#recovery toolbox

[microcosmiclymbic]

Collecter of names. Wielder of fury. Child of hope. Permanantly hyperfocused on understanding the human condition. Tumbling through the cracks of society.

Virtual diary

If you know me IRL and I explicitly have not shown you this blog, block me. Do not pass go

-Z/A'

I'm a multifaceted artist. Enjoying the discovery process of Self while stumbling through the human experience. On a life long healing journey to fulfill generational cycles and leave humanity in a better state than I found it. Deeply spiritual in my philosophy, I take influence from everyone I've ever loved.

[el-ow-world]

[ambitiouspotions]

BABY DAZE | MICHAEL BERZATTO | ONESHOT

summary — regretting the shotgun wedding, caring for a five-month-old baby, and wondering why your husband likes painkillers more than you

word count — 4.4k

warnings — addiction, angst, talk of recovery and na meetings, arguing, slightly religious connotations, drug/alcohol usage, stress from motherhood, mom guilt, mature language

author's note — i told myself not to write mikey again so soon, but look at me…also i channel some of my family (sicilian american) when i write these

“fak, come on man, you can't put together a damn crib? you gotta get me out of this hole i’m in,” mikey looked at the stray pieces of wood on the floor, screws in a pile, and neil fak’s unorganized toolbox. the instruction booklet was opened and slightly crumpled from the number of times fak had referenced the pages.

fak’s face was slightly distorted as he looked at the pieces and then back to the instructions. “man, look, i don't know what you want me to do this shit is all kinds of fucked.” the handyman simply could not understand why baby furniture had so many pieces and so many varying sizes. if it was so safe, why was the company recommending it all to be put together with a single allen wrench? there was no way he was only using that stupid allen wrench, not for baby berzatto anyway.

mikey was running his hands over his face and to his bangs that were falling, gripping the ends of his hair tightly. he had promised you the nursery furniture would be completed by the time you arrived home after work. he already had the majority of the room completed without you knowing, moving and organizing the junk he had piled into the spare bedroom as if it were a storage unit. the baby shower had only caused the room to be more cluttered, and on top of the clients, you were trying to fit in for their appointments before going on maternity leave, which meant you never had enough time in the day to organize it yourself. the stress of disorganization and ill preparation led to you biting your nails and peeling the skin away from your fingertips routinely. mikey noticed this and now had the perfect excuse to get the nursery finished and elevate your mood at the same time.

“what’d you do this time anyway?” fak questioned as he propped one board of the crib against the wall and rummaged through his varying sizes of drill bits.

mikey didn't want to admit to fak that he was unwilling to defend you in front of his mother, donna, at a family lunch when she had mumbled something along the lines of ‘your child is still a bastard.’ it was unneeded, unkind, and simply unprovoked after you had put on your nicest attitude to agree to have lunch with her and mikey in the first place.

you both already made the mistake. there was no coming back from that fuck up, so why keep dwelling on it? that was the understanding by the rest of the family anyway, but donna wouldn't ever drop it.

“fak, you fucker, i’d love to know,” mikey held the opposite end as fak skimmed the directions again to install the railing. he didn't need to be told he was in the wrong again, best to just skip that shitty conversation altogether.

“they say the first seven months of marriage are always the hardest,” fak tried to console mikey as he began using the drill. mikey was doubtful the moment fak tried to say anything about marriage, especially coming from a single man. mikey, himself, wouldn't have any pleasant advice to give anyone either because his marriage, more like hasty elopement, was only six months old with a wife who was eight months pregnant. any idiot could do the math on why this marriage was legitimized.

