#narcanon

[thistlecatfics]

I kept trying to find a soulmate fic I liked enough to rec, and I just couldn't manage. BUT since Remus and Sirius are soulmates in every universe and my forever OTP, here's a wolfstar rec list featuring one canon-compliant fic, one canon-divergent fic, and a variety of AUs.

Map of the Problematique (D.M.L.E. Evidentiary File 142-3b.) by SullenSiren (lorax) (15k, E)

"He's going to make it a RULE." Before they went their separate ways, Moony, Padfoot, Prongs, and Wormtail shared a flat. The flat had rules. This is how it went.

Buy the Stars by wilteddaisy (taotu) (23k, E)

Sirius Black, respectable pureblood patriarch and heir to the Black family fortune, has a wife and three children at Hogwarts. Defence Against the Dark Arts professor Remus Lupin wrestles with the aging wolf inside of him. When Black offers him a hand, Remus reluctantly takes it.

Recto Verso by zambla (8k, M)

Love in the time of the 1984-5 coal miners' strike. Remus is a geologist working for an independent assessment of a disputed coal mine in his hometown in south Yorkshire during the strike. He meets a communist agitator.

under the blood moon by iamsiriuslyriddikulus @fvckyouimaprophet (40k, E)

A Wizarding War has been raging for several years with no end in sight. When Lily learns how to infuse Dark Magic into her music, Remus and Lily work together to take justice into their own hands.

White Sheets, in the Closet (or: the earth from a great distance is perfect and whole) by tahtahfornow (12k, M)

Remus says: You ever seen the inside of a loony bin. (South Georgia, 1961-1962. Hurried kisses in hostile climates.)

57th Street On Fire by Suchsmallhands (30k, M)

It's the 90's and springtime in New York. Remus is dealing cocaine, Sirius is looking to get high. He felt a twinge of paranoia. He thought, This is a junkie. One way or another. You don’t take walks with people you sell cocaine to. And he might be rich. Do not say yes. He’d never seen grey eyes quite like that before.

The Barking of Dogs by houseofhebrideanblacks (14k, E)

Sirius Black leaves the hospital with a leaflet for NarcAnon. Remus Lupin isn't an alcoholic. They meet at a methodist church in South London, Thursday, 9 pm.

A Dark and Silent Overture by eyra (10k, M)

He was smiling to himself, eyes still closed, and Sirius hadn't known at the time - but by Fifth Year would realise well enough - where this Remus had come from. He was always a little wild, somehow both impossibly distant and blindingly, achingly present, all at once, and in the beginning Sirius had ascribed it entirely to Remus's own innate nature or some sort of slight chemical neurodivergence that made him just a little bit more than the rest of them; a little bit magic, a little bit mad. Freer than the others. A tempest in an otherwise still ocean. The boys at boarding school, told in libraries and cloisters and too much alcohol and the way Remus thinks none of it matters, anyway.

No Bright Line by lady_grey (106k, E)

In which Sirius is a famous actor who has stopped believing in authenticity, Remus is a historian with a complex relationship to memory, and Lily is the brilliant filmmaker who brings them together. James and Harry are there too, although they mostly just want to enjoy the beach.

My other recs for @hprecfest here

(For the lovely folks at @hprecfest, no pressure to reblog this one because I know I'm cheating!)

[grady70]

pookie pipes

on most nightsafter the good girls have gone to bedi remain in the bastard streetsof the fancy conniving boulevarda priest of sorts a mother to them alla bandage a kind word a gift card to Subway a needle a pamphleton every corner a hefty dose of Narcanon most days i wonder“what will i see today”a corpse a hooker a business manperhaps a Hilton or a Kardashianmy reflection on a tarnished metal…

[gatheringbones]

Feel Good is very very good but in this household we have never openly said “oh no” to the television at varying levels of compassion and horror in our entire lives. 

[wyn-n-tonic]

Golden, Like Daylight -- Part I

Word Count: 1,314 Warnings: PTSD. Drug use. As always, if I forgot anything, please message me and I will amend this warning ASAP. Note: In my head canon, Frankie has a daughter, I write a bit about this. I understand talking about babies can be triggering or people just don't like kids but it feels weird to say, "Warning: Baby." Feels a bit ominous. Like, it's not a vampire but just... ya know... be warned. Updated Author's Note (5.7.21): This is not a reader insert. At the time of writing this, I wasn't comfortable writing in the second person nor did I feel as though it was appropriate for what I wanted to explore in this series. This series is my absolute baby and it means so much to me. Thank you for reading. 

MASTERLIST | PART: I | II | III | IV | V | VI | VII | VIII | IX

It comes like lightning in the night, cracking through the tree of his spine heavy with years of hurt.

The first time he was tear gassed in the chambers at boot camp.

That time he crashed the chopper, losing twenty-something men all twenty-something years old. Men… they weren’t men. They were babies, he was a baby.

He remembers the time he had a panic attack in the jungle, squeezing involuntarily on… a kid, not the target.

He remembers the woman’s wail, “¡Mi hijo! ¡Mi bebé!”

My son! My baby!

He killed her baby.

“I killed the baby!” He’s up but his heart’s somewhere else, outside his body. It’s beating so fast he can’t even feel it anymore, not sure if he feels anything anymore and then—

Cool hands on his feverish back, he’s so hot she feels like ice and he sighs contentedly. Marrying the coldest girl in all of Texas had its perks. Her fingers wind into his too long curls at the base of his neck, her lips on his shoulder as she shushes him with a kiss.

“Come back to me, Francisco, you’re safe.”

“But I—“ he’s stuttering. Fuck.

“It wasn’t your fault,” her arms curl around his chest and she’s scooting closer to him now, pulling him into her as hard as she can, “None of it was your fault, it’s okay.”

“How can you say that?” The tears come like wildfire as he chokes out, “How can you hold me like this? Like I’m not a monster?”

Her arms pull tighter against his torso, he didn’t know that was possible. He doesn’t know how this is possible, how he deserved this. This woman, this love, this family she had made for him.

“Baby, listen to me,” her voice is hard and warm, honeyed whiskey to his aching ears. Splintered mind. Broken body.

He nods his head in the dark, whispering a soft, “Yes,” around a lump like coal burning through his neck.

“You are not a monster. The things you did, the things you saw, the horror that was inflicted upon you was not your choice. When you put the flag on your shoulder, Francisco Morales, you gave up autonomy in your decisions. You represented men who played chess with your life and you made it out. You made it out and they threw you away when you needed them the most but I’m not going to. Our daughter is not going to. You are not a monster, baby, and we will get through this together.”

