#obligatory we have no idea how accurate that view count is so take it with a pinch of salt

[dance-magic-dance]

its wild how much engagement ofmd posts get on the max account. if you look at everything streamonmax posted in august it averages out at around 50k views per tweet. even house of the dragon gets around 200k. this video is almost at 500k views in less than 24 hours.

[sadsapphicslut]

chapter one - original story (i havent come up with a title yet lol)

okay so here it is!! if anyone actually reads this i love u :) please leave feedback if u have any!! 

TWs:

death, drugs, medication, mental illness, references to sex, swearing, alcohol

wordcount: 8.2k

(also i dont think anyone will but im paranoid of people stealing my writing so obligatory dont copy/post to another site or steal my work in any other ways etc)

There were five of us; 4 boys and me. In hindsight I realize from the outside our group probably seemed a little predatory, but it was never really like that. For the most part they were like brothers to me. Of course, being the only girl in a small and isolated club of mainly older boys, things were bound to happen. We were in high school and it was summer, can you blame me? Regardless, however much I loved them, it was not quite in the way my father always assumed or my mother always warned (during our uncomfortable monthly visitations before I managed to get rid of her for good).

The months everything went down, which I often referred to only as ‘The Worst Summer of My Life’, (quite melodramatically but not without reason) were somehow still full of the best moments of my life. Moments I often find myself wishing I could repeat, as nothing has or will ever come close to the way I felt, sitting amongst my boys day after day, somehow light as the warm July breeze that blew past us. My entire body weightless, as non-existent as the time that passed us by. Despite the depression I’d found myself plunged into during the days after my only brother’s death, I truly believe I will never again be as happy as I was then. Laughter seemed to flow freely from our mouths, smiles plastered onto our faces no matter the circumstances, content to just exist. I don’t think I can ever forget the day it was raining so hard the entire city was flooded, but we walked around uptown well past the point of being absolutely drenched, our clothes dripping so heavily the security guard denied us entry into the public library. Something about that day made me feel so free, like we were invisible. Completely apathetic to the whims of the real world, somehow existing only in our twisted minds and intertwined fantasies.

Maybe if I’d had my head screwed on a little tighter, or if we’d met under different circumstances, it wouldn’t have ended the way it did. I used to go down that line of thought every night before succumbing to a fitful but heavy sleep (under the direct affect of 25mg of Quetiapine, working to counteract my Concerta and Lexapro). Those types of irrational thoughts were ones my therapist deemed as my habit for rumination. In regard to the death of my brother she called it ‘bargaining’, one of the stages of grief. I never liked it when she spoke about those stages as I’ve always felt them to be wrong. Maybe because I never quite moved on to the final one, no matter how many years pass. ‘Acceptance’, coined as the “Re-entrance to reality”. Maybe it’s different since I was never really grounded to reality in the first place. I still wake up some mornings, thinking I’ve heard his voice in the other room, ready to beguile me with tales from his day of retail work. Other times I swear I’ve walked past him on the street. Some people may relate to my experiences, with reasonings of ghosts, angels, apparitions, or insanity, among many other causes for the apparent viewing of a loved one long gone to the other side. I never shared these beliefs, but I am not one to deny. Rather, I always take these instances as an omen. A warning. I have come to this conclusion not without evidence, at least circumstantial, given the many occasions over the years – and especially that summer – where I found my hypothesis to be true. All I can say is that I am glad I’ve never been met with the same chimerical visions of my mother; one can only hope that is because she ended up where she belonged. Maybe I’ll see her there, though I hope at the very least they could keep us in separate rooms of Hell if the situation does arise.

From what I know of the others now, which is admittedly not much – majorly due to my own neglect, as opposed to theirs – they share the same prescription for rose-coloured glasses as I. We always were too engrossed with our own romanticization of nostalgia and sentiment that it clouded our view. I often think this was one of the reasons we seemed to fit so well together. Not quite like puzzle pieces, too self-absorbed to hold a candle to that analogy, more like complimentary colours. I wish it could’ve stayed the way it was. We did try, and I never found myself able to fully disentangle myself from James, nor he could to I, but for most of us we could recognize an ending when one arises. I used to find myself using the word tragedy a lot while reminiscing, but I no longer think that word is appropriate. Fate is a more fitting term in my opinion, regardless of if one believes in it or not. “(A)n inevitable and often adverse outcome, condition, or end,” as reported by Merriam Webster. I don’t think there’s a word in the entire English language more accurate in describing how everything ended up; and if there is, I am yet to find it.

  Chapter One

A Dead Brother

          I have tried to erase the day my brother died from my memory so many times I lost count decades ago. I still find the image seeping into my unconsciousness quite dreadfully on the nights I neglect to take my pills and catch myself waking up with a steady flow of tears that dampen my pillow along with the drool that always seems to pour from my sleeping mouth. The dread that pools in my stomach sometimes being heavy enough for me to lose my lunch. I frequently wonder how people managed to reassure me that it wasn’t my fault; the most painful lie I’ve ever been told and one that seemed to stream from people’s mouths as easily as the mini sandwiches laid in the living room of my brother’s wake were stuffed in. The worst part about being told it wasn’t my fault was how obviously one could tell they didn’t believe what they were saying either. His death was my fault; a fact so uncontestable I wanted to kill myself every time I was reminded of it.

           My therapist often tried to remind me that even if his death was “partially” (she always used the word partially, refusing to acknowledge the truth that his death was entirely my fault) my fault, there was nothing I could’ve done to prevent it. This was another lie I despised being told. There were a million ways I could have prevented his death or saved his life and yet, here we are, with him dead and me wishing everyday that I won’t wake up tomorrow. “Begonia,” she’d tell me – she was the only person who called me by my full name, I usually went by Nia, but a nickname felt too personal and I didn’t like her very much – “You mustn’t keep torturing yourself with these scenarios. He’s dead, and there is nothing you can do to change that. I am starting to wonder if you are going to let yourself move on. This isn’t healthy.” That was a line she liked to use a lot, “this isn’t healthy”. As if anything I do is.

           Barb, my therapist that is, liked to go over the details of my brother’s death a lot. She often called it a ‘trigger’, which is why she always seemed to want me to talk about it. “Trauma is a horrible thing, Begonia, and you must learn to move past it, process it. I can see you still haven’t managed to do that on your own, and that’s what I’m here for, to help you move on.” Barb was big on the idea of  “moving past trauma” and “learning to cope”, she often sounded like a broken record of a motivational speech. I found myself comparing her to school guidance councillors without realizing it, they were about equally as helpful (read: not helpful) in my opinion.

           Sometimes I blame my inability to forget and “move past” my brother’s death on the way Barb constantly brought it up and made me go through it. I never quite understood how that part of my therapy was supposed to help me. I asked her once, what good was it doing rehashing the worst day of my life?

           “Well, Begonia,” I hated the way she said my name, always so condescending and sour, like even the idea of me questioning her in any way was as impolite as shitting on her desk.