“seven years, the first seven years,” mikey corrected him with a groan of annoyance. “i appreciate you doing this though; my back’s been killin’ me.”

another factor of stress added to the plate, almost two years ago, would mark the anniversary of mikey slipping in the flooding bathroom of the beef so violently that he now had permanent hardware in his spine. along with the surgery came the pain and the way to manage pain—opioids. that was a sick joke. one second, he’s slipping on the tile and slamming into the porcelain commode, and the next, he was relying on drugs to get him through a stressful day.

he didn't know if his back still hurt or if he was accustomed to saying it to convince himself that it was enough of a reason to get high. that was the sad part, mikey was popping pills and you barely had any time to notice because you were always asleep before he took a little something to take the edge off. he didn't need you to have another thing to worry about, so sneakily would replace the pills he took and leave the prescription bottle in the same place. you had no reason to question him because the allergy medication you received from the walk-in clinic almost a year ago sat on that same shelf, and you never bothered to clean it out. he was covering his tracks well; why would you ever notice anyway? especially if he was so good at hiding it?

“it's no big deal, happy wife, happy life,” fak rhymed, adjusting his leveling tool against the boards before drilling them together.

the moment the tattooed handyman was able to support the crib by himself, mikey began working on the other projects to make the room more cozy.

fak made himself scarce once it was close to your arrival time. he was going to let mikey take all of your good graces on the updated nursery.

“look at that panica,” mikey greeted, affectionately rubbing your oversized belly the moment you walked through the door. his fingers slipped under your bag and dragged it off your shoulder, setting it on the counter beside him.

you eyed him skeptically wondering where his gentleness was stemming from. he had given you dull responses, impersonal kisses, and compliments, just enough to keep you quiet before you shut the door to leave. his pre-sleep painkiller always caused a morning annoyance when he awoke, but you always chalked his bad attitude up to stress rather than thinking he was abusing any type of drug. it was mikey; he had a lot on the line, stress was his middle name, annoyance ran through his veins. he was a berzatto; of course, he had to have some form of mental illness genetically passed down to him.

“what? i can't love on my two babies?” he asked, pulling you closer to place a kiss on your temple.

“what did you do?” you asked, holding each side of his face, trying to find an inkling of his true intentions. it was teasing in a way, but knew he must've had a plan up his sleeve.

“i'm so glad you asked; close those pretty eyes for me,” he chuckled. the singular lift of the corner of his mouth was always enough to make you melt.

mikey led you blindly to the spare bedroom that had been transformed into a nursery, too bad your crumby landlord wouldn't allow the wall color to be changed or mikey would've had that swatch of fern canopy behr from the local home depot on all four walls.

“alright,” he said, clasping his hands together. when you opened your eyes, you couldn't withhold the emotions that had been pent up for so long. you were staring at the crib like it was a winning lottery ticket. the sheets were made, the embroidered baby blanket natalie and pete had gifted you was draped over the edge, the bear stuffed animals were in the corner of the crib as if they were having their own meeting, and the mattress was at the perfect height for a newborn.

the changing table was assembled, and even with one of the drawers being slightly crooked, it was perfect. it was everything you wanted for your baby. it was safe, cozy, organized, and most importantly, it was something you wanted.

mikey had gone beyond your expectations. he had promised the furniture would be put together, but he gave you more than that. he gave you hope. he gave you a reason to relax. he gave you solace in knowing that although you had an unplanned pregnancy, wedding ceremony at the courthouse, and chaotic reception at the beef you could lean on him for support.

“hey, don't cry,” mikey began rubbing your lower back as you reached over the crib to caress one of the teddy bears.

“i’m sorry…this is just really beautiful,” you sniffled, taking the bear into your arms and hugging it tightly.

“would it make you feel better if i said i got you those apple pie egg rolls?” he smirked when you turned around. your gaze had softened more, more tears falling down your eyes with the most genuine type of comfort.

“you got me egg rolls?” you couldn't help but question him in the sweetest disbelief. the tone in your voice was cracking as you leaned into his chest. mikey berzatto was out of the hole he placed himself in just a few days prior.

you were in survival mode and so was mikey. it was nearing the end of your eighth week out of ten from maternity leave at the salon and mikey had barely any time off from his responsibilities at the restaurant. he was trying to split his time as much as possible, but unfortunately, an understaffed restaurant meant he had to be gone more than he liked.

everyone said once the baby arrived, your life would never slow down, and they were right. gabriel michael berzatto was a healthy, gentle, and happy baby, the one people didn't mind stopping to look at in the stroller as you walked past. he was a miniature mikey if anything with his dark hair, crooked smile, and wide nose.