“Luna,” he breathes. His girl, his perfect little girl, “Where is she? Is she okay?” He’s still panicked.

“She's in her crib, baby,” her lips press softly to his shoulder again, “Do you want to go see her? Wanna go make sure she’s okay with me?”

He’s nodding again, untangling fingers from hers to swipe at his cheeks quickly. Afraid, every day, that this tear or that will be the one that changes her mind, changes her heart.

She lifts herself, holding steady to his shaking body the whole time. As if he’s the rock that the storm of her life batters against and not the other way around. Her hands find his and she’s lifting him too. His balance is unreliable, he never lets her go, trailing along the hallway to the baby’s room.

It’s quiet, peaceful. His happiest place, painted like a sunrise. He wanted it that way, clouds around her cradle, his baby growing up in the heavens. He remembers the first time he ever went up there, like it was the first breath he ever took. All rising pinks and melting blues.

He wanted her to feel that freedom from the very beginning. —————

He was so fucking scared when she came into this world.

He was afraid of marring her innocence with his past. He didn’t want his traumas to manifest upon her upbringing, the way his father’s had his.

That first cry shattered his heart but when she wrapped her tiny hand around his finger, he was whole again.

They named her Luna, because he could always find the moon above the clouds. Could always find his way home.

That’s when he started using again. His fear of fatherhood choke holding him, undoing all his hard work. His therapy, his group therapy, his NarcAnon. He promised himself it would just be once.

Just to get through the day, Frankie.

And it turned into…

The week.

The month.

Six.

Next thing he knew, he was flying high and fucking up. Nose bleeds and slurred words, too fast movements and too fast reactions. He was randomly selected for a drug test.

His license was suspended. He was grounded, under review pending cleanliness of a piss test.

That’s when Leah snapped. His patient, strong wife. She’d said things here and there about his use. Argued about money, “Where's it going, Francisco?” The name she uses when she’s calling him back to her, pulling him into her or, like now, close to killing him. Eyes wide with anger and fear at watching her family fall apart because of the actions of one man.

“I'm not going to beg you to get clean. I am telling you,” the tears streaking down her face, voice raw with contained rage bubbling to the surface, “You were able to do it by yourself once, so get your shit together. Or I swear to god, Francisco Morales, I will walk out that door.”

His eyes haven’t left hers the whole time and he knows she’s serious. She promised she wouldn’t leave a man actively working against his ghosts, she’s soothed more sleepless nights than anybody should’ve, but she never promised to stay through active drug addiction. Could not. Would not bring her daughter up in a home dusted in white powder.

He nods, “okay,” lifting his hat from his head and he is pouring buckets. He’s coming down from earlier but he knows he’s gonna need more soon. And another after that. So on and so on until—

He sees the door slamming on an empty home, shocked still with the future his actions will lead him to.

“I’ll find a meeting tomorrow.”

Her glare bores deep, “you’ll find a meeting today, Frankie.”

He bites his lip, not daring ask for another hit to get through til then.

“Francisco!”

The world comes back into focus. How long had he been staring at everything and nothing? His eyes find hers again and his voice is weak as he says, “My stash is in the box with my dog tags and medals, my first pilot’s license.”

“I know.”

He’s nodding again, of course she does.

“The withdrawals are going to start soon, how should we handle this?”

She crosses her arms, pain stitched through every feature of her face, “I think you should stay with Benny and Will for a while. Until you’re clean.”

So he did.

One week goes by and he sweats with a restlessness he’s sure will bust the very seams of his being.

Two weeks and all he wants is sleep, even with the nightmares.

Three weeks and, Jesus fuck, he’s hungry.

Four weeks and the depression sets in, deeper than he’s experienced since he first started getting help back in civilian life.

Five weeks and he’s… not cold anymore. He doesn’t sweat. He doesn’t feel anything, he can’t concentrate on anything.

Can’t focus on Benny’s shitty fight lessons. Doesn’t even listen when Will practices that fucking speech like he hasn’t given it a million times already; to cadets, to soldiers, to the mirror. The only things he can think about, the only things he cares about, are still too far away.

Leah, Luna, the sky.

He needs all three to be whole.

To be Frankie.

A desperate man aching to be complete and to provide again.

That’s how Santiago Garcia found him.

TAG LIST: @greeneyedblondie44​ @justanotherblonde23​ 

[alightwhendarknessfell]

you essentially saying that if she were openly recruiting ppl to join scientology it would be different...is hella dismissive of the fact that literally every dang thing scientology does is a promotion for them, including pushing careers and creating superstar celebrities. One of their most efficient ways of converting ppl is by having major celebrities, or creating major celebrities to join their crusade. Simms is neither, since she’s been flopping for over a decade, but I’m sure the agenda is to make her a star just like they’ve done before and will continue to do...

Yeah, but their other ‘big stars’ promote Scientology. The bigger issues with Scientology in my opinion are their ‘programs’ like Narcanon which lure people in who are addicted to drugs and desperate for help. Posing as a real rehab center when they’re not. I’m pretty sure at this point most people know Scientology is a cult and is dangerous (thanks to shows/documentaries on it). 

She’s not promoting them at all and hasn’t as far as I know. Most people wouldn’t even know she’s a Scientologist. If she starts promoting them I would feel differently, but she’s not so-   

All I said was I liked her new song, I really don’t understand the big deal. 

[sergeant-angels-trashcan]

For the crackships thing: Klaus Hargreeves/Matt Murdock/Foggy Nelson. Alternatively: Ben Hargreeves/Kate Bishop.

i just gotta say....Klaus/Foggy/Matt is the FUNNIEST thing????

Klaus gets arrested for GOD knows what and Foggy and Matt are just *sigh* and go down to the station to bail him out/protest the charges. “I want to call my boyfriends :(” klaus tells his arresting officer. “This isn’t a matchmaking service!!! fuck off!!” the officer says

Foggy is NOT amused when they finally make it to the precinct

anyway on to the list!

Klaus is self-destructive like Matt is but he also isn’t into the whole Catholic self-flagellation thing which is good for Matt

Foggy winds up being like...uber caregiver 

but Klaus and his weird ideas and absolute not giving a shit rubs off on foggy so he cuts loose more

Klaus rarely steals clothes from Matt and Foggy (SUCH boring clothes, except for Matt’s daredevil outfit. It’s too big on Klaus but that doesn’t stop him from doing a fashion show of it)

Matt would absolutely be able to help Klaus when the dead talking to him gets to be too much. and he’s SO gentle. together Matt and Klaus manage to explain what it’s like to Foggy

Foggy would drive Klaus to AA or NarcAnon meetings. He and Matt would be super supportive

Klaus and Karen are besties and they all have a little celebration when Klaus gets his one year chip

Matt and Foggy become the legal representation for all of the Hargreeves kids and basically Klaus makes it so they never have to worry about money again booo yahhh

Klaus does NOT fight crime any more thank you VERY much Matthew. So he and Foggy both make sure Matt is taken care of. Matt gets beaten up and Klaus takes him to Grace to fix up

“Wait,” Foggy says. “This is your MOM???”