“You have to understand that I only want to help you. You seem to be unable to process your traumas on your own, which is why we need to go through these things. As you are aware, this PTSD,” she always left strange pauses after each letter, her slow tone grinding on my ears, “you have acquired has left you unable to function normally in daily life. I want you to get to a place where you can have a normal life (Ha!) and cope without these meetings. It’s what your brother would’ve wanted.” Barb liked to tell me what my brother would have wanted at least once every session. Putting aside the fact she knew next to nothing about him aside from the intimate details on how he died, I always thought it was an inappropriate thing to say as a psychologist specializing in grief counselling. It never particularly bothered me, I was reasonable enough to realize she was just trying to comfort me, but I never liked the phrase. “What your brother would’ve wanted.” What he would’ve wanted was to not die but we’re past that, aren’t we Barb, as you so often enjoyed telling me.  

I have always been quite averse to my diagnoses, ADHD at 14, Persistent Depressive Disorder at 15, PTSD at 16, issues with alcohol and drugs that landed me in rehab more than once. I’ve been on a concoction of different medications since I was 13, even before I was diagnosed with anything officially. Sertraline, Lexapro, Prozac, Ritalin, Concerta, Adderall, Quetiapine, Ambien, Zopiclone, a healthy mix of off brand and branded medications. Sleeping pills, antidepressants, stimulants. I can’t remember a time before monthly trips to the drug store and side effect surveys that I’m not sure if I ever told the truth on. It’s a wonder that people didn’t see a slew of addiction issues coming from a mile away.

I think I’ve always had the most contention with my PTSD diagnosis though, I hate it because I know it’s undeniably true. I wish it wasn’t because maybe that’d mean my brother was still alive, but he isn’t. And I’m left traumatized and bereaved. Sometimes it feels like it hurt me more than it ever did my mother or father. Maybe it did. I should feel selfish for saying that, but I can’t, because they didn’t have to look at him while the life left his body, praying to God for the ability to turn back time. See the moment his eyes glazed over, knowing I’d never get to hear his obnoxious laugh, or make fun of his dumb face ever again.

  ❈

             “Ray, hey listen I need you to come pick me up.”

It was a cool evening in May, the end of spring brought with it the promise of summer and the air had the familiar aroma of daffodils and petrichor. I had decided to go to a party with my friend Faun, my dad having been out at his girlfriend’s place for the weekend and me having nothing better to do. I wasn’t one for partying, but I did like to get high, so I usually just hung around with the rest of the potheads and pill junkies until someone dragged me home or I fell asleep. That night Don, a friend of a friend of a friend, had brought coke and E and we were all determined to get as fucked up as possible. Faun only ended up doing one line before running into a bedroom with some guy whose name started with an M – was it Martin or Marvin? Maybe it was Mickey – and left me sitting on the couch beside a girl who was about 1 more shot of vodka away from passing out.

I had fully intended on doing some coke, but the E seemed to be hitting harder than I was used to. I was sure my Ritalin had worn off by then but maybe I was wrong. As I stood up to get a glass of water I nearly fell over and decided to sit back down. Turning to face Don, I tapped him on the shoulder trying to get his attention.

“What was in that molly?” I was vaguely aware of the way my words were slurring, but I felt weirdly energized. I was aware my heart was beating a little too fast, but I couldn’t concentrate on anything. I knew what ecstasy felt like, this was not nearly my first time doing it, but I felt really wrong.

           “Don!” He turned to look at me and I felt uneasy. His eyes looked a little crazed – not that out of the ordinary but given the circumstances I was worried – “What the fuck did you give me?” It felt like I’d done 5 lines of coke in the last 2 minutes and I knew that E had been spiked.

           Don’s face had an unmistakable expression of guilt written on it as he leaned down and whispered in my ear, his voice shaking, “I think it was cut with meth.” Fuck. My stomach dropped. I have to get out of here. I quickly shot up from the musty couch I was sat on, carefully holding onto Don’s shoulder so I didn’t fall, my legs still feeling unsteady. I opened my phone; the screen was too bright, and I had a hard time maneuvering it as I attempted to exit the house. Clicking the green Messages icon, I sent a text to Faun – e ws cut w meth im lesving – with shaky hands and burst out the door into the fresh air. I clicked my brother’s contact and pressed call.

           It rang four times before he picked up.

           “Nia? Why are you calling me it’s like 1am?” I could tell from the smooth tone of his voice he’d been drinking. He didn’t very often but he had an appreciation for cocktails and enjoyed getting buzzed now and then. He still was a year from being legal to drink but his friends we’re all 19 and 20 and bought alcohol for him. I found him fun when he got drunk, becoming talkative and giggly, but right now I wished so badly for him to be sober.

           “Ray, hey listen I need you to come pick me up.” I was slurring, my voice a bit too pitchy to pass as anything but high. I knew he didn’t like it when I did this, but he never ratted me out. Sometimes I wish he did, maybe I never would’ve been able to go to that party in the first place.

           I could hear a door shutting on his end, I assumed he was going into a different room. “What’s wrong?” My skin was bubbling with anxiety at the prospect of having to tell him what I did.

           “Fuck, uh… I did something stupid. I’m at Emily Goguen’s, y’know up in Champlain Heights. Please pick me up.” I rarely used the word please.

“Nia, what the fuck did you do?” I almost started crying but I found my eyes to be bone dry.

“Please don’t yell.”

“Okay, really, tell me what is going on or I won’t come get you.”

“I accidentally took meth.”

“You what? What the fuck, Nia! Fuck this I’m on my way and I’m fucking telling Dad.” I cringed but I knew he was going to before I even called. The pit in my stomach grew deeper as the buzzing of my skin grew stronger. I could feel myself getting higher, everything was so clear and standing around was making me grow restless. Ray huffed on the phone and I heard him entering his car.

His tone was softer the next time he spoke. “I’ll be there in 5, just stay put, please. Do you want me to stay on the call or can I hang up?”

I felt like a child, which I was really, only 16 at the time, a whole life ahead of me. Still, I was grateful for the way he spoke to me, reminiscent of being 6 and getting a scrapped knee after falling off my pink Razor scooter. The high made me edgy, and my voice was sharp to my ears, “No, you can hang up.” I heard the click to indicate he’d done just that, and started pushing my cuticles as I waited, the task somehow greatly interesting me, and I did not realize until later I had managed to pick off all of the skin around my pointer and middle fingernails during the five-minute wait.

 Ray pulled up exactly five minutes later in his ugly, blue 2011 Ford Fiesta he’d gotten the year prior after passing his driving test. What I wouldn’t do now to smell the inside of that car once again, a distinct attar of pineapple car freshener and Old Spice deodorant mixed with stale black tea, faintly present due to his ever-growing collection of empty paper cups from various different fast foods and coffee shops.