“is your back hurting that bad?” the question hit his ear like a ton of bricks. “i don't think you can drink on those,” you added, picking up the paper plates from dinner.

“what?” mikey asked, pushing his beer on the coffee table that had already suffered enough of mikey's abuse from not using a coaster.

“your back,” you repeated, looking at him from the kitchen. “i didn't even know you took those things still. i thought they were expired,” that's when mikey realized what he had done. he left the pill bottle on the bathroom counter. a mistake he never thought he would make had been done. by the time you went to sleep, he was in a comfortable state of high, and you were none the wiser. then halfway through prep at the beef, he’d take another little pill, and if he was having a particularly shitty day, then again when he went for a smoke break. he seemed to have a lot of shitty days at the beef because everything was falling apart and everything always seems to go wrong. and who knows maybe the days weren’t that bad, but sometimes it just seemed like too long to wait until you were about to go to bed.

“yeah, hurtin’ pretty bad,” he lied, sitting uncomfortably in his recliner now. “opened this thing without thinkin’,” he was looking at the amber-colored glass of the freshly opened beer.

“didn’t even know you needed them anymore,” you confessed, folding the throw blanket that had been discarded on the floor when you rose from the sofa after nursing gabriel to sleep.

“sometimes, you know that permanent hardware gets pretty damn stiff when the weather changes,” he explained, wiping his hands on his boxers.

“maybe you need to go back to the orthopedist,” you suggested casually, though you were skeptical of his body language. he was tense and unrelaxed, more than he was before you voiced your concern about his well-being.

“you’re right, just need’a find the time,” he agreed, scratching his grown-out beard that seemed to become more unkempt as the days quickly turned into weeks. it was one of the many tasks that got slid to the back burner because the priorities were set on becoming accustomed to demanding needs from the newest member of the family.

“got that big bottle of arthritis tylenol from the costco if you want to take that instead,” you offered, feeling uneasy about the fact that mikey was taking painkillers, painkillers you knew were two years old, though in actuality they were bought from a regular customer at the beginning of the week when mikey went to the restaurant to “check on the gas line.”

“yeah, thanks, baby,” he nodded, clearing his throat. he could tell you weren't convinced, but at the same time, neither of you had the energy to overthink or argue.

gabriel started to cry from the other room, mikey was the first one to move. he was quick with his attentiveness to his knowing he had an easy way to escape the conversation.

“i got this one,” he mumbled, rubbing his face as he slipped past you to enter the nursery. that was the end of that for a while, though it plagued your mind frequently. you started counting the pills in the bottle and it never seemed to lessen. it hadn't become misplaced again after asking him about it. you couldn't prove that he was using unless you were going solely based on your gut instinct.

you were as guilty as mikey. mikey was blatantly lying to you and you were enabling him because you were choosing not to confront him about it. you didn't want to admit to yourself that your husband was abusing painkillers because if you did that meant that your life would already be more stressful than it already was.

it was all making sense now. irritably, mood swings, aversion, questionable decisions, not because he had gotten you knocked up, not because he had to marry you, not because the bills were stacking up, not because he said his family was bothering him, but because he was popping pills.

it was hard some days because you were still figuring out the new aspects of parenting, but a natural and oddly comforting instinct took over you. although you and mikey were able to take care of gabriel and still manage your busy schedules you had an overwhelming amount of dread and guilt hanging over your head. were you doing anything right?

you hadn't known how much weight you were pulling until tonight. five months of night feedings, pumping, juggling schedules, daycare pickups, pediatrician checkups, washing bottles, pump parts, and an excessive amount of laundry which was clean, but piled skillfully on the living room sofa, but you did it because you convinced yourself that mikey was simply too busy to take on all the tasks you were tackling. you believed you had to be the sole provider for gabriel because mikey was the business owner. he was the one that had his valuable time placed on his restaurant, so you refused to mention that you might have needed help.

