been dealing with “daddy issues”. I don’t like my father for one second. He’s problematic in the worst way and a conservative republican whom in parties boasts about all the gay men he’s beat up or killed (that part could be a lie because he’s a pathological liar who can’t stand the spotlight being away from him one second so he’s well known for embellishing his situations to make him look favourable). He’s always been a negative force in my life who has done nothing but abuse me both emotionally and physically. He’s the sort of man that has a very specific idea of what his son should be and if there is deviation from that ideal, there is no love. To be honest, he’s like that with most people. You have to be someone he likes and meet him at his level or you’re a lost cause. There is no compromise for the egotistic. Unfortunately I’ve picked some of that up in my willingness to protect myself from the world and my depression; something that I’m actively fighting to tear down. I thought my “daddy issues” meant that secretly I loved him and wanted him to love me so I fought them. But I know better know. As the song The Living Years says “I know that I’m a prisoner to all my father held so dear”, I’ve come to realize my issues stem from me realizing how much of myself I’ve screwed over and changed to avoid having problems with him. Similarly, to quote Simon/Lola, “I’m not my father’s son”. I’m me. Gavroche. And because I live aesthetically and have romanticised the nuclear family through years of family based media, I was longing for the ideal father. I’ve discussed this already but what I was longing for was that. A dad. And life has given me a few dads. They weren’t my father, but they treated me for me in a way that he never will. And I’ll have more dads in life. 

Just like I’ll have more moms. My mother stopped being a mom a long time ago. My sister is still battling to hold on to her relationship with her because of Gilmore Girls but shes’ struggling. My mother has always been cold and judgemental. I just always thought her critical sharp words were reserved for my sister and I. But they were used for everyone else. To her love, compassion, and empathy only extend to the people she knows, and fuck all to everyone else. That’s not love, and love doesn’t have conditions. For such a religious person she always fails to love her neighbor. And in her own way she thinks she’s doing right but every time my sister, or my aunt (her sister) try to call her out, she plays the victim and never listens. Because she doesn’t need to. She’s convinced herself she just needs to pray and that will solve everything. But prayer won’t make me love her again. Nothing will.

So I’m finally alone in my family. Sure, people try with good intentions but no one will truly love me for me. Ever. Not in this family at least. And I find myself searching for one desperately and I realize fully why people throw themselves to have children and get married so early. Just like men have mancaves to escape their wives, people make new families to escape their own. But I don’t have a place to start. I have close friends. However, most of them don’t live near me. With me. And that’s my fault. If I had applied myself better in school I could have colleagues and maybe even a friend group. I graduated with honors with nothing to show for it but for the fact that I could do it. No friends or connections. No place to call home. And so I’m drowning and trying to force myself  to do things I wouldn’t like downloading grindr to try and make friends in NYC or considering eharmony. I want a physical friend circle. I want to feel alive. To feel loved and wanted. Online friendships are real but they don’t fill you. They are mostly full of routine. I need an adventure. And that’s not to write off the numerous and wonderful friendships I’ve had but to say... I need more.

I’ve got all this and more weighing on my day by day. I haven’t even begun to discuss the unapologetic jealousy I’m filled with, married to the happiness that I wish I experienced more of, when I see my friends in relationships. I’ve learned it’s not bad to be jealous, that’s human. It’s bad to be petty. It’s bad to write off other people that you hold so dearly because they’ve finally found a happiness you can’t experience. That turns life into a competition and it’s not. Someone, some day, will love me. And that’s all I can hope for.

[adaydreamersdiary]

Relationships

Aren’t they a funny thing. I’m not just talking about romantic relationships but all kinds of relationships, like family or friendship. You let people close to you and potentially form a bond, which can be such a light in your life. The people you decide to let close to you are your rocks in hard times, they are the light in the complete darkness.

I personally am a sucker for stories about relationships of all kinds. I love hearing the stories of how people became friends or how a couple found each other and I often think about why I don’t have that. 

Truth is that relationships in any form scare the sh*t out of me. I enjoy being acquaintances with people but really letting them in and letting them get close to me is one of the hardest things to do. It’s like I always have to keep people an arms length away from me so that they can’t look in too much.  What scares me is something that happened to me pretty often. It’s when you invest so much time and energy into someone, you pour your heart out to them, tell them all your secrets and show them every corner of you and after all that, they decide that they don’t want you anymore, that you’re not good enough to be in their life anymore. I got my heart broken so many times by people I thought were my friends, that I would have walked through the fire for, who just turned their back on me from one day to the next, without any warning signs beforehand. I guess I started to build up walls around me and to adapt behavior where I was always around a lot of people and still managed to be quite popular and everyone’s “friend” but felt like I had no one myself.