Matt teaches Foggy and Klaus some self defense. They are both TERRIBLE at it. 

Klaus becomes friends with Frank Castle (they bond over being veterans) and convinces him to stop beating the shit out of Matt

Klaus is finally with someone who is ALSO a mess and he’s a really good caregiver and having something to do keeps him out of trouble

basically they are all trash together but their protective instincts basically override their self destructive tendencies because they all see each other as being MORE of a mess than they are and thus in need of care

idk if that makes sense but i love this so thank you

ALSOOOOO Ben and Kate!!!

is this ghost ben? a magically alive ben?? kinda want it to be ghost ben?? but magically resurrected ben is probably easier

ben actually has superpowers so he can protect kate which. like. she NEEDS.

kate: *leaps off roof*

ben: SERIOUSLY BABE??? *summons tentacles to catch her*

also ben is cute?? kate is cute??? coincidence?? I THINK NOT

they bond over their shitty dads

and also their youths spent fighting crime

they have a lot in common actually

ben is a sof boi and is always down for cuddles and kate needs someone who looks like they could kill you but is actually a cinnamon roll. she always goes for the ~bad boy~ types and ben. even though he wears a leather jacket. is NOT.

he and lucky are besties which obviously makes kate like him more

kate: i dated a bug boy once so the tentacles are fine

ben: wait sorry what

ben hung out with nobody but klaus for YEARS which means ben is like... are you okay with the tentacles or do you like them

klaus is living his BEST LIFE!!! ben you found a kinky one i’m so proud of you

but all this made ben really really hard to weird out. so all of the weird shit kate gets pulled into is like nothing to ben. your archnemesis is a robot? that sucks babe u want some coffee? you and america fought land sharks? sounds cool we should have america and vanya over for dinner sometime. 

obviously this works in reverse. ben comes home drenched in blood and super shaken and kate’s on the phone with wade about the best way to go about getting blood out of clothes and ordering curry from their favorite place

kate also has experience with people being dead and then not dead so she knows that it’s probably traumatic for ben but she’s also not too bothered by it, herself

i can’t get over how cute they are together. they’re adorable. 

and Ben and Kate are both kind of famous so the tabloids and celeb mags LOVE them

they’re so disgustingly cute on instagram

also they’re both disaster bisexuals so big mlm/wlw solidarity

give me some crackships and i’ll tell you why you should legit ship them

[fuyumaiden]

Family Troubles

I’m gonna do some real talk under the cut because I had to vent things that would be cruel if I said them to my usual support system in my family

All of my mother’s siblings (two aunts and an uncle for me) became scientologists as young adults. One aunt and uncle were heavily involved.

The other one is a constantly relapsing alcoholic, so not exactly a ringing endorsement of their methods. She’s also gone into debt investing in a nonsense “start your own” business that is, obviously, run by scientology. Also the constant costs of paying for “classes.”

My uncle who started all this bullshit is a trash misogynist who believes every conspiracy theory in the world and also he’s a Trump supporter nowadays. He is literally the dumbest person I have ever met and he thinks he’s the smartest.

By far he’s the worst one. He’s fucking OT so god knows how much he’s spent. He’s also just a shit person. He won’t let us off when we’re just being polite about not calling him an idiot and constantly tries to get my mom to read or watch this or that about politics when she’s told the dumbass no. It’s cooled off a lot since we barely see him, but he also really obviously tried to convert my brother because he somehow saw a kindred soul in him. Because he won’t lay off the two of them I finally got permission to just go off on his ass the next time he dares to show his face around here. (I’m so excited. I’m just gonna print out the leaks of all the scientology docs and recite them to him.)

He’s never paid attention to me, because I’m the only girl in the family. My presents all come from whoever his current 20-something wife is.

My other aunt was actually employed by the organization, working with the super shady narcanon, which is just a front group for scientology. And naturally, because they practice scientology methods of anti-drug therapy it doesn’t even fucking work. Despite that she has probably don’t the most harm to the world, she’s been the most sympathetic because she hasn’t done any harm to this family.

Until she got cancer and decided to not tell my mom until about a week before she died. She’d been talking to her on the phone for years, with cancer, and never decided to bring it up even once.

Also I feel like it goes without saying that not going to the doctor regularly for screening probably played its part in her death. Fucking scientologists and alternative health shit.

In the months since then I’ve had to watch my mom be anguished over the little sister she never got to see again. She only just recently acknowledged that she’s angry, but now she feels like she has no closure for that, because it’s not like she really could have yelled at her sister back when she was dying.

Now we’re supposed to meet up to spread ashes on her favorite beach and my mom just feels like a shitty person because she’s more frustrated than sad at this point and it just feels like a burden for her, because no one in the family going will take her comfort into consideration.

So next week I have to go to a thing to support my mom and try to not just look disdainful of the whole situation. As far as they’re concerned she’s over in a new body anyway, so what’s even the point?

Anyway, cults are bad for you and the people around you. Don’t do them.

[thejohnmillerprogram]

The VInyl Thought, Seg. #2 of Scientology w writer Robert Grimmink, also travel writer Mathew Felix Today on  The Vinyl Thought: Scientology Seg.#2, we follow up last weeks show with writer…

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Trump DoJ nominee Jon Adler loves Scientology's bogus, occasionally lethal "detox" program

Jon Adler is Trump's nominee for the Department of Justice's director of the Bureau of Justice Assistance; the former criminal investigator is also president of the Federal Law Enforcement Officers Association, and is proud to serve on the advisory board of Heroes Health Fund, which is the latest incarnation of Narcanon, the Church of Scientology's baseless "detox" program that involves taking huge doses of niacin and sitting for hours in a sauna, a practice with no health benefits that has killed some of its practitioners.