it was making you have doubts about your marriage. the marriage you consented to because you thought it would make both of your lives more stable and make you more reassured that mikey was going to stick around for you and the baby. the marriage that seemed to put your parents at ease knowing they could pray for the sins of lust and greed that caused an unplanned child. the marriage that at first seemed right, but now felt like a one-sided partnership because you were being stubborn and mikey was being ignorant.

everything seemed to be going wrong tonight (gabriel was fussy the moment you tried to put him down, you wasted eight ounces of fresh breast milk because you didn't seal the bag all the way when putting it in the freezer, and you were on your third shirt change of the night) and mikey was sitting in his recliner drinking a beer. the condensation was beading off the glass bottle and dripping onto his worn spiraled notebook where he kept his business dealings for the beef contained. you were struggling and he was drinking a damn beer.

“mikey,” you finally made him look up, smudges of ink from his pen were on the underside of his hand. “take the baby please,” you said, handing off the teary-eyed baby to your husband who couldn't seem less interested. you were covered in spit-up, from your shirt to your hair because gabriel accidentally grabbed a good chunk of it when he moved his dirty hand. mikey didn't seem present though he was sitting in front of you, loosely cradling his son.

“are you high?” you didn't know why you sounded surprised when you asked that question. you had been avoiding ever talking about that night three months prior. you practically snatched gabriel out of his arms which only made mikey defensive in trying to take him back. “oh my fucking god,” you muttered taking a step back from him.

“come on, i got ‘em,” mikey flicked the condensation that was still present on his hand from the beer, he rose from his resting place on the recliner. he was trying to avoid your line of questioning.

“no, what the hell is wrong with you?” you were placing entirely too much blame on mikey because you were overwhelmed and overworked, well, had been overwhelmed and overworked for months. your anxiety and frustration were spilling over the overfilled glass it had been stuffed into.

“hey, hey,” he warned, noticing your voice had raised sharply when he went to reach for gabriel. “chill out, mammina.” wrong choice of words.

“chill out? you want me to chill out? you're the one sitting on your ass getting high when i've been running around all evening with my head cut off.” you were trying to keep your tone light after your increase in volume had spooked gabriel.

“i didn't mean it like that, dammit, hand me gabe,” he sighed, though when he went to reach for the baby again you shielded gabriel from being taken out of your arms.

“you're bein' ridiculous,” mikey scoffed, following behind you. his inebriated state was affecting his ability to understand why he wouldn’t or maybe shouldn’t be holding his infant.

“and you're high,” you retorted, walking to the bathroom. “can’t even change my shirt because—” you unskillfully managed to open the cap and dump the oxycontin onto the counter. gabriel in your arms none the wiser to the situation. you counted them four times before even looking at him. you had to be sure that you weren’t going mad because the same amount was in the pill bottle as you had counted many times before.

“mammina—”

“where are you getting them?” you interjected, tossing the empty bottle at his chest.

“mammina, give me the baby and go change your shirt,” he insisted, as if you were so easily going to give up the little boy in your arms.

“michael, i am not fucking stupid and you know that. so where the fuck are you getting them?”

“why's it matter where i'm gettin’ ‘em from?”

he had a point; you didn't quite know why it mattered. you knew he'd find a way to continue taking them like he was already doing.

there was a long moment of silence, yet it was saying more than words could. pain, hurt, frustration, uncertainty, and fear were seasoning the bottom of the cast iron pot, and a thick helping of despair was poured over the top. the back of the metal spoon that was used to stir the clusterfuck let everything mingle, and then it had to bake in the oven at 425° until that shit was burnt and stinking up the entire apartment. oh, and then you had to eat that garbage. it was inedible, but you had to choke it down because that was what was happening. you helped enable that mess, and now you, as well as mikey, had to take responsibility for it.

“how long…how fuckin’ long have you been takin’ them?” your nose was buried in the crook of gabriel's neck. your voice was barely above a whisper.

“i dunno,