Like always talking about stuff but never truly saying the things you feel. I would always talk about superficial stuff or things I didn’t really care about to people, but never about the things that were really eating me up on the inside. I would find excuses to not have to hang out with people too much so that we couldn’t get too close. I would never tell anyone if I wasn’t feeling good, but make up some little about anything. I turned into the biggest liar I knew.  It was the worst when I slipped up and maybe let someone in too much and started caring too much. Don’t get me wrong, I never pretended about caring for people but it was more of a superficial caring. When that happened, I would turn into the biggest, most annoying beast you would ever meet. I would pick up on things the other person hated about people and unconsciously adapt them to my personality. I would avoid them in a way that was not nice, like let’s say I was sat next to them in school, I would decide to sit with a different person or not answer their messages for a couple of hours up until straight up just ignoring them / going out of my way to not have to talk to them or be around them until they decided they didn’t want to bother with me anymore. 

Thinking about it, I realize how stupid that was but also just how many of these behaviors are still intact. 

There was one day, where this started to change. I was going through a really bad depressive phase and had a lot of conflicts at home to a point where I was getting really bad. I didn’t even go outside anymore and just spent all my days at home. Needless to say that when my friends would ask if we wanted to hang out, I would always come up with an excuse to not have to go.  One day there was this design market, one of my friends messaged me and saying that she just wanted to let me know that she’s going there and that I could join if I wanted but that she also doubted that I would. I had the biggest argument at home that day and had to get fresh air so I told her that I would go with her and she said that she was excited. So I got ready and put my game face on. We had a great time at the market and decided to go out to have lunch after that. On the way to the restaurant she said that she was really happy to see me any asked why I haven’t been hanging out with them much anymore. I told her some bullsh*t excuse of why I haven’t been and she just stared at me. Our drinks came and then all of a sudden she spoke up again saying that she has been noticing that I haven’t been looking fine and that I would always put up this very convincing fake smile when she looked but it would fall as soon as I thought she would look away and she also said some other things. I felt shocked and exposed after that and didn’t really know what to say, so I decided on slowly making my way to the truth.

I told her that I wasn’t doing very well, that I was depressive and had been in therapy for a year already. I told her all about the things that were going wrong in my life and she just listened. When I finished it was silent. I thought she would think that I was crazy and just pack her things and go but she didn’t. She spoke up softly but strong in her voice nonetheless and said that I should never again keep all of those things to myself, that I didn’t have to go through those things alone. She said that while she may not know what I am feeling or having the same problems as I am having that it doesn’t mean she didn’t care. She said that I could always talk to her, every hour of the day and that I was always welcome in her home. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing and I even let a tear escape my watery eyes. 

She is my closest friend to this day. I share everything with her and there has not once been a moment where I felt ashamed or judged because of something I told her or a reaction that came from her. She is one of my biggest supporters and I know she would do anything to help me. 

And she doesn't help me a lot. Like one time when I was just getting out of a really bad depression and I didn’t do anything for a month, including basically cleaning up. My apartment looked like a mess, it was getting worse every day and my depression was going with it. She messaged me one time and asked me if she could come over, to which I answered that I wasn’t feeling well and I would feel beyond ashamed if she would be here to see my apartment. The doorbell rang an hour later and she was at my apartment door, holding cleaning supplies in her hands, asking where she could start. 

So to you, who may be having a similar problem, please don’t give up on everyone because some people have treated you badly. There are true gems out there who will be there for you through it all. They will cheer you on and be your number one fan forever.

Until you find that person, feel free to message me about anything and everything! I swear I will be there to listen and to give you advice if you need it. I will be honest to you and I will try to help you in any way that I can. 

Lots of love,

- Me

[lim-lifeinmotion]

The Silence: The Legacy of Childhood Trauma

By Junot Díaz  I found a story amidst my delving into the depth of childhood trauma, I suppose I just wanted to know what someone else had been through and if they managed to somehow over come it. It’s unusually comforting to read the feelings he had, the same “cut-off” of disassociated presence he felt with not only himself but with everyone else around him. To shed light on the sexual trauma he experienced and how it mirrored my own sexual intimacy blocks. Among all the amazing things he created from this experience it was really hard to hear the profound affect it was still having on him decades on. Perhaps this is just me now, forever? I suppose it was all well and easy to say I wouldn’t change it for the world because it has made me who I am today, beautiful, kind, gentle, and above all, a dedicated and passionate lover, but to think I will live with this for the rest of my life, that Perhaps i may never be able to break down these barriers even with professional help, thats not something I would want of anyone, not of myself. Perhaps if i could rewind it all I would change everything, I may not be who I am today but perhaps I’d be able to give and receive love openly from others and to myself, even if I was a complete asshole, a close minded, non-empathic person, to be happy and free from all of this pain i carry, is all I ask from the world. I wan’t to be able to love myself so damn badly, but I can only keep on trying until one day I do finally make it because I will, it’s not living otherwise.