I stumbled into the car, feeling the strong impulse to clean the space, but attempting to push it down. From the passenger side overhead mirror I could see my blown pupils and sweaty forehead, pieces of my copper red hair sticking to my face. My freckles were showing through my concealer that had mostly worn off and I wanted to cover them back up. My skin was pale from winter (and probably the drugs in my system) but my cheeks were flushed like I was drunk. My high cheekbones made my face look gaunt in the lighting, but my face was wide which balanced it out, so I didn’t look completely skeletal. Ray was looking at me, the worry apparent in his eyes, but his face was flushed as well, and I could tell he’d been drinking a bit too much to drive. I had my license as well, but it was clear I was in no condition to take over on that front, so I didn’t bother saying anything. I wish I had. There’s a lot of things I wish. I wish I hadn’t gone to that party; I wish I hadn’t taken that E; I wish I called someone else; I wish I waited it out at Emily’s; I wish I walked home; I wish I took a cab; I wish I waited for Faun; I wish I wish I wish I wish I wish.

“Are you okay?” He didn’t take his eyes off me as I shut the mirror in front of me.

“Yeah, yeah I’ll be fine. Please just take me home.”

“Is Dad there?”

“No.”

“Maybe I should take you to Mom’s.”

“No!” I’d moved out of my mom’s completely just over 6 months ago, barely seeing her once a month. It was one of the best decisions I’d ever made. She never liked me much anyways, the feeling was entirely mutual. Ray seemed to have a close bond with her for some reason despite how she treated him like shit. I never called him out though, he no longer lived with her, so I didn’t really care what their relationship was as long as she wasn’t hurting him. She did treat him significantly better than me, however, so I figured maybe he managed to forgive her the way I never could.

“Okay, but I’m staying with you until Dad gets home. I’m not gonna lie to him about this shit. Fucking meth, Nia? Seriously?”

“It was in the molly.” He sighed and started driving.

 My brain felt like it was filled with butterflies, or ants, some kind of movement that was itching at my skull. The paper cups scattered around were making me anxious and I needed to clean his car. I began picking at my nails again, but I needed to pick up those cups, you see. I turned around and started gathering the ones Ray had discarded in the back, filling up an empty plastic bag from Best Buy. I was fully switched around in my seat, nearly crawling into the backseat to reach the trash my brother had left. I felt him tap my side, I looked over at him and he started to scold me.

“Nia, stop that will you, you’re distracting me.” But I needed to finish gathering the cups. The car was dirty, and my skin was itching, the traffic lights burning my skin. I was elated and I didn’t want to listen to him, he was just trying to get in my way. I continued to lean over, not registering the swerve of the car as he looked over at me.

“Nia – ”

He turned over to push me back into my seat, his eyes leaving the road for no more than a few seconds. This time I felt the swerve as we broke into the next lane.

 This is where I have a hard time piecing together what happened. From what I was told, we ended up running directly into a 2015 Dodge Ram 2500. In case you understandably have a lack of knowledge when it comes to cars, that is a very large, sturdy, and expensive pickup truck which I would probably consider the last vehicle you’d want to charge headfirst into while going 70km per hour. I don’t recall the actual incident of hitting the truck, whether that be from the drugs, the position I was in, or hitting my head on the roof of the car, I don’t know. What I do know is that when I woke up, we were in a ditch on the side of the road, with the car flipped upside down, and my entire body was screaming at me to Get Out!

I felt blood oozing sluggishly from my head and noted some indistinct pain in my right wrist where it had scraped something pretty badly and gotten twisted, but I otherwise felt alright. I couldn’t tell if the cloudiness in my head was from a concussion or the earlier events of the night, but I figured it was probably good I was awake, regardless of how dazed I seemed.

I turned my head to the left and was greeted by a view I will never be able to forget, it having been branded to the insides of my eyelids, scorched in my mind. Ray, with his left arm twisted in spectacular fashion, reminding me of Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, after Lockhart spells away Harry’s bones. My brother had always been squeamish with broken bones and I hoped he wasn’t aware of how his limb looked at the moment. His head was bleeding quite profusely, and I was alarmed despite how many times I’d heard in movies that headwounds bleed a lot. His eyelids were fluttering, irises appearing glassy and unfocussed. And then I saw it. A piece of glass was stuck in the left side of his neck. The windshield apparently had broken with the impact and my brother was lucky enough to get a piece lodged right in his trachea. It was thick, bright red blood –  that I could’ve sworn was sparkling in my current inebriated perspective – was gushing out the side, so heavy I could smell it, taste it, in the air. I was frozen once I realized.

Do something, do something! Put pressure on it! Call 9-1-1! My mind was screaming at me, but it was all I could do to sit and watch the blood stain his clothes. He was wearing the corduroy jacket I’d gotten him for his birthday and a white button up, the red seeped into them until it was as if they’d always been that colour. My voice was caught in my throat, but I managed to push some sound past.

“Ray?” It was weaker than a whisper but in the silence that seemed to envelope us in that car, completely independent of the outside world and sirens that could surely be heard from blocks away, I knew he would be able to hear me.

He looked up, eyes focussing slightly on me, and a tear slipped down his face, only it went the wrong way since we were still upside down. He mouthed the words “I love you”. We never said that to each other. As close as we were, our relationship had always been more comparable to that of a best friend than sibling. We weren’t overly affectionate, never hugged or said I love you, hung out for enjoyment rather than as a punishment. Most people didn’t know we were brother and sister until we pointed it out, we never really looked alike and were absent of the traditional distaste and rivalry usually present between siblings. I knew, as he looked me in the eyes and said those words, this would be the last time I’d ever see him outside of a morgue.

I sat in my seat next to him with dry eyes, wishing desperately I could cry, needing to express the feeling of utter horror and despondency that completely overtook my body and mind, but I couldn’t. Barb told me time and time again that I was in shock, there was nothing I could’ve done, but I will never be able to believe that. I still remember the moment the final tear slipped down his face. He smiled at me, pain evident in his eyes. His entire body was covered in the metallic smelling red, and I wanted to vomit. I wish I could say the crash had sobered me, but it didn’t, not really. I was still entirely in a daze as I saw his muscles relax, smiling falling from his face, eyes not quite rolling back all the way but enough to give me nightmares for the next 20 years. The life had been absorbed from his body, leaving a heavy shell. I was told afterwards this all happened within the span of 10 minutes, but it felt like years. By the time the first responders had appeared I was an old woman. Grayed hair, and arthritic bones. Mourning for the brother I’d lost oh so many years ago, when I was just a girl. I think in a way I died in that car with him, I never was really the same. But who would be? Best friend and confidant, older brother, idol, dying in front of your eyes as you do nothing, knowing for the rest of your life that his death is – was – your fault. Knowing you could’ve done something, anything really, to prevent his untimely loss of life before the paramedics arrived. If I’d been the same after that night I would have to be much more disturbed than I ever thought.

I sat in that car beside Ray’s corpse for 3 more minutes before I heard the sirens closing in around us – me. I thought I might pass out, either from the toll of what I’d just witnessed or from my concussion, but I remained upright, probably from the adrenaline. I couldn’t move so I just waited, and hoped I’d die too before anyone reached the scene. It would be much preferrable to any other outcome I could think of at the time. I could vaguely register the pain in my wrist, but I felt so numb I’m sure you could’ve shot me in the foot and I wouldn’t have blinked.