Adler has been an advocate of the method, which L Ron Hubbard (who had no medical or scientific training) simply pulled out of his ass, since at least 2010. He advocates for putting law enforcement officers through the program to "detox" the substances they absorb while raiding meth labs.

https://boingboing.net/2017/09/26/heroes-health-fund.html

[myrtlebmack89]

Family Letter 2-22

We embarked on our voyage with clouds on the horizon. The expressions on the crew’s faces said it all: anxiety. Rough chop had been experienced by many a sailor on the seas of the high desert of Ar’I Zona: A, but none like this. Wind gusts that could defenestrate even the most spiritually anchored man. Or woman. Torrential downpours that made Hurricane Katrina look like my little niece Daisy’s tea parties. And yes I am talking about the tea going from kettle to cup.

As we set off on the HMS Roy Duprez and HMS Cisco Rendon, I felt a kindredness of spirit with the great Christopher Columbus. Off to Terra Incognita. What excitement! That feeling quickly evaporated as we entered the mud straits of what local legends called “Camp Verde”, which I have still not been able to decipher and translate back to the King’s english. But I digress. The mud straights. We altered our course and set off to another, less explored region known as “Dead Horse State Park.” Thereupon we ate lunch facilitated by Quartermaster Bergamo. Thank the Lord and all the Angels for Quartermaster Bergamo. Without the provisions he acquired, the men would have been cantankerous.

At the new destination we disembarked from the ships ready to charter the immediate vicinity. I decided to give the men some time for recreation and journaling so that all could chronicle the experience. A journaling crew is a happy crew. Though we set out to map the area, we were quickly moving in circles, ignoring our King’s orders. Rumblings of Democracy and parliament had been heard throughout the Royal Navy, and I decided to let some of that fervor boil off with recreation. Later that day, the indigineous, who called themselves the “Alano” tribe invited the crew and myself to a gathering. All were enlightened by the experience.

The next day, myself along with Capt. Karasu and Quartermaster Bergamo decided that a local structure needed to be catalogued. To get to said structure, which resembled a ladder of sorts, we had the crew ford a river carrying all their gear overhead. When some initially refused, we were able to coax them with promises of another indigenous meeting with the “Narcanon” tribe where a women’s convent had been established by a previous expedition. The men cheered up and crossed with haste.

After a dinner of local cuisine the crew made fire and spoke of hopes and dreams for this new world of endless possibility. Eyes twinkled and hearts warmed. As we dozed off to bed, thoughts of better days to come filled the minds of all, from captain to ship’s boy. The journey continues…

from Back2Basics https://back2basics-soberliving.com/family-letter-2-22/ from Back2Basics Outdoor Adventure Recovery https://back2basicssoberliving.tumblr.com/post/611062802802704384

[back2basicssoberliving]

Family Letter 2-22

We embarked on our voyage with clouds on the horizon. The expressions on the crew’s faces said it all: anxiety. Rough chop had been experienced by many a sailor on the seas of the high desert of Ar’I Zona: A, but none like this. Wind gusts that could defenestrate even the most spiritually anchored man. Or woman. Torrential downpours that made Hurricane Katrina look like my little niece Daisy’s tea parties. And yes I am talking about the tea going from kettle to cup.

As we set off on the HMS Roy Duprez and HMS Cisco Rendon, I felt a kindredness of spirit with the great Christopher Columbus. Off to Terra Incognita. What excitement! That feeling quickly evaporated as we entered the mud straits of what local legends called “Camp Verde”, which I have still not been able to decipher and translate back to the King’s english. But I digress. The mud straights. We altered our course and set off to another, less explored region known as “Dead Horse State Park.” Thereupon we ate lunch facilitated by Quartermaster Bergamo. Thank the Lord and all the Angels for Quartermaster Bergamo. Without the provisions he acquired, the men would have been cantankerous.

At the new destination we disembarked from the ships ready to charter the immediate vicinity. I decided to give the men some time for recreation and journaling so that all could chronicle the experience. A journaling crew is a happy crew. Though we set out to map the area, we were quickly moving in circles, ignoring our King’s orders. Rumblings of Democracy and parliament had been heard throughout the Royal Navy, and I decided to let some of that fervor boil off with recreation. Later that day, the indigineous, who called themselves the “Alano” tribe invited the crew and myself to a gathering. All were enlightened by the experience.

The next day, myself along with Capt. Karasu and Quartermaster Bergamo decided that a local structure needed to be catalogued. To get to said structure, which resembled a ladder of sorts, we had the crew ford a river carrying all their gear overhead. When some initially refused, we were able to coax them with promises of another indigenous meeting with the “Narcanon” tribe where a women’s convent had been established by a previous expedition. The men cheered up and crossed with haste.

After a dinner of local cuisine the crew made fire and spoke of hopes and dreams for this new world of endless possibility. Eyes twinkled and hearts warmed. As we dozed off to bed, thoughts of better days to come filled the minds of all, from captain to ship’s boy. The journey continues…

from Back2Basics https://back2basics-soberliving.com/family-letter-2-22/

[jimmyyduttonil]

Family Letter 2-22

We embarked on our voyage with clouds on the horizon. The expressions on the crew’s faces said it all: anxiety. Rough chop had been experienced by many a sailor on the seas of the high desert of Ar’I Zona: A, but none like this. Wind gusts that could defenestrate even the most spiritually anchored man. Or woman. Torrential downpours that made Hurricane Katrina look like my little niece Daisy’s tea parties. And yes I am talking about the tea going from kettle to cup.

As we set off on the HMS Roy Duprez and HMS Cisco Rendon, I felt a kindredness of spirit with the great Christopher Columbus. Off to Terra Incognita. What excitement! That feeling quickly evaporated as we entered the mud straits of what local legends called “Camp Verde”, which I have still not been able to decipher and translate back to the King’s english. But I digress. The mud straights. We altered our course and set off to another, less explored region known as “Dead Horse State Park.” Thereupon we ate lunch facilitated by Quartermaster Bergamo. Thank the Lord and all the Angels for Quartermaster Bergamo. Without the provisions he acquired, the men would have been cantankerous.

At the new destination we disembarked from the ships ready to charter the immediate vicinity. I decided to give the men some time for recreation and journaling so that all could chronicle the experience. A journaling crew is a happy crew. Though we set out to map the area, we were quickly moving in circles, ignoring our King’s orders. Rumblings of Democracy and parliament had been heard throughout the Royal Navy, and I decided to let some of that fervor boil off with recreation. Later that day, the indigineous, who called themselves the “Alano” tribe invited the crew and myself to a gathering. All were enlightened by the experience.

The next day, myself along with Capt. Karasu and Quartermaster Bergamo decided that a local structure needed to be catalogued. To get to said structure, which resembled a ladder of sorts, we had the crew ford a river carrying all their gear overhead. When some initially refused, we were able to coax them with promises of another indigenous meeting with the “Narcanon” tribe where a women’s convent had been established by a previous expedition. The men cheered up and crossed with haste.