Last week I returned to Amherst. It’s been years since I was there, the time we met. I was hoping that you’d show up again; I even looked for you, but you didn’t appear. I remember you proudly repped N.Y.C. during the few minutes we spoke, so I suspect you’d moved back or maybe you were busy or you didn’t know I was in town. I have a distinct memory of you in the signing line, saying nothing to anyone, intense. I assumed you were going to ask me to read a manuscript or help you find an agent, but instead you asked me about the sexual abuse alluded to in my books. You asked, quietly, if it had happened to me.

You caught me completely by surprise.

I wish I had told you the truth then, but I was too scared in those days to say anything. Too scared, too committed to my mask. I responded with some evasive bullshit. And that was it. I signed your books. You thought I was going to say something, and when I didn’t you looked disappointed. But more than that you looked abandoned. I could have said anything but instead I turned to the next person in line and smiled. Out of the corner of my eye I watched you pick up your backpack, slowly put away your books, and leave. When the signing was over I couldn’t get the fuck away from Amherst, from you and your question, fast enough. I ran the way I’ve always run. Like death itself was chasing me. For a couple of days afterward I fretted; I worried that I’d given myself away. But then the old oblivion reflex took over. I pushed it all down. Buried it all. Like always.

But I never really did forget. Not our exchange or your disappointment. How you walked out of the auditorium with your shoulders hunched.

I know this is years too late, but I’m sorry I didn’t answer you. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you the truth. I’m sorry for you, and I’m sorry for me. We both could have used that truth, I’m thinking. It could have saved me (and maybe you) from so much. But I was afraid. I’m still afraid—my fear like continents and the ocean between—but I’m going to speak anyway, because, as Audre Lorde has taught us, my silence will not protect me.

X⁠—

Yes, it happened to me.

I was raped when I was eight years old. By a grownup that I truly trusted.

After he raped me, he told me I had to return the next day or I would be “in trouble.”

And because I was terrified, and confused, I went back the next day and was raped again.

I never told anyone what happened, but today I’m telling you.

And anyone else who cares to listen.

That violación. Not enough pages in the world to describe what it did to me. The whole planet could be my inkstand and it still wouldn’t be enough. That shit cracked the planet of me in half, threw me completely out of orbit, into the lightless regions of space where life is not possible. I can say, truly, que casi me destruyó. Not only the rapes but all the sequelae: the agony, the bitterness, the self-recrimination, the asco, the desperate need to keep it hidden and silent. It fucked up my childhood. It fucked up my adolescence. It fucked up my whole life. More than being Dominican, more than being an immigrant, more, even, than being of African descent, my rape defined me. I spent more energy running from it than I did living. I was confused about why I didn’t fight, why I had an erection while I was being raped, what I did to deserve it. And always I was afraid—afraid that the rape had “ruined” me; afraid that I would be “found out”; afraid afraid afraid. “Real” Dominican men, after all, aren’t raped. And if I wasn’t a “real” Dominican man I wasn’t anything. The rape excluded me from manhood, from love, from everything.

The kid before—hard to remember. Trauma is a time traveller, an ouroboros that reaches back and devours everything that came before. Only fragments remain. I remember loving codes and Encyclopedia Brown and pastelones and walking long distances in an effort to learn what lay beyond my N.J. neighborhood. At night I had the most vivid dreams, often about “Star Wars” and about my life back in the Dominican Republic, in Azua, my very own Tatooine. Was just getting to know this new English-speaking me, was just becoming his friend—and then he was gone.

No more spaceship dreams, no more Azua, no more me. Only an abiding sense of wrongness and the unbearable recollection of being violently penetrated.

By the time I was eleven, I was suffering from both depression and uncontrollable rage. By thirteen, I stopped being able to look at myself in the mirror—and the few times I accidentally glimpsed my reflection I’d recoil like I’d got hit in the face by a jellyfish stinger. (What did I see? I saw the crime, my grisly debasement, and if anyone looked at me too long I would run or I would fight.)

By fourteen, I was holding one of my father’s pistols to my head. (He’d been gone a few years, but he’d generously left some of his firearms behind.) I had trouble at home. I had trouble at school. I had mood swings like you wouldn’t believe. Since I’d never told anyone what had happened my family assumed that was just who I was—un maldito loco. And while other kids were exploring crushes and first love I was dealing with intrusive memories of my rape that were so excruciating I had to slam my head against a wall.

Of course, I never got any kind of help, any kind of therapy. Like I said, I never told anyone. In a family as big as mine—five kids—it was easy to get lost, even when you were going under. I remember my mother telling me, after one of my depressions, that I should pray. I didn’t even bother to laugh.

When I wasn’t completely out of it I read everything I could lay my hands on, played Dungeons & Dragons for days on end. I tried to forget, but you never forget. Night was the worst—that’s when the dreams would come. Nightmares where I got raped by my siblings, by my father, by my teachers, by strangers, by kids who I wanted to be friends with. Often the dreams were so upsetting that I would bite my tongue, and the next morning I’d spit out blood into the bathroom sink.