A young fireman named Walter ended up getting me out of the car. The door was smashed and stuck which meant I’d been trapped in there either way. I was happy I hadn’t bothered trying to escape as I'm terribly claustrophobic and finding out I couldn’t would have thrown me into a proper panic attack. The fireman was incredibly nice, saying reassuring things the entire time they were opening the door with the “Jaws of Life”. I ended up seeing him again in the hospital actually, or at least that’s what my father told me. He wanted to check in on me and left me some hydrangeas in a vase. I always preferred chrysanthemums but I'm not that picky when it comes to a floral arrangement.

After the door was busted open I was carried out by Walter. I was shaking and apparently babbling nonsense but in my head I was trying to tell them to save Ray. I wasn’t really aware of all that much, completely blind to the crowd of spectators that had rudely gathered to witness the violence – wasn’t it supposed to be taboo to stop at a car crash? Wondering vaguely about what happened and wishing you could get a better look as you drive past the scene.  My head wound had made me a bit incompetent and the meth in my system was really not helping the entire situation.

I was laid on a gurney and rolled onto an ambulance. I don’t remember much about the ride; the sirens, the bright lights, a paramedic named Alice who spoke softly, smoothing out my hair while the other put an oxygen mask on my face (which I wasn’t entirely cognizant enough to question though now I'm not really sure why they did it) and splinted my wrist. Alice asked me if I was on drugs and I nodded but was unable to speak when she asked me what ( I would find this a common occurrence after the accident, my voice seemingly stolen alongside Ray’s). She just nodded and said something to the other ME that I didn’t quite pick up. She asked if I could tell her my name and I shook my head. She must’ve noticed the iPhone in my pocket and grabbed it, turning to the medical ID page.

“Is your name Begonia?” I nodded, though the name sounded foreign on my ears. I liked the way Alice said it though, she had a light Spanish accent and a matronly tone that made me feel safe. I wondered if she had kids of her own; she looked young, but my own mother had me at 19 so who could say? She told me her name after complimenting mine. “Begonia is a beautiful name; I love the flowers. I’m Alice, okay? We’re gonna make sure you’re alright and take you to the hospital.” Her voice was sweet like syrup and I became sleepy as she spoke.

“No honey, you can’t fall asleep yet. Just stay awake a little bit longer and I promise you they’ll let you sleep at the hospital.”

  I don’t remember anything of the rest of the ride to the hospital. I was dropped off at the Emergency Room at the Regional, head still too foggy to allow me to recall anything before I was sitting in a white bed, in a white room, with white sheets and a light blue hospital gown on. It was morning and my father was sitting at the end of my bed in an uncomfortable plastic chair, his eyes bloodshot and moist. He’d very obviously been crying for a long time and my chest panged with guilt. I reached up to feel my head and realized there was a cast on my wrist. With my other hand I touched the cotton that covered my forehead, wincing when I felt the sting of what had to be stitches in a nasty gash. I would spend the next 5 years of my life with a variety of diverse haircuts that attempted to hide the ugly scar that served as a reminder of the worst night of my life. Even now it is still extremely obvious, but I can’t be bothered to try and hide it, I so rarely look in the mirror that it wouldn’t matter if my skin turned blue.

My dad hadn’t looked up, so I attempted to gain his attention but once again found my voice failing me. I tapped on the bed a few times before he seemed to realize and face me.

“Nia… how are you feeling?” His voice was raspy and thin. He reeked of cigarettes and stale coffee, though this wasn’t anything out of the ordinary. I remained silent as he looked at me, searching my face for something I'm not sure he found.

“Nia, I, I'm not sure how to say this to you.” Here it comes. Almost worse than watching my brother die, the confirmation. “Ray, he’s, well dead.” I saw my father’s eyes begin to tear up again as I stared straight ahead. I couldn’t feel the sobs that racked my body, nor the hot tears streaming from my eyes. I saw my dad start to move closer but sit back down when I flinched. Of course, I knew my brother was dead; I had front row seats to watching the event happen, but somehow I still didn’t believe it until the words left my father’s mouth. According to my dad, who many years later described to me how eery the whole event was, my sobs were completely silent, and I was entirely unaware of everything happening around me. This dissociation lasted the first few days after the accident, and the entirety of my hospital stay. Leaving the blissful gap in my memory I have now.

Barb told me this was my mind’s way of coping with the tragedy and stress of what happened. I was honestly just happy I had an excuse to skip some of the dreadful retelling she forced upon me.

 ❈

             The funeral was of course a depressing and solemn event. I was still yet to speak and found myself thankful for the way people gave up on trying to get me to communicate. I dressed in a black skirt with a black short sleeved button up. A dark coat thrown around my shoulders as the cast on my right hand was too big to fit through the sleeve. I looked terrible, barely a week out of hospital before I watched Ray sink into the ground. The wound on my forehead was still quite nasty, though it looked better than it did before. I tried to cover it up with my hair but was unsuccessful. I got bangs soon after.

           The matter was very traditional, taking place in a church even though none of our family was really religious. It was only the second time I'd ever been in a church, the first having been for my cousin Julie’s wedding when I was four years old. I don’t remember anything of it aside from the material of my dress itching at my neck and making me rather miserable. Of course, not nearly as miserable as I was the day of the funeral, sitting in a pew at the front of the church, listening to a priest claiming Ray would’ve wanted us to celebrate his life. I knew this not to be true; Ray was extremely dramatic and would’ve cherished the thought of everyone he’d ever spoken to moping around for weeks after his death, beside themselves with grief. He sometimes referred to himself as “Romeo” after having been broken up with by another girl he was supposedly in love with, stating he better just stab himself in the heart now if he couldn’t have her. On the rare occasion he broke up with a girlfriend, he’d lounge around, eating ice cream, pretending to not be upset and comparing his cold heart to that of Richard VIII. The concept of him being any different over his death was almost comical; Ray was nothing if not predictable.

           I sat beside my father, who sat beside my mother (it was an extremely awkward arrangement that neither I nor my father cared for) and seemed to have the idea that I could evaporate if I thought hard enough about it. Unfortunately, I did not evaporate, or even come close to it, instead finding myself exactly where I'd been the whole time. I mostly tuned out the service, only really paying attention when my father and Ray’s best friend, Jake spoke. I managed to escape the duty of having to speak that day thanks to my fragile mental state and mutism. Though I'm sure I would’ve been forced all the same if I had been able to talk in any capacity, regardless of where my head was at.

           Faun was sitting in the pew behind me, feeling quite guilty about the whole ordeal. Or friendship dissolved soon after, I think she blamed herself for taking me to the party. It didn’t bother me too much though; we were never the closest and I sometimes thought her to be extremely annoying. An endless stream of shitty boyfriends that she only acquired so she could further repress her sexuality. When we were 14 we kissed at a sleepover and she admitted she was in love with me. I felt bad for not returning the feeling and our relationship had been on rocky territory ever since. I don’t understand how she thought she was in love with me since she barely knew anything about me, but either way she never brought it up again and soon after the monsoon of boytoys had begun.