After a dinner of local cuisine the crew made fire and spoke of hopes and dreams for this new world of endless possibility. Eyes twinkled and hearts warmed. As we dozed off to bed, thoughts of better days to come filled the minds of all, from captain to ship’s boy. The journey continues…

source https://back2basics-soberliving.com/family-letter-2-22/ from Back2Basics Outdoor Adventure Recovery https://back2basicssoberliving.blogspot.com/2020/02/family-letter-2-22.html

[stophookingatmeswan]

Guitars and Scarred Hearts (6/?)

A Rockstar!Killian Captain Swan AU

Rated: E

Also on AO3

It has been forever and a day. I want to thank @galadriel26​, @lenfaz​, @teamhook​, @kmomof4​ for their encouragement as I dealt with a wicked bouth of writer’s block these last few months. xoxo

The tight squeeze on Killian’s arm hurt like hell, second only to the stabbing pain that went shooting through his skull as he tried to open his eyes. Slamming his lids shut in an effort to stop the agonizing throb, he took stock of his surroundings using other senses.

Machines beeped as the kung fu grip on his biceps relaxed. The air smelled medicinal and the drone of daytime television came from off in the distance.

Hospital.

Had he been in an accident?

Ignoring the pain, he opened his eyes again and, as his pupils adjusted to the harsh lighting, he took stock.

No casts. 

He flexed his toes and bent his knees, breathing out a sigh of relief when he could move them, the rasp of crappy industrial linens under his legs. 

Not paralyzed.

A nurse bustled in, startling him and Killian choke-coughed, his throat raw.

“What happened?” His voice was wrecked and gravelly, and it felt like he was trying to swallow around a rock.

The nurse held up a finger and went to the phone on the wall.

“Can you let Dr. Miller know the patient in room 204 is awake?” She hung up and turned, walking over to the bed and taking Killian’s wrist in her hand. “The doctor will be in shortly to go over things with you, Mr. Jones.” She avoided eye contact with him as she took his pulse, checked the last reading on the blood pressure machine and went to the computer to type in some numbers.

Realizing she wasn’t going to give him any information, Killian leaned his aching head back onto his pillow and started wracking his brain.

He remembered the crisis team standing by while his manager raked him over the coals for getting arrested. Killian had slouched in the corner, rum bottle in hand, as the suits devised a PR plan to pull their client’s ass out of the mess he’d put himself in. When they left, he’d made a few calls and by nightfall, a party was in full swing.

Emma.

Had he talked to her? Killian scrunched up his face trying hard to separate reality from the dozens of conversations he’d had in his head with her since that night on the boat. The night they’d kissed and touched, her blonde head in his lap as –

No, wait. That hadn’t been on the boat. And that hadn’t been Emma. The hair was too brittle. The eyes all wrong. The sounds she made as he fucked her – them, because holy shit there were two – were porn star fake.

Oh, God.

A boisterous knock came and before Killian could croak out a “come in” the door swung open. A doctor he didn’t recognize was followed into the room by a man he knew all too well, and parts of his lost night came flooding back.

Huddled in the waiting room, Emma clung to a paper cup of coffee that had initially almost burned her hands but had since cooled to an unpalatable temperature. The rim of the cup was unrolled and she had started to tear into it when Robin and Will came up after parting ways with a bald man who shook both of their hands and disappeared down a hallway.

She stood up and threw her arms around both of them, the dire straits their friend was in drawing them closer than usual. They settled her down into her chair again, Robin taking the coffee and replacing it with a venti cup from Starbucks. Emma made an abbreviated “we’re not worthy” bow and took a sip, sighing in relief as the familiar mix of chocolate laced with cinnamon swirled on her tongue.

“Any news?” Will leaned forward, elbows touching his knees, one shoulder jostling as one leg bounced in its regular tic.

Emma swallowed harder than the mouthful of cocoa warranted, her eyes pricking with tears.

“It was an overdose. I went to his house to talk to him and found – him. He was seizing and throwing up. There was coke all over the damn room. I thought –“ she choked a little on the words – “he was going to die. He almost did.” Tears rolled down her face and Robin reached over to slide a comforting hand over hers. “The paramedic said the mix of drugs and alcohol taxed his heart and it stopped. They were able to bring him back, but I don’t know anything else.”

Looking up in time to see Robin and Will exchange a loaded look, she took a crumpled tissue out of her pocket and indelicately blew her nose.

“What?”

Will’s eyes dropped to the ground and Robin squeezed Emma’s hand to get her attention.

“It wasn’t just an overdose, Emma. It was a relapse.”

Mouth dropping open, she looked at Robin in shock.

“He got into coke really early on when we were still on the road. There was a venue we played that was shady as hell and when the owner came up empty on cash, he offered to pay us in 8 balls. We made a pact to...unload them and then never do it again.”

“You mean sell,” Emma interrupted. Being in bonds, she’d heard a thousand downplays and sob stories over the years and knew when there was shit through which to cut.

This time it was Robin’s head that dropped and Will picked up where he left off.

“Jones had some groupie with him that night. She tried to roll him when he passed out from the booze and she found the stash. When he woke up, she was doing lines off the bathroom sink.” Will stretched his legs out in front of him and draped his arms over the backs of the chairs on either side of him. “She taught him how to use and it just fucking snowballed from there.”

“The truth is, Emma,” Robin interjected, “we didn’t come back home because we thought we were holding him back from the big time. We came back because we couldn’t go down the road he was on. Once he got a taste, Killian kept using. The higher up the food chain he went, the worse the habit got. It’s everywhere at that level.”

“Told ourselves he’d fuck us right over if we stuck around. Or worse, drag us down the rabbit hole with him,” Will added. “It took a while for the addiction to really take hold and by the time it did, we were long gone. To hear him tell it, he got bored after his first tour. Was working in the studio and missing the rush of life on the road and the high from the crowds. It came to a head eventually. Almost OD’d then.”

Will’s mouth was twisted, his eyes looking past Emma as if he were reliving the whole thing over again.

“He went to rehab quietly and did ninety days. Been sober since. At least from the drugs. The rum worked its way back in, but it never quite took a hold of him like the rest of it.”

She had to move, the timeline unrolling in her head. That one year he’d seemingly forgotten her birthday…Standing to pace, Emma gestured toward Robin.