And in no time at all I was failing everything. Quizzes, quarters, and then entire classes. First I got booted out of my high school’s gifted-and-talented program, then out of the honors track. I sat in class and either dozed or read Stephen King books. Eventually I stopped showing up altogether. School friends drifted away; home friends couldn’t wrap their heads around it.

Senior year, while everyone was getting their college acceptances, I went another way: I tried to kill myself. What happened was that in the middle of a deep depression I suddenly became infatuated with this cute-ass girl I knew at school. For a few weeks my gloom lifted, and I became utterly convinced that if this girl went out with me, if she fucked me, I’d be cured of all that ailed me. No more bad memories. I’d been watching “Excalibur” on heavy rotation, so I was all about miraculous regeneration. When I finally got up the nerve to ask her out and she said nope, it felt as though the world had finally closed the door on me.

The next day I swallowed all these leftover drugs from my brother’s cancer treatment, three bottles’ worth.

Didn’t work.

You know why I didn’t try again the next day?

Because my one and only college acceptance arrived in the mail. I had assumed I wasn’t going anywhere, had completely forgotten that I had any schools left to hear from. But as I read that letter it felt as if the door of the world had cracked open again, ever so slightly.

I didn’t tell anyone I tried to kill myself. Something else I buried deep.

I often tell people that college saved me. Which in part is true. Rutgers, only an hour from my home by bus, was so far from my old life and so alive with possibility that for the first time in the longest I felt something approaching safety, something approximating hope. And, whether it was that distance or my bottomless self-loathing or some desperate post-suicide urge to live, that first year I remade myself completely. By junior year, I doubt anyone from my high school would have recognized me. I became a runner, a weight lifter, an activist, had girlfriends, was “popular.” At Rutgers I buried not only the rape but the boy who had been raped—and threw into the pit my family, my suffering, my depression, my suicide attempt for good measure. Everything I’d been before Rutgers I locked behind an adamantine mask of normalcy.

And, let me tell you, once that mask was on no power on earth could have torn it off me.

The mask was strong.

But as any Freudian will tell you trauma is stronger than any mask; it can’t be buried and it can’t be killed. It’s the revenant that won’t stop, the ghost that’s always coming for you. The nightmares, the intrusions, the hiding, the doubts, the confusion, the self-blame, the suicidal ideation—they didn’t go away just because I buried my neighborhood, my family, my face. The nightmares, the intrusions, the hiding, the doubts, the confusion, the self-blame, the suicidal ideation—they followed. All through college. All through graduate school. All through my professional life. All through my intimate life. (Leaked into my writing, too, but you’d be amazed how easy it is to rewrite the truth away.)

Didn’t matter how far I ran or what I achieved or who I was with—they followed.

Do you remember how during our chat at Amherst I talked about intimacy? I think I said that intimacy is our only home. Super ironic that I write and talk about intimacy all day long; it’s something I’ve always dreamed of and never had much luck achieving. After all, it’s hard to have love when you absolutely refuse to show yourself, when you’re locked behind a mask.

I remember when I got my first girlfriend, in college. I thought that was it—I was saved. Everything I’d been would officially be erased, all my awful dreams would disappear. But that’s not the way the world works. Me and this girl were into each other something serious, were in our narrow college beds all the time—but you know what? We never had sex. Not once. I couldn’t. Every time we would get close to fucking the intrusions would cut right through me, stomach-turning memories of my violation. Of course, I didn’t tell her. I just said that I wanted to wait. She didn’t believe my excuses, asked me what was wrong, but I never said anything. I kept the Silence. After a year, we broke up.

I thought maybe with another girl it would be easier, but it wasn’t. I tried and I tried and I tried. Took me until I was a junior before I finally lost my virginity. I saw her first in a creative-writing class. She was an ex-hippie ex-hardcore sweetie who wrote beautifully and had a tattoo on her head and the first time we got in bed she didn’t even ask if I was a virgin; she just pulled off her dress and it happened. I almost threw a party.

But I should have known it wasn’t going to be that easy. Me and J⁠— dated for two years, but I was always acting, always hiding. The mask was strong.

I’m sure she sensed I was all sorts of messed up, but I’m guessing she chalked it up to typical ghetto craziness. She loved the shit out of me. Brought me home to her family, and they loved me, too. It was the first truly healthy family I’d been exposed to. Which you would think would have been a good thing.

Wrong. The longer we were together, the more her family loved me, the more unbearable it all got. There was only so much closeness a person like me could endure before I needed to fly the fuck away. I had long bouts of depression, drank more than I’d ever drunk, especially during the holidays, when they were all at their happiest. One day, for no reason at all, I found myself saying, We have to break up. There was absolutely no precipitating anything. I had just reached my limit. I remember crying my eyes out the night before (in those days I never cried). I didn’t want to break up with her. I didn’t want to. But I couldn’t stand to be loved. To be seen.