           My brother’s friends and ex-girlfriends also attended the event. I didn’t approach any of them, far too scared they’d blame me for the death of their friend. One of them, Alex, went up to me to say how sorry he was about everything that happened. He was crying quite heavily (I later found out he was the friend Ray had been drinking with and the second last person to see him alive) and I could smell alcohol on his breath. I stood there while he spoke, telling me about how great my brother was as if I was wholly unaware. Body waving side to side as he stood with his hand on the wall beside me. He offered me some bronze liquid in a flask, and I obliged, savouring the burning sensation that followed in my throat. Alex’s voice was steady and deep, reminding me of my father’s. I’m not sure how long we stood there, him spinning a fantastic web of anecdotes and stories about my brother, some entirely new to my ears. We passed the beverage back and fourth until it was empty. My head felt lighter and heavier somehow simultaneously, and I found it much easier to listen to Alex talk. Later he tried to kiss me in my bedroom during the wake. His mouth was sour, and his tongue seemed too big for his mouth. I wondered how he was able to talk so much without it getting in the way.

             We moved in procession to the cemetery after the service. The grass was a vibrant green colour, and I didn’t understand how the world kept turning after Ray’s death, for mine stopped the moment his heart failed to beat. The sky was a lovely shade of cyan-blue, with clouds so perfect they seemed animated. Pink carnations were planted near the outskirts of the yard and I could smell spring in the air; a heavy, floral aroma that never failed to comfort me. I thought it should be raining, it felt inappropriate that the weather refused to match my despair. My mind wandered as we approached the empty grave and I considered what it would be like if Ray was here beside me. He’d probably be making jokes, telling me to lighten up for a minute or my face would get stuck that way. He’d mock my silence, saying how I never managed to shut up for a minute before but suddenly I'm as proper as a nun. I'd smile, ruffling his hair to piss him off and try to refrain from laughing aloud. The absence of him only felt stronger as I imagined this scenario, so I shoved it out of my head.

           The casket was lowered into the ground, my father was a pallbearer and I often think about how he must’ve felt carrying his son’s body before watching him being buried. My mother sobbed loudly which annoyed me, it felt a bit exaggerated. I had a few tears falling from my eyes but mostly, I just felt numb. Incredibly and absolutely empty inside. To onlookers it may have seemed as though we weren’t very close, my reaction being similar to that of his ex-girlfriends’. However, this didn’t account for the loss of my voice, or the broken state I was in mentally. Maybe it was better that my reaction was rather dulled. It meant people didn’t feel the need to approach me as they did my mother. Less concerned given she was the one playing up her emotions to the point of embarrassment. My father cried, more than I but far less than my mother. He didn’t cry very often – I'd actually only seen it once prior to the whole event – and I figured he probably needed it. At this point I felt as though I'd shed enough tears to last a lifetime so Ray wouldn’t mind if I was a bit subdued in comparison. He never was a crier anyways.

           As I sprinkled soil onto his casket I imagined he was right beside me, watching, ready to criticize as usual. The dirt stained my hand, clutching the sweat and turning my skin a muddy brown colour. As I wiped the dirt on my jacket I could hear him nagging about how I better go wash my hands, what was I, a six-year-old? He was in denial about me growing up and took every chance to remind me I was still just a kid. Not that he had much on me, but I enjoyed it. I never was one to shy away from attention; at least not before. Little quirks and inside jokes between us were always some of my favourite things, the type of humour you could only get from living with someone your whole life. No matter how much his memory will fade there are some things I can’t let myself forget. His mocking tone when he’d make fun of me is one of those things. If I ever managed to let go of that sound then I must be dead as well.

           The sun beat down on my back, my skin burning in my black clothes. I wasn’t sweating yet, but most of the men around were – suit jackets aren’t exactly known for their breathability. My nose was dry and aching red, sore from how much I'd been wiping it the last couple days. Still the sweet seeping tinge of flowers and spring managed to crawl into my nose, settling underneath my skin, the buzzing from before had returned, I could feel my heartbeat loudly in my throat and had the desperate urge to just run. Instead, I just followed the rest of the party, sitting down in the passenger seat of my dad’s car. The silence that settled over us was uncomfortable and stale. He turned on the radio, Led Zeppelin filled the air around us, thankfully relieving some of the tension. I felt in my left pocket for one of the carnations I’d picked from a nearby grave earlier. The flower had begun to wilt, heat taking effect on its delicate composition. When I got home I put it in between the pages of my oldest copy of Romeo and Juliet. Ray would have found it funny if he was around to see.

The drive to my mother’s house was short and minimally awkward. We sat in silence – aside from the music – only because there was no alternative. My hand remained clutched around the dying flower in my pocket as we left the car and entered the home. Other people had already arrived, clustered in the living room, picking at tiny ham sandwiches and various desserts my mother had undoubtedly stress-baked the day before. I wasn’t hungry so I sat as far away from the food and people as humanely possible while staying in the living room, not wishing to hear my mother’s scolding about how I need to socialize more. Eventually I managed to slip away into my old bedroom, where Alex was sitting on my bed drinking a mickey of Smirnoff I assumed he swiped from my mother’s freezer. He offered it to me, and I accepted, the weird repetitive déjà vu like act, mirroring earlier and making the whole day feel like somewhat of a dream.

When I went over this part with Barb she always felt the need to emphasize that it wasn’t a dream. I knew this, obviously, which I told her every time, but she was inclined to disbelief when it came to my denial over my brother’s death. “Begonia, you must realize he’s gone. Dwelling is helping nobody, especially not you. This isn’t a healthy mindset for you to have. Always comparing living to your dreams. I want you to tell me you understand this isn’t just some dream you can wake up from.” The first time she said that to me I was thrust into a bout of wordlessness, as it struck a bit too close to home. The next time she brought it up I just told her of course, though even now I still cannot say I fully understand. How can I when all of my assumptions have been constantly disproven time and time again. How can I ever say this isn’t a dream when I'm not even sure I'm real? James always tries to reassure me, “Bee, I'm telling you, if you can feel this beat, the pulse in your wrist, your neck, your chest, you are alive,” he’ll say while pressing my hand to my wrist, but we both know it isn’t that simple.

Me and Alex made out for a few minutes until I managed to excuse myself. He was a bad kisser and tasted disgusting. I left him sitting on my old bed while I went downstairs to find my dad. He was sitting at the counter with a can of root beer, blank expression sat upon his face. When his eyes met mine he sighed, grabbing his keys out of his pocket. It was obvious neither of us wanted to be here, for numerous reasons, so we left. And if the radio stayed off as we drove home we didn’t acknowledge the silence that time. In my hand was the crumpled carnation, and for some reason it made my chest hurt. A deep ache of dread. I could feel my heartbeat, hear it over the drum of the car engine, and I crushed the flower further. I was careful not to rip it though, as if that was crossing some kind of invisible line my mind had set for me. My fingers felt waxy when I finally let go.