“And then what? I don’t get it. He seemed so bored with the whole lifestyle. Like he wanted to –“ She couldn’t bring herself to say, “settle down” out loud. It sounded naïve and, given the amount of secrets between them, Emma supposed it was.

Despite her best efforts, “Maybe this is my fault” slipped out instead.

Robin and Will both stood and she backed away from them, not ready or willing to hear platitudes, and she swore when she hit something solid.

Turning, Emma was face to face with the man who had come in with Will and Robin. He extended a hand toward her, eyes boring into hers. His voice was accented and calming when he introduced himself.

“You must be Emma.”

“This is Nemo. He’s Killian’s NA, I mean, Narcanon sponsor.”

Overwhelmed by the thoughts racing through her head, she chortled as she shook his hand and said, “You don’t look like a fish.”

Oh, come on, Emma. Like this is some weird-ass alternate universe where Disney characters are real people.

Nemo smiled kindly at her. “I get that a lot.”

Realizing he must have already seen Killian, she started bombarding him with questions.

Did you talk to him?

Is he okay?

Holding his hands up in mock surrender, he gestured for her to sit and sank into the chair next to hers. He was older, but not elderly, and still he moved as if he wasn’t quite on solid ground. What had Killian called it as he laughed at her walking on the pier? Land legs? Regardless, Nemo had a very grounding presence and she folded her hands in her lap, waiting for him to speak.

“I have spoken with Killian and his doctor. He’s out of the woods medically. They were able to counteract the side effects of the cocaine toxicity and alcohol on his heart. His blood pressure is no longer sky-high but they are going to continue to monitor him for arrhythmia. He placed a terrible burden on his heart and it will take time to mend.”

Emma didn’t need to look to know Robin and Will’s bodies sagged in relief at the news just as hers did.

“He’d like to speak with you, Emma, but only if you want to. If you prefer to take the news that he’s doing as well as can be expected and leave, Killian will understand.”

Looking back at Robin and Will for guidance, they reacted almost comically to type. Robin’s furrowed brow and slight nod was reassuring while conveying he understood the width and breath of both the invitation and the ripcord Killian had provided her. Will stopped leering at a pretty nurse when his friend poked him in the ribs and he shrugged at Emma, chewing a piece of gum so indelicately she was reminded of the cows she’d seen chaperoning Henry’s class trip to the dairy farm.

“Uh, sure. Lead the way?”

After a moment’s hesitation, she followed after Nemo.

She looked like shit.

Beautiful as always. But worn out and drawn in on herself, like the walls that had come down between them were back and two stories higher.

And, as Emma moved across the room and sat in the visitor’s chair a few feet from his bed, Killian knew that even though he was fuzzy on the details, it was his fault.

Dr. Miller had given him the rundown of what had happened. He had been seizing and foaming at the mouth, turned onto his side to keep him from swallowing his own tongue or choking on his vomit. En route to the hospital, his heart stopped, the medic riding in the back of the ambulance shocking him back to life.

They sat in a silence that was anything but companionable, her face a stony mask, and he tried to come up with the right thing to say. Shuffling through his mental Rolodex, its contents blurring together thanks to the previous night and all of the efforts made to reverse its effects, Killian had nothing, so he blurted out the first thing that came to mind.

“You saved me.”

Oops.

Cobra-fast she struck, launching out of the chair in a flash of red leather and lashing out at him so quickly it made him flinch. The electrodes attached to his newly shaved chest pulled at his skin and sent his tongue between his teeth with a hiss as he muttered, “Damn, that hurts.”

“Let’s get a few things straight, okay? Your friends,” – that came with a side order of- sarcastic air quotes – “screaming when you started convulsing? That saved you. Anton keying in the security code for the door and calling 911? That saved you. The medics who intubated you and pushed me aside when you coded, shocking your heart back to beating? That saved you.”

Leaning over him, her tone edged toward seething. “I got to kneel in your vomit until help arrived. I am not your savior. You don’t even know me. And I clearly don’t know you.” Spine straightening, she turned on her heel and began walking to the door.

“Don’t go,” he rasped. “Come back. Let me –“

Her laugh was short and almost cruel - a glimpse of a darker Swan.

“Come back? For what? So you can play house once in a while? Or between overdoses? So you can use me? Use Henry.”

Emma’s voice cracked.

“A day on a boat is nothing compared to having actual responsibilities and having to put someone else first. He’s not there to be your little buddy when want him and to get tossed aside for drugs and parties and women when you get bored with real life. He’s mine. Mine to protect. He has no use for you like this,” she gestured toward him. “And neither do I.”

“I wasn’t expecting to hear from you, Killian. Which makes me wonder what happened.”

Nemo stood quietly at the window of the, as comforting a presence as he’d always been even with the air of formality he naturally carried, waiting for Killian to speak.

“You gave me two good pieces of advice and I took neither.” He trailed off, the words he wanted to say bitter on his tongue, poisoned by his actions.

“Set aside your distractions and find what’s missing in your life,” Nemo filled in. His eyes were kind but direct when he settled into the visitor’s chair Emma had been sitting in and steepled his fingers, eyes kind but direct as they looked at Killian. “And have you done that?”

Had he? To some degree, he’d supposed. Giving up the cocaine but not the rum. Moving on with his life but always looking back to the people – person – he’d left behind.

“Sometimes I wonder if I just distracted the distractions and never let what was missing get completely out of sight.” Killian pressed his head into the pillow, eyes pricking with the sting of tears. Nemo had seen him at his worst – and now, so had Emma – and hiding from either of them would serve no purpose but to keep him at rock bottom.

He offered a Cliffs Notes version of what had happened with Emma since he returned to Boston, ending with a sweeping gesture at the hospital room and a stoic, “My past has caught up with me.”

A low hum came from Nemo and Killian knew from experience and hours upon hours of talking with him that a truth bomb was about to drop.

“Has it really caught up, Killian? Or was it running alongside you this whole time, waiting to see if you’d get a burst of speed and leave it behind or falter and let it get ahead of you?”

A nurse came bustling in before he could answr, all pink cheeks and nervous hands as she checked his vitals and made some notes on his charts. Killian automatically winked at her and making some cheeky remarks as her fingers fluttered over the electrodes on his chest and asked for her number before she left. When she exited the room he cringed at how rote a response slipping into his public persona had become. He was laying in a fucking hospital bed after overdosing, not out on the town trolling to get laid.

The duality of who he’d become was suddenly crushing and felt disingenuous. There were aspects of being on stage and all of its trappings that he loved; others were more of a love/hate. And under all of that, there was the man he was without any of it. Killian could barely remember what it was like to be that man, but he’d had a taste when he was with Emma. And with Henry.