Why? she asked. Why?

And I really had no answer.

After that it was C⁠—, who did a ton of community work in the D.R. And then B⁠—, the Seventh-Day Adventist from St. Thomas. Neither relationship worked. But I kept going.

And that’s how it went for a while, from college to grad school to Brooklyn. I would meet intimidatingly smart sisters, would date them in the hope that they could heal me, and then the fear would start to climb in me, the fear of discovery, and the mask would feel as if it were cracking and the impulse to escape, to hide, would grow until finally I’d hit a Rubicon—I’d either drive the novia away or I would run. I started sleeping around, too. The regular relationship drug wasn’t enough. I needed stronger hits to keep the wound inside from rising up and devouring me. The Negro who couldn’t sleep with anyone became the Negro who would sleep with everyone.

I was hiding, I was drinking, I was at the gym; I was running around with other women. I was creating model homes, and then, just as soon as they were up, abandoning them. Classic trauma psychology: approach and retreat, approach and retreat. And hurting other people in the process. My depressions would settle over me for months, and in that darkness the suicidal impulse would sprout pale and deadly. I had friends with guns; I asked them never to bring them over for any reason. Sometimes they listened, sometimes they didn’t.

Somehow I was still writing—about a young Dominican man who, unlike me, had been only a little molested. Someone who couldn’t stay in any relationship because he was too much of a player. Crafting my perfect cover story, in effect. And since us Afro-Latinx brothers are viewed by society as always already sexual perils, very few people ever noticed what was written between the lines in my fiction—that Afro-Latinx brothers are often sexually imperilled.

Right before I left graduate school and moved to Brooklyn I published my first story, about a Dominican boy who goes to see another boy, whose face has been eaten off, and on the way he gets sexually assaulted. (Seriously.) And then in one of those insane twists of fortune I hit the literary lottery. From that one story I got an agent, I got a book deal, I appeared in The New Yorker, I published my first book, “Drown,” which sold nothing but got me more press than any young writer should ever have. Anyone else would have ridden that good-luck wave straight into the sunset, but that wasn’t how it played out. I clearly wanted to be known, on some level, had been dying for a chance at a real face, but when that moment finally arrived I couldn’t do it; I clamped the mask down hard. After “Drown,” I could have stayed in N.Y.C., but I fled to Syracuse instead, where the snow never stops and the isolation was a maw. I stopped writing altogether.

Entire literary careers could have fit into the years I didn’t write. In the meantime I met S⁠—. If Black Is Beautiful had a spokesperson it would have been her; S⁠—, who would have thrown away a thousand years of family to make it work. Didn’t matter; we never were able to have sex. The intrusions always hit where it would hurt the worst. Never knew who I could have sex with and who I couldn’t until I tried. S⁠— found someone else, ended up marrying him. I moved on to other women. The years passed. I never took off the mask; I never got help.

And for a while the center held. For a while.

No one can hide forever. Eventually what used to hold back the truth doesn’t work anymore. You run out of escapes, you run out of exits, you run out of gambits, you run out of luck. Eventually the past finds you.

What happened was that I met someone: Y⁠—. In the novel I published eleven years after “Drown,” I gave my narrator, Yunior, a love supreme named Lola, because in real life I had a love supreme named Y⁠—. She was the femme-matador of my dreams. A state-school girl raised in Washington Heights who worked her ass off, who never ran from a fight, and who could have danced Ochún out the fucking room.

We clicked like crazy. Like our ancestors were rooting for us. I was the Dominican nerdo she’d always dreamed about. She actually said this. She didn’t have a clue. I fell into her family, and she fell into mine. And her mother—Dios mío, how the señora loved me. I was the son she never had. And before you could say “Run” I had created another one of my romance stories, but this one was more elaborate and more insane than any I’d ever spun. We bought an apartment together in Harlem. We got engaged in Tokyo. We talked about having children together. Even the writing started coming again. Negroes I’d never met before were proud of our relationship and told us so. Two “successful” Dominicans from the hood who loved each other? As rare and as precious as ciguapas.

Of course, there were signs of trouble. I spent at least six months out of the year depressed and/or high or drunk. We could have sex but not often—the intrusions often jumped in, a hellish cock-blocking ménage à trois.

Sex or no sex, I “loved” her more than I had ever loved anyone. I even told her, in an unguarded moment, that something had happened in my past.

Something bad.

And because I “loved” her more than I had ever loved anyone, and because I had revealed to her what I revealed about my past, I cheated on her more than I had ever cheated on anyone.

I cheated on her como un maldito perro.

I knew plenty of men who lived double lives. Shit, my father had lived one, to my family’s everlasting regret. And here I was playing out the patrimonial destiny. I had a double life like I was in a comic book.

Y⁠— got as much of the real me as I was capable of showing. She lived with my depression and my no-writing fury and with the rare moments of levity, of clarity. The other women saw primarily my mask, right before I ghosted them.