Back home, I opened the copy of Romeo and Juliet. I retrieved the deteriorating plant from my pocket and placed it in the center. Closing the book, I stacked it under a few dictionaries, a magazine under it so it was trapped on either side. I sat down in front of it and cried. Not the huge gasping sobs my mother seemed to fancy, nor the quiet weeping of my father. No, I cried the tears of a child who just found out their grandparents died, the soft uncomprehending grief that overcame them as they first learned what death really meant. How long forever was. My legs pulled up to my chest, hands loosely hung around knees, unable to clasp together because of my cast. I closed my eyes and I swear I could hear the sound of Ray sighing behind me, but when I opened my eyes I was alone. I went to bed, earlier than I ever had in my life, still believing it was a dream and I'd wake up like Alice after her adventures in Wonderland. But when I awoke, I was met with the slow, oozing perdure of my reality. The one which I could not wake up from, and the one where my brother was dead.

[marshmallow-the-vampire-slayer]

MTVS Epic Rewatch #189

BTVS 7x08 Sleeper

Obligatory soundtrack: Early One Morning - Pavlov’s Bell

Stray thoughts

1) If the fact that Spike was feeding and turning people wasn’t enough of a clue that something was amiss, then him humming a lullaby while digging graves most certainly was.

2) I love that whenever we hear a British man speaking in this show we immediately know he’s a watcher. Side note, this watcher was totally shacking up with his slayer, right? 

3) Okay, so Dawn told Willow all about seeing “Joyce” but she didn’t disclose Joyce’s warning about Buffy. Willow then proceeds to tell her that she’d seen someone, too, but it was the Big Bad. Dawn, understandably, convinces herself that Joyce couldn’t have been an evil manifestation. I get why her first reaction is to believe she’d seen her mom. She’s a kid who’s had a rough two years, whose mom died suddenly, who was almost sacrificed to open up a portal to a hell dimension, whose sister killed herself shortly after, and who spent hours in a bedroom with the body of her stand-in mom before anyone came to check on either of them. Joyce represents the normalcy and stability her life is lacking, so it’s absolutely understandable she’s so eager to believe she’s seen her mom. What I don’t get is why – other than because it suited the writers’ purpose – she didn’t talk about this with Buffy (even if she didn’t feel like opening up about the actual warning...) and why it was never brought up again (that I remember, at least.) I’ve talked about this in my previous recap, but I must hand it to The First, it played its cards right by manipulating Dawn. She was the only one who 100% bought the lies, and the fact that she didn’t discuss this any further – especially not with Buffy – and that she kept believing her “mom”’s warning all along had far-reaching consequences. Dawn was probably the only character not mature enough to realize she was being duped. Joyce/The First warned Dawn that “when it's bad, Buffy won't choose you. She'll be against you.” Not only does this warning foreshadow what will come to happen in Empty Places, but it is the precise reason why that happens, except that the roles are reserved: when things get bad, Dawn won’t choose Buffy, she’ll be against her…

4) I do appreciate that Xander truly tries to be objective here and to see things from a purely rational perspective. It’s a very nice change of pace from his “slay first, ask questions later approach”, and it is in fact exactly what Buffy needed. Emotionally, she can’t bring herself to believe Spike’d be able to be killing people while having a soul. I think the church scene from Beneath You is what drives Buffy to believe having a soul has truly changed him. Of course, she’s letting herself be driven by her emotions (which, btw, we know are her strength…) So it was necessary for her to hear the voice of reason. And I’m grateful for the fact that Xander was actually written as a reasonable voice of reason - unlike what they did with his speech to Buffy in Into the Woods… where we were supposed to buy into what he was saying (he didn’t even have all the fact!) and take his word as the voice of reason.

*gets herself angry at remembering Into the Woods*

*breathes furiously*

*tries to calm self down*

*watches videos of puppies*

*resumes writing*

Anywho, this is their exchange in this episode:

XANDER Why would a vampire lie about who sired him. What's that? Some kind of status symbol for the undead. My sire can beat up your sire. (sits)

BUFFY I'm not saying I don't believe him.

XANDER You just don't want to. OK, let's look at this objectively. Figure it out in a cold, impersonal, CSI-like manner 'cause we're a couple of carpet fibers away from a case.

BUFFY Spike can't be the one doing this. He couldn't if he wanted to.

XANDER Why not?

BUFFY Well, for one thing, pain chip, remember? He can't hurt anyone.

XANDER Didn't stop him from hurting you. Hey, objective here. Maybe the chip's not working anymore.

BUFFY Oh, it's working. I've seen it.

XANDER Is it? Or is that what Spike wants you to think?

BUFFY You think it's an act?

XANDER I don't really know. And neither do you.

BUFFY No, mm-mmm. There's something. I-I can feel it. He's different. He's changed. And, if it is an act, then the Oscar goes to...

I just appreciate the fact that he was trying to help Buffy see the situation from every angle, instead of taking a stand and only viewing the evidence that would support her belief. 

5) These two truly had a very lively sex life…

XANDER You're gonna be fine. 

ANYA Better be, because if I get vamped, I'm gonna bite your ass.

XANDER Wouldn't be the first time. 

ANYA What was that?

6)  And this is exactly why they should’ve talked to Dawn more about the whole seeing Joyce thing…

WILLOW Buffy, this thing knows us. It made us think that we were talking to people we knew. Mine said it came with a message from Tara. But Dawn actually saw... your Mother. This thing—it had me for a while—I mean, before it started letting loose with the pulse-pounding terror. But before that, the lies were very convincing. It just seems real.

BUFFY Lies.

WILLOW I mean maybe—maybe to confuse us, to mess us up. Or maybe just to be cool.

Unfortunately, Buffy was too concerned with the urgent issue of a potential serial killer vampire on the loose to take the time to talk to her sister. She should have done it, though. I mean, even if she assumed Dawn had understood what she’d seen wasn’t real, Buffy should’ve known that seeing Joyce again, even if it was a fake Joyce, probably had messed her up. I think that Buffy not approaching Dawn about this probably fed Dawn’s belief that she’d seen the real Joyce.

7) Sweet Jebus, this man…

8) Bless Anya.

SPIKE Anya, do be specific and tell a fellow just exactly what you're doing here.

ANYA Well, Spike... I'm here, obviously... for...um...sex.

SPIKE Uh, beg pardon.

ANYA You and me. Here and now. Let's go. Let's... get it on, you big bad boy.

SPIKE Wait, wait, Anya. Just a minute. This is not exactly—is that a stake?

ANYA Yes. Kinky. 

SPIKE Uh, well, yeah, but what do you—?

ANYA Shh. No questions. No talking. I can't help it. I can't stop thinking about you and us and our brief but unforgettable time together. I mean, it's—why else would I be here? I mean, it's not like I'm snooping around looking for proof that you're some sort of wacked out serial killer. I don't know why I said that. Forget I said that. It's craziness talking. It's just nerves. Nerves. Nerves and-and horniness. Oh, just shut up, William, and take me. Take me now. 

I think... I think she looks kind of riled up and disappointed he didn’t take her up on her offer? 

9) Where do all this people come from? This street has never been this crowded! Sunnydale doesn’t have that big of a population!

SERIOUSLY!!!

Like, I get it, they needed the streets to be super crowded so that it would be believable for Buffy to lose track of Spike, but THIS IS NOT BELIEVABLE! A) My point above and B) any citizen of Sunydale who isn’t as dumb as a brick won’t go out at night!!! 