Suddenly embarrassed that Nemo had witnessed his little fuckboy moment, Killian shifted his weight and pushed a button on the railing of the bed. As it moved to help him sit up straighter, he looked at his sponsor and friend.

“I don’t know if I’m the type to get a happy ending.”

A good-natured chuckle accompanied Nemo’s answer.

“You still could. When you’ve done the work and asked for forgiveness.” He stood and took a short step forward, hand on Killian’s shoulder. “Guilt can be corrosive to the soul. Whatever path you take, you must learn to forgive yourself. Whatever happened, it will always stay with you. As will your addiction. It will stand outside your door, asking to be let in.”

Killian nodded, knowing Nemo spoke the truth.

“And how do I keep from letting it back in again?”

The squeeze on his shoulder was firm until Killian looked up.

“It’s not the destination that matters, Killian. It’s what we learn on the way. The details are entirely up to you. But the best way I’ve found to not let it in is to want what’s standing beside you inside more than the escape waiting for you outside.”

Swan Bonds, LLC. had outgrown itself. Leaving Ashley and her considerable office managing skills to run the original location, Emma was balls-deep working on a second office, this one on prime real estate a block away from the police station.

Henry was all too happy to spend a his weekends at Violet’s, waving Emma off when she apologized for working too much as she dropped him off Friday evening.

“It’s fine, Ma.”

He was thinning out, his face a little more angular than it had been a year ago, and already taking bets on how old he’d be when he surpassed his mother in height. The pre-teen sass reared its ugly head more than Emma would have liked, but he still begrudgingly let her kiss his forehead as she left, cheeks reddening as Violet – whom Emma suspected Henry was beginning to think of as a little more than just a friend even if it was at a glacial pace – looked on.

“See you Sunday afternoon, kid.”

“For your birthday dinner.” Looking at her pointedly, he added, “A day late.”

She saluted him on her way out, threw Violet a wave and hauled ass to her new storefront for a weekend of monitoring the delivery of furniture, computer wiring and rolling paint on the walls. Emma may have been doing well financially, but the loans for the new location were in their infancy and cutting costs was still important.

Saturday had been a shitshow. The furniture company delivered the wrong stuff and she’d argued with the driver for forty minutes trying to convince him the four huge wooden executive desks wouldn’t fit in her rented space, much less through the damn door. Then the electrician had a family emergency and asked for the afternoon off. By the time he came back and finished his wiring and Emma had finally put down drop cloths and gotten to work on the painting, it was dark.

The street was relatively quiet; no unsavory characters hung out down the street from the precinct when there were cops coming in and out of the building at all hours. So when there was a rap at the door at eight o’clock, it startled her enough to drop the roller she was holding, splattering her shoes.

“Ah, fuck!”

Picking up a rag from the floor, she wiped what she could and did a hop-skip-and-jump sort of wiggle to the door to avoid stepping in any of the paint drops that had fallen on the plastic drop cloth.

“Can I help you?” The man standing outside looked harried and offered no identification, but Emma could see a van from a florist shop parked illegally at the curb and her heart started to race.

Could it be?

“Emma Swan?” he asked brusquely, and before she could even open her mouth, he was shoving a slim box at her and walking away.

Eyebrows raised, she put the box under one arm and pulled the door closed, locking it carefully. Finding a corner of the drop cloth that wasn’t already speckled, she sat and opened her package, simultaneously not knowing and knowing what exactly to expect.

Two years. They hadn’t spoken in almost two years. The last words she’d said to Killian were in anger and hurt, and while she’d meant every single one of them, the weight of saying them had been hard to carry. On a few weaker occasions, she’d Googled him while wine-soaked just in case she’d find stories about him fucking his way through groupies and trashing hotel rooms.

Nothing.

He’d fallen out of the spotlight and there was nothing except speculative articles wondering when and where he’d surface. Emma didn’t think anybody writing the articles – and a few journalists had possessed the balls to call her company early on in his disappearing act to ask if she knew the whereabouts of Killian Jones - would have put money on a soon-to-be-open bail bonds office. She supposed she could have gotten a hold of Anton who had slipped her his number as she’d stormed out of the hospital, but she’d never brought herself to use it.

The box held a single, perfect burgundy rose and an envelope, the note inside written on heavy cardstock Killian’s script.

Happy Birthday, Swan.

Killian

She sat back, a thousand thoughts running through her head. He’d kept tabs enough to know her business was expanding. And even though the sign wasn’t up yet, Killian knew the address. Emma supposed she should be irritated that he, at the very least, had done a little bit of digging to find her here, but the thought was lost as the envelope slipped off her lap, heavier than it should have been if it were empty.

Emma put her hand out and tipped the envelope to allow whatever was inside to slide out into her palm

It was an NA recovery chip. On one side it read, “A new way of living.” On the other was “24 months.”

Sweet fuck, he was nervous. More nervous than he’d been on a stage since he was a teenager and this one was significantly smaller than the stadiums he’d worked to fill. He had more scruff than usual, the purple cut out of his hair but nobody would have seen it anyway thanks to the beanie he had pulled low over his brow. The bar’s spotlight was hot, the stool small and rickety. It was a far cry from stardom, but to Killian, these days it felt like home.

He hadn’t sung outside of a small studio in almost two years. The retreat from the public eye had been swift and necessary, the check-in to a six-month in-patient rehab just as swift and necessary. He had cried, yelled, screamed and group therapied himself into a new person. Or, as Nemo put it, a new version of the old Killian. The kid who had dreamed of stardom but had been happy just to have a guitar in his hands and a few dollars in his pocket.

The record label didn’t know he was here, a minute away from performing a couple of songs from his new album in a dive with sticky floors and halfway decent acoustics. They would have been pissed, maybe even sued his ass, but Killian didn’t care. Performing again was his last goal and as he started to strum his guitar, he let the music carry him away from any thought of the woman across town opening an envelope that contained a piece of his heart.

Leaning into the mic, he spoke.

“This one’s called ‘The Swan.’”

[famehunting]

I haven't seen Going Clear yet, but I watched the series Leah Remini recently did on Scientology and oh my God. I knew it was a cult but had no idea how awful it was.

So you sent this anon six days ago and like yesterday’s WTF report I’ve been sitting on this (sorry!) until I got a chance to sit down and drop a proper report.

This comes up, for those just tuning in, on the reports that Tom’s long-time stylist Urbinati is a practicing Scientologist. Important note: Nowhere is there any indication that Tom himself has fallen in with the cult. So we’ll cling tight to that.