The mask was strong.

But no mask is that strong. No one’s G that perfect. No one’s love that dumb. One day Y⁠— didn’t like an answer I’d given her about where I’d been. I’m sure she’d been having doubts for a while—especially after one woman showed up at a reading of mine and burst into tears when I said hi. Y⁠— decided to go snooping through my e-mails, and since I wasn’t big on passwords or putting old e-mails in the trash it took her less than five minutes to find what she was looking for.

A heartbreak can take out a world. I know hers did. Took out her world and mine.

Another woman might have shot me dead on principle, but Y⁠— simply printed out all the e-mails between me and all my other girls, all my bullshit seduction attempts, all the photos, had the evidence of my betrayals bound, and when I came home from one of my trips handed them to me.

When I realized what she’d given me I blacked out.

Which is what tends to happen when the world ends.

A few months later, I won the Pulitzer Prize for a novel narrated by a Dominican brother who loses the Dominican woman of his dreams because he can’t stop cheating on her. When I found out I’d won the prize my first thought wasn’t “I’m made” but “Maybe now she’ll stay with me.”

She didn’t. A few months later Y⁠— got her head together and kicked me out of her life completely. She kept the apartment, the ring, her family, our friends. I got Boston. We never saw each other again.

When I was a kid, I heard that dinosaurs were so big that even if they received a killing blow it would take a while for their nervous systems to figure it out. That was me. After I lost Y⁠— I moved to Cambridge full time, and for the next year or so I tried to “walk it off.” For a little while I seriously thought I was going to be fine. The mask had exploded into fragments, but I kept trying to wear the pieces as if nothing had happened. It would have been comedic if it hadn’t been so tragic. I tried to use sex to fill the hole I’d just blown through my heart, but it didn’t work. Didn’t stop me from trying.

I lost weeks, I lost months, I lost years (two). And then one day I woke up and literally couldn’t move from bed. An archipelago of grief was on me, a wine-dark sea of pain. In a drunken fit I tried to jump from my friend’s rooftop apartment in the D.R. He grabbed me before I could get my foot on a nearby stool and didn’t let go until I stopped shaking.

In the treatment world, they say that often you have to hit rock bottom before you finally seek help. It doesn’t always work that way, but that sure is how it was for me. I had to lose almost everything and then some. And then some. Before I finally put out my hand.

I was fortunate. I had friends around me ready to step in. I had good university insurance. I stumbled upon a great therapist. She had dealt with people like me before, and she dedicated herself to my healing. It took years—hard, backbreaking years—but she picked up what there was of me. I don’t think she’d ever met anyone more disinclined to therapy. I fought it every step of the way. But I kept coming, and she never gave up. After long struggle and many setbacks, my therapist slowly got me to put aside my mask. Not forever, but long enough for me to breathe, to live. And when I was finally ready to return to that place where I was unmade she stood by my side, she held my hand, and never let go.

I’d always assumed that if I ever returned to that place, that island where I’d been shipwrecked, I would never escape; I’d be dragged down and destroyed. And yet, irony of ironies, what awaited me on that island was not my destruction but nearly the opposite: my salvation.

During that time I wrote very little. Mostly I underlined passages in my favorite books. This line in particular I circled at least a dozen times: “Then darkness took me, and I strayed out of thought and time, and I wandered far on roads that I will not tell.”

And then there was this section from my own novel:

Before all hope died I used to have this stupid dream that shit could be saved, that we would be in bed together like the old times, with the fan on, the smoke from our weed drifting above us, and I’d finally try to say words that could have saved us.

But before I can shape the vowels I wake up. My face is wet, and that’s how you know it’s never going to come true.

Never, ever.

It’s been almost a decade since the Fall. I am not who I once was. I’m neither the brother who can’t touch a girl nor the asshole who sleeps around. I’m in therapy twice a week. I don’t drink (except in Japan, where I let myself have a beer). I don’t hurt people with my lies or my choices, and wherever I can I make amends; I take responsibility. I’ve come to learn that repair is never-ceasing.

I’m even in a relationship, and she knows everything about my past. I told her about what happened to me.

I’ve told her, and I’ve told my friends. Even the toughest of my boys. I told them all, fuck the consequences.

Something I never thought possible.

So much has changed. But some things haven’t. There are still times when the depression hammers down and months vanish out from under me, when the suicidal ideation returns. The writing hasn’t come back, not really. But there are good stretches, and they are starting to outnumber the bad. Every year, I feel less like the dead, more a part of the living. The intrusions are fewer now, and when they come they don’t throw me completely. I still have those horrible dreams every now and then, and they are still foul as fuck, but at least I have resources to deal with them.