10) Awww, Buffy woke him up by throwing him across the room just like in the old days…

11) I had to stop writing during this scene, I was simply enthralled by James’ delivery of each of his lines. I truly don’t think Spike would’ve been a redeemable character if it hadn’t been for James’ portrayal. He brings so much emotion into every word and every gesture, and it truly makes you feel for the character. Well, unless you hate Spike, of course.

SPIKE Well, I certainly didn't off her. Where are you getting this? (grabs a shirt) You know I can't.

BUFFY Right. The chip.

SPIKE No, not the chip! Not the chip, dammit. You honestly think I'd go to the end of the underworld and back to get my soul and then— Buffy, I can barely live with what I did. It haunts me. All of it. If you think that I would add to the body count now, you are crazy.

SPIKE Yeah, I talk to people. Women. Talk to them 'cause I can't talk to you.

BUFFY Oh, Spike, save it.

SPIKE As daft a notion as "Soulful Spike the Killer" is, it is nothing compared to the idea that another girl could mean anything to me. This chip—they did to me. I couldn't help it. But the soul, I got on my own—for you.

BUFFY I know.

SPIKE So, yeah. I go and pass the time... with someone. But that's all it is is time, 'cause—God, help me, Buffy—it's still all about you.

12) FYI, If you don’t remember what you’ve done the night before, that’s a BIG FAT warning sign.

13) I get that Willow’s line is meant to feed Dawn’s belief that she did, in fact, talk to Joyce, but this just doesn’t make any sense?????

DAWN You only think Spike is turning people 'cause that vampire told you so, right? But that night we were all told things that weren't true.

WILLOW Maybe.

DAWN What? What maybe.

WILLOW Well, just because those weren't the spirits of, you know, our people—just because it was some evil thing, doesn't mean what they said can't be true.

Like, why would the Big Bad disclose information that might actually help them???? 

14) The music choice for this episode is so absolutely perfect, I mean, Pavlov’s Bell? Accurate AF.

15) She’s a quick learner, right?

YOUNG WOMAN Huh. I get it. You'd rather I slip into something more comfortable. Should we pick off the crowd one-by-one, or block the exits and ravish the place?

SPIKE Get away from me.

YOUNG WOMAN What's with the wallflower act? You didn't seem so shy when you were biting me. I'm not asking if you wanna be soul mates, just figured you'd wanna have some fun. I take him, you take her—or the other way around. Whatever.

I love how this scene is reminiscent of Spike and Drusilla prowling the Bronze in Crush, except this time Spike does not want to play.

16) This fucking show.

YOUNG WOMAN Is that all I was to you—a one-bite stand?

17) I swear to god. THIS. FUCKING. SHOW.

18)

BUFFY Oh, uh, actually, I need some help. I'm looking for this guy. Bleach-blonde hair, leather jacket, British accent? Kind of sallow, but in a hot way?

BOUNCER Yeah, yeah, I know the guy. Billy Idol wannabe?

BUFFY Actually, Billy Idol stole his look from—never mind. Has he been here?

19) This. Fucking. Show.

AIMEE MANN Man, I hate playing vampire towns

I just love the fact that she uses the plural, “towns” like she’s fucking aware Sunnydale is not the only town infested with vampires.

It’s so amazing to see a regular someone supposedly not in the know – after 7 freaking seasons! – acknowledge the supernatural because even though it’s a staple of the genre that people are ignorant of the paranormal or choose to find more “rational” explanations for every odd occurrence, sometimes they just end up looking very dumb.

20) And this is why The First was kind of a dumb Big Bad, like, how couldn’t he have known that tasting Buffy would have the opposite effect on Spike?

21) It’s really heartbreaking that Spike not only assumes that Buffy is going to stake him but he welcomes it, I think he wants the pain to end and wants an easy way out from the things he’s done (that’s why he pleads for her - or it? - to “make him forget”)

22) Buffy reads the situation right, though. She understands that someone or something has been using Spike as a puppet and that killing him won’t really accomplish anything other than doing exactly what it wants them to do.

23) I gotta admit, I’d be Xander in this situation…

BUFFY You didn't see him down there. He really didn't know what he'd done. It wasn't in his control.

XANDER Oh, an out of control serial killer. You're right, that is a great houseguest.

24) I love how they’re talking as if he was deaf or not there, and he’s obviously listening to every single word they're saying. HE IS SITTING RIGHT THERE FOR FUCK’S SAKE!!!

Sorry, I just hate when they do that on shows or movies, okay?

25) Cliffhanger! IS GILES DEAD! DUN-DUN-DUNNNN!

There’s no fucking way Giles would’ve survived that, okay? I mean, I’m glad he’s alive, but they probably should’ve faded to black BEFORE the axe was about to chop his head off. Just seeing the demon brandishing the axe would’ve done the trick, and then it wouldn’t have felt as they were retconning the scene.

26) This is not a great episode. It’s not bad, either, but I feel the reveal that Spike was killing again and the why he was doing it should’ve been placed further apart (although I understand they were trying to get people to like Spike again, so that might’ve been detrimental to that purpose…) I don’t know, there’s something that just doesn’t work about this episode. The scenes between Buffy and Spike are great, but the whole episode feels somewhat disjointed. What do you think? Is this when season 7 started to go south?

27) If you’ve got this far, thank you for reading! If you enjoy my recaps and my blog, please consider supporting my blog on ko-fi. Thanks!

[opiatemasses]

Are robots becoming more human or are we becoming more robotic? Is it too late?

Are we becoming too reliant on technology? The latest phenomenon of wearable fitness trackers shows that we are becoming too obsessed with the data we store about our bodies, in our watches and phones, thus disregarding what our bodies really desire. Are we the experts of our body or have we lost control?

Wearables are lightweight gadgets, such as the Fitbit, that can be worn to self-monitor health, fitness and lifestyle data, for greater self-awareness and thus control over the body. In 2016, 526 million people owned and wore a wearable device worldwide. Nowadays, it is estimated that 1.1 billion people have surrendered to the wearable craze and are beginning to view this luxury, as more of a necessity. 

Don’t get me wrong, to an extent, data tracking is effective, when used for the desired fitness purpose. Wearables such as the Fitbit allow self-tracking of steps, tailor physical activity goals, record workouts, be a part of a community, track food intake, whilst also monitoring sleep patterns. These gadgets also allow us to track biometric data, such as heart rate, blood oxygen and skin temperature. This can help improve fitness levels when training to ensure we are working optimally, and in the correct training zones, for the desired goals. They enable us to compare data throughout a training programme and notice improvements, increasing motivation levels, allowing the person to continue to push themselves. Fitbits offer so much more than just being an effective, affordable fitness tool that they are now becoming an accessory to life.

“There is a big emphasis on data and numbers today,” says Clark. “A sense that if we can quantify ourselves, we can really know ourselves. But the numbers are never contextual. There is a danger of becoming preoccupied by a number that doesn’t consider the whole picture of what is going on in your day.” 