Scientology is, let’s underline, a dangerous cult still formally accepted by the IRS as a ‘legitimate’ religion despite numerous dodges, crimes, and other nations such as Germany denying them outright. 

L. Ron Hubbard started the cult in the 1950′s after previously writing ‘if a man really wants to make a million dollars, the best way would be to start his own religion.’ Scientology itself is an iteration of a self-improvement technique he ‘designed’ (bullshitted) called Dianetics. And on the surface a lot of it doesn’t seem too much more hamfisted than any other fringe religion.

The serious problems crept in as Hubbard grew older, more paranoid, and more influenced by other leadership figures in the organization, specifically a man named David Miscavige.

The beginnings of the paranoia preceded that figure, however. The first major headline scandal of the cult became known in the 1970′s, called Operation Snow White. It was an attempt to infiltrate a number of government offices in order to purge and reclaim the narrative about Scientology itself. They were ultimately caught in this, almost a dozen operatives including L. Ron’s wife Mary Sue prosecuted and imprisoned.

L. Ron Hubbard himself went into hiding, his paranoia increasing and his advancing age allowing Miscavige to formally take power in 1987, after having known the Hubbards for a decade at this point. Under Miscavige, the cultivation of celebrities to grant the organization a veneer of glitz and glamor and legitimacy reached a fever pitch. This allowed them to hide a number of other unsavory things, such as the way more ordinary members are treated - fleeced of thousands of dollars, pressed into the Sea Org where even their souls are intended to be in hock to this sham religion for thousands of years, or even die.

Members who begin to falter or fall too sick to serve have two fates - either they get away and are deemed Suppressive Persons and are harassed continuously (’fair game’ doctrine), all contact lost with loved ones still trapped within the cult, or they end up isolated and sometimes dead.

One of the most infamous cases of this is Lisa McPherson. Involved in a minor accident, she was released from the hospital into the care of her church. Because Scientology does not believe in mental health assistance, and because they have idiotic ‘spiritual’ practices in place of certain forms of medical help, Lisa spent a little over two weeks in an increasing physical hell, dying of an embolism after extreme dehydration and abuse.

Other fates can include being incarcerated at The Hole, a site at ‘Gold Base’ that is functionally a prison camp. There are rumors that Miscavige’s own wife, who has not been seen since 2007, may be held here or at another such isolated site like their ‘Church of Spiritual Technology.’

The antics of Scientology have been lampshaded in pop culture repeatedly, the most famous example being the THIS IS WHAT THEY REALLY BELIEVE episode of South Park (it is).

And yet the cult clings on. Reports indicate it is finally beginning to struggle somewhat under increasing public awareness and pressure, escapees feeling more open to discuss the madness despite the cult’s attack doctrines, such as the work of Leah Remini and Paul Haggis to expose the cult. Meanwhile, Miscavige still grooms celebrities - feeding on insecurity and the desire to feel special - to present that glittery facade. Tom Cruise remains the most active, visible, and alluring member of the cult, and is especially close to Miscavige, who was best man at his wedding to Katie Holmes. It is unknown how well he knows what’s truly going on. Travolta has, according to Going Clear, seen some hints, but yet remains.

I would like to see this cult, a tax cheat, a dangerous medical lie (Narcanon is their version of AA and a fucking fraud) and a destroyer of families, a seller of illusion, die in a fucking fire. It hasn’t happened yet.

I stress that while many of its public members are not aware of the darkness inside, they are still aiding and supporting a diseased structure. Cults feed off that sense of ‘us v. them,’ creating an insulated and compelling world for its members. It is worth remembering that cult members are victims, although I often find myself losing respect for celebrities that have willingly joined in - and I’ve realized I’ve done the same for Urbanati. This is a little unfair. It is an odd but frequent truism that intelligent people often fall under sway of cults, the seduction and charm of these organizations specifically designed to feed a victim’s sense intelligence despite their sense and also dig hooks into certain emotional and psychology needs.

Again, Tom is, by all accounts, not a member.

I genuinely hope and pray that remains true.

Sources for further study, because this is a very scant synopsis:

Going Clear: 

The HBO documentary is available via their streaming service.

The book by Lawrence Wright is essential supplemental reading and covers a broader swath of detail the docu couldn’t include due to legal necessities against the intensely litigious church.

Xenu.net is Operation Clambake, one of the oldest anti-Scientology websites on the internet and where the original OT documents were leaked.

The Tampa Bay Times ran a series of in depth articles exposing and attacking the cult beginning in 2009, particularly on the fleecing and the difficulty found in leaving the cult. The link above is their archive.

The LA Times has a similar archive, worth trawling.

Paul Haggis, a central figure in Going Clear, talked to the New Yorker in 2011, with the man who later wrote that book. I highly recommend this one.

The Wikipedia articles on Scientology are relatively strong, although I highly recommend following the footnotes and being circumspect. As it is a public archive, it is monitored by active members to ensure ‘neutrality,’ allowing the controversies and their treatment overseas to be downplayed just enough to make it seem more palatable.

And here is a recent AskHistorians thread on Reddit discussing some of the legal action behind Operation Snow White.

I leave you with one more note:

For FUCK’S SAKE, do not EVER watch Battlefield Earth, it will give you the brain rot and you will never recover.

[negavox]

Come check out my 24/7 station! Request your songs in my chatroom and stick around for my daily show at midnight every night!

If you or a loved one has an addiction that they need help with or they need someone to talk too, I am always here!

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[totalobsession]

I don't know if the accusations are true but if they are and this goes for anyone waiting 20 or 30 years to tell their truth???...I know intimately what it feels like to tell someone and not be believed, so I have internalized all of it and don't have a need to make another public announcement. So what is it that kept you all quiet for so long and why do you wait sooo long to publicize your drama? I know there are many accusations made that are completely made up or wrong person but it has bothered you so deeply for so long, how are you able to function properly??? If it has bothered you so badly for so long how have you finished school or kept a job and not screamed it everyday??? Because that's what y'all sound like.

I absolutely believe men need to control their urges and find good outlets for their "freak" and their "anger" and one of the best ways is a gym, boxing or just punching bag to get the aggressions out. But there also needs to be an outlet for men to speak their minds, men's only groups for men to scream and cry and laugh and shout and get good advice from other guys in their position. Why has it taken so long for mental health experts to create an atmosphere where men can be men without feeling emasculated or queer or embarrassed???

They have thousands of AA, ANON, NARCANON etc but nothing for living a good life with a support system. The time is now and not white supremacy or black lives matter, just men talking it out.

I guess in another life!!!