And yet—

And yet despite all my healing I still feel that something important, something vital, has eluded me. The impulse to hide, to hold myself apart from my colleagues, from my fellow-writers, from my students, from the circle of life has remained uncannily strong. During the public talks I’ve given at universities and conferences, I’ve sometimes commented on the intergenerational harm that systemic sexual violence has inflicted on African diasporic communities, on my community. But have I ever actually come out and said that I was the victim of sexual violence? I’ve said elusive things here and there but nothing actionable, no definitive statements.

Over the last weeks, that gnawing sense of something undone has only grown, along with the old fear—the fear that someone might find out I’d been raped as a child. It’s no coincidence that I recently began a tour for a children’s book I’ve published and suddenly I’m surrounded by kids all the time and I’ve had to discuss my childhood more than I ever have in my life. I’ve found myself telling lies, talking about a kid that never was. He never checks the locks on the bedroom doors four times a night, doesn’t bite clean through his tongue. The cover stories are returning. There are even mornings when my face feels stiff.

And then at one of my events, another signing line—this one at the Brattle Theatre, in Cambridge—a young woman walked up and started to thank me for my novel, for one of its protagonists, Beli. Beli, the tough-love Dominican mother who suffered catastrophic sexual abuse throughout her life.

I had a life a lot like Beli’s, the young woman said, and then, without warning, she choked into tears. She wanted to say more to me, but before she could she was overwhelmed and fled. I could have tried to stop her. I could have called after her me too me too. I could have said the words: I was also raped.

But I didn’t have the courage. I turned to the next person in line and smiled.

And you know what? It felt good to be behind the mask. It felt like home.

I think about you, X⁠—. I think about that woman from the Brattle. I think about silence; I think about shame, I think about loneliness. I think about the hurt I caused. I think of all the years and all the life I lost to the hiding and to the fear and to the pain. The mask got more of me than I ever did. But mostly I think about what it felt like to say the words—to my therapist, all those years ago; to tell my partner, my friends, that I’d been raped. And what it feels like to say the words here, where the whole world—and maybe you—might hear.

Toni Morrison wrote, “Anything dead coming back to life hurts.” In Spanish we say that when a child is born it is given the light. And that’s what it feels like to say the words, X⁠—. Like I’m being given a second chance at the light.

Last night I had another dream. It wasn’t a bad one. I was young. Just a boy. No one had hurt me yet. A plane was dropping flyers announcing an upcoming Jack Veneno match, and all of us kids in Villa Juana were racing about in great excitement, gathering the flyers in our arms.

I barely remember that boy anymore, but for a brief moment I am him again, and he is me. ♦

[rkatz-rkatz]

An Email I Probably Won’t Send My Professor

Dear Professor,

As you are no doubt aware, I did not attend the last month of your class. I probably owe you an explanation of my behaviour. In fact, such an explanation is long overdue, and I apologize for having let so much time pass. Please understand that I have no skill or experience talking about strong negative emotion. In fact, during the course of debating whether or not to send this email I tried to think of a single instance in which I dealt with my feelings by talking about them, and I could not think of any. Even that time my senior year of undergrad, when my father had a cancer scare - did I tell any of my friends about that? I don’t remember. I don’t think I did. What I do remember is being awake in the middle of the night, sobbing with both hands over my mouth so nobody could hear me. I didn’t want them to walk in. I didn’t want them to see me. I deal with my feelings alone.

Nonetheless, I owe you an explanation. It’s the right thing to do, I think, even though it’s not easy. I am well versed in all sorts of cowardice but not, I hope, when it comes down to a choice between what is easy and what is right.

I have an anxiety disorder.

There. That’s the reason. Now you know. There’s still a lot I don’t understand about my anxiety, but I do know that one thing likely to trigger it is to be under observation in situations that I feel I cannot control or manipulate. Under observation - for example in a class of only five people, all of whom know about me but do not know me; in a situation that I cannot control or manipulate - for example, being by far the worst Japanese conversationalist in the room, the automatic loser in any verbal sparring match. I should have seen this coming. It took me five years in the US to learn how to bullshit my way through small talk without risking a panic attack, and that was in English.

Well, hindsight is 20/20, as I’m sure you’ll agree. We were talking about the present. At present, my anxiety disorder peoples my day-to-day life with Goliaths, and my slingshot arm is so tired. I am so tired of fighting all the time. Attending your class meant days of dread leading up to it, and days of regret after. It meant sleeping badly the night before. It meant locking myself in the bathroom and listening to music to calm myself down before and after every session. It meant having to play psychological tricks on myself: get there half an hour early so you can’t chicken out at the last minute. Alternatively, get there just as the bell rings so that no one tries to talk to you, and be the first to leave. My hands would shake for those ninety minutes. I would sweat with nerves.

I know. It doesn’t sound any less pathetic to me. So maybe it comes as no surprise that I gave up. Or maybe it’s more accurate to say I gave in? There’s something very empowering, I’ve found, about letting go. At the end of the day, it was a strategic decision. I did it out of self-preservation.