If you go for a run, does it count if you aren’t wearing your Fitbit? We are beginning to believe that if we are unable to track our exercise and daily steps then it never happened. We are converting our behaviours to numbers, reducing the inaccuracies and uncertainties of the human embodiment. Many owners of wearables wear their watch 24/7 due to the functionality of them, because of their ability to record from the first step of the day, right the way through the night, as you sleep. This obsession has caused individuals to feel frustrated and “naked” when they aren’t wearing their watches or recording their data. Without the evidence and ability to quantify are behaviours, it’s normalising the objectification of the individual, preventing us from exercising purely because of the kinaesthetic experience. People before us were able to improve fitness without this new technology so why are we so over-obsessed now?  

Nudge Theory

Nudge Theory is where a relatively indirect, subtle action encourages people to adapt their behaviours, based on their broad self-interest and goals. It is believed that without this ‘nudge’ then society is incapable of making the ‘right’ decision. Nudges can be perceived as neo-libertarian, as people are able to act freely in response to them, therefore they seem consensual rather than obligatory. Examples of this include gadgets such as Smart Meters or internet purchases that we make. Smart meters track utility bills and present how much energy and money a household is using. By owning this technology, it may adapt our behaviours by prompting us to control how much heat or water we use, to save money. Another example could be that data is stored within the internet and knows that we may have purchased items at a certain time during the month so will trigger pop-up’s advertising the same product a month later. This could be items such as sanitary products, therefore will prompt you to buy more for the following month. We may be completely unaware that this personal data is being stored and it could be considered invasive.

In the situation of Fitbits, a vibration is sent to the wrist, at 10 minutes to the hour, to encourage the owner to walk the remainder of their steps f they have not yet met their standardised goal. Without this vibration would we get up and move around? This isn’t the worst idea to keep us moving and generally, a very achievable goal to the average individual, however, when looking at the ontological principles underlying these ‘nudges’, it can be seen that this external motivation has such control over our behaviours that we change the way we act due to increased pressure. 

This ‘nudge’ may have the potential to discourage individuals because it doesn’t take into account the context or situation of daily lives. The watch may vibrate to say there are still 250 steps to complete, meaning you’ve been sitting down at your desk for too long, although you had already completed 4,000 steps on your morning dog walk. The Fitbit doesn’t consider your daily routine therefore, we may feel ashamed for not reaching our goals. Although, wearing a Fitbit may encourage us to take the stairs that day, rather than the lift, would this behaviour become habitual if you stopped wearing it and nothing was dictating your normal routine or implementing guilt? This shows that we are so consumed by quantifying ourselves that we are dehumanising ourselves and not doing anything voluntarily, just like cyborgs. Contradicting this, what happens if these altered behaviours become embodied and there is no need to monitor activity anymore? Fitbits would become a short-lived piece of technology and a thing of the past.

Big Data

It is becoming increasingly popular in places such as the USA, the UK and South Africa for insurance companies and employers to use the small data we store in our wearables on a larger scale. Insurance companies are offering life insurance based on habits recorded in their Fitbits. However, how can we be certain that the data being sent to these companies that is now determining our financial outgoings is accurate and reliable? Wearables are not considered as medical devices, measurements such as heart rate fluctuations are not considered to be as accurate as an electrocardiography trace and many owners say that their steps will increase, despite them not moving at all. Insufficient investigations have been conducted on the accuracy of wearables and a more disciplined testing approach is required before we can rely on this data for insurance. There is also the danger of security breaches with sensitive data such as this, by getting multiple companies involved with the storage of health data.

Wearables are disruptive

It has been reported that the use of wearables causes owners to feel disrupted from their activity. This is because of the environment they were exercising in due to distracting notifications and vibrations from their device, pushing them to exercise at a higher intensity, for longer. They found it demotivating and increased their perception of effort and tiredness, if their bodies weren’t up to the task. In the age where we critique, particularly the younger generation, for large amounts of ‘screen-time’, it appears slightly hypocritical that we are justifying allowing ourselves to be consumed by our wearables, purely because of the perspective that they are enabling greater self-awareness and control over our bodies.

10,000 steps

Are we physically benefiting from our Fitbits? It could be considered that we all have this perception that if we all buy some form of wearable, we will magically change our habits and become healthier. However, the extent that we respond to this purchase will vary and what may benefit one person, may not be the same for everyone. As a society, we appear to have a large amount of trust in popular technology. This could be due to a positive recommendation from a reliable friend or just a general awareness of the product’s popularity, feeding an impulse to be on trend and benefiting also. The default goal of the number of steps a person should do to improve fitness is 10,000 steps, however there is no research to support that this is an adequate amount steps because every individual is different and may require more or less than this. This number stemmed from a marketing campaign by a Japanese company selling a pedometer called the Manpo-kei, “man” meaning 10,000, “po” meaning steps and kei meaning “meter”. 

The number of sales of this pedometer was successful therefore, the number seemed to stick, as the universal goal for fitness, however there is no scientific evidence that this is correct, and every individual will vary. Although individuals may not be physically benefiting from this goal, there are potential psychological benefits because individuals will be striving for a goal and will gain positive reinforcement, once rewarded from achieving this. Contradicting this, if people are unable to reach this goal due to lifestyle reasons, they can feel demotivated and are more likely to stop using their device. The default step target on a Fitbit is 10,000, however this doesn’t account for factors such as age or fitness level, therefore steps will vary from person to person. 

Wearables and motivation levels

As little as 50% of young people engage in enough physical activity, therefore substantial action and innovation of ideas are required to promote exercise to increase engagement of young people in sport. The younger generation have shown an increased reliance on mobile devices and other technology. This highlights the potential to combine the use of fitness tools such as Fitbits, with a healthy physical lifestyle that promotes exercise and increases motivation. This theory was investigated with the purpose being to analyse whether Fitbits impacted adolescent’s motivation levels to physical activity. Each participant was given a Fitbit to wear for 8 weeks, then they were asked to complete a questionnaire, assessing motivation levels and need satisfaction of the gadget. Results showed that there was a decrease in need satisfaction of the Fitbit and in autonomous motivation, an increase in amotivation due to increased comparisons between participants, creating competition due to increased levels of guilt and internal pressure.

Self-determination Theory Self-determination theory provides an understanding of the initiation and maintenance of physical activity. Individuals show greater signs of self-determination when they are internally motivated to adapt their behaviour, due to their own interest. This is also known as autonomous behaviour. However, the investigation, as mentioned previously, presents a reduction in participants autonomous behaviour and an increase in amotivation. This is because individuals are becoming so invested in competing with one another to record the best data that if they don’t reach their daily step count or make it on the Fitbit leader board that they feel less motivated and more incompetent. The reduction in autonomous behaviours may be caused by the inability to relate to previous experience on how to formulate the correct habitual demand during exercise. This is because they have eliminated their innate involuntary response by delegating the responsibility and knowledge to an external piece of technology.

In conclusion, technology is becoming a large determinant of the way we behave, and we are beginning to quantify our bodies because of the gadgets we own. We need to begin listening to what our bodies really need again and learning from experience, rather than depending on a record of numbers on our watches and phones.  

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