You see, my anxiety has been getting worse for the past three years. In those three years I’ve done things by the book: pushing through my anxiety, forcing myself into situations that make me uncomfortable. Exposure therapy, it’s called. The thing is that according to the book, exposure therapy works because, supposedly, you discover that things never turn out as bad in real life as your anxiety thinks they will. That’s not true for me. They’re always worse. I guess despite everything I still have a pretty inflated opinion of myself and my ability to handle things. So even though I’ve been pushing and pushing and pushing myself this whole time, the Goliaths are growing and there’s more of them, and now I’m afraid that what I’m pushing myself towards is a precipine.

Anxiety is a 2-for-1 deal and I’ve got the accompanying depression, but I’ve been pretty lucky in that so far, overall, it manifests mostly as dissociation and memory loss. Not self-loathing. I still quite like myself. There have been more grey years than otherwise, true, but at least none of them have been black. But I like myself a little less every year, so how long will that hold true? Forget Goliath, that one’s Godzilla.

So I changed tactics. It seemed like the logical thing to do. Maybe this, too, counts as a kind of exposure therapy. After all, there’s nothing I hate more than showing myself to be in less than perfect control, and it’s pretty clear now that I’ve gone off the rails. Hopefully it works this time. I’m cautiously optimistic. It feels like it’s working. I probably like myself more right now than I have for the past three years.

That’s the pro, so here, have a con: I’m on a scholarship. This scholarship could be taken away. I re-read the contract I signed at the beginning of the school year, and for not attending classes in the courses I’m registered in, I could be fined. I could be kicked off the program. Think that’s the scary part? No, the scary part is that I made the decision to skip class more than a month ago, and I only remembered about the contract yesterday.

What the fuck! My grasp of reality is so tenuous. Do other people struggle this hard to anchor themselves to the real world?

At this point I may just be making excuses, but please, Professor, hear me out. I am almost twenty-four years old. I move a lot, so I make a lot of new connections, and then I move again, and I have to let those connections slip through my fingers. Over and over. Rinse and repeat. Nearly twenty-four years, and every single meaningful relationship in my life is long-distance. You understand, don’t you, how that might take a psychological toll? Other people aren’t always very real to me. They’re short-term, and then they’re phone numbers. Obviously I don’t really believe that, but what else can I do, other than compartmentalize? How else will I be able to tell myself, every time, to open my arms, let them go, say goodbye, smile while you say it, don’t cry, turn around, start walking, don’t look back, don’t look back, you know from experience that if you look back you’ll forget to move forward. It’s not fair! Other people get to keep people they care about in their lives - why don’t I?

Warum, warum - warum ist die Banane krumm? As my Oma used to say when I asked stupid questions as a child. I’m being juvenile, I apologize. But the fact of the matter is, sometimes it feels like there’s very little to tether me to my immediate surroundings. What goes on inside my head invariably feels more real than what goes on outside it. I’ve considered the problem of my anxiety from every angle and come to what I still consider the best solution - for myself only, disregarding all other variables, and that’s the problem isn’t it, because the other variables do not disregard me. I’ve composed this email to you so many times mentally that I need to actively remind myself that nothing has actually changed, that I still need to take responsibility in the real world.

The other problem with dissociation as a coping mechanism is that, as I mentioned earlier, it’s also one of the symptoms of my depression. So who’s steering this boat: me or my broken brain? There’s a part of me that’s been watching me ignore my classes, read, write, exercise, draw, practice guitar - doing the things, in other words, that make me into a version of myself that I actually like - and wringing her hands, yelling WHAT ARE YOU DOING???

Which one’s the real me? I’d like to think it’s the one who’s reading and writing. She feels familiar, like the version of me that I was in the years that weren’t quite so grey. She also feels stronger. A version of me, finally, that looms large enough in my mind to take on all the Goliaths. Compared to her, the me that dithers and wrings her hands is small and, well … anxious.

On the other hand, giant me has her head in the clouds. Giant me might get me kicked out of my program, and while that’s not the end of the world, she’ll have to figure out how to survive without her academic resources. I’d have to reinvent myself. Again. And I’m so tired of new starts.

I guess what I’m asking for, Professor, is a little understanding and patience while I figure myself out. Actually - to be honest, and I don’t mean to be disrespectful, but I don’t really need your understanding OR your patience. Who I become is my decision, and technically none of your business.

False start. What I’m asking for instead is your forgiveness. I was rude. I shouldn’t have skipped your class without a word in the first place, and the whole month I’ve been debating whether or not to say anything, and how to say it, and how much to say, I’ve been resenting you for putting me in a position where I feel that I have to confess anything at all, when in reality all the decisions that brought me here were my own. That, too, I apologize for.

I don’t care about the grade. I’d prefer to stay on the scholarship, though I understand that you might disagree. I learned a lot in your class this semester, despite the anxiety. Thank you for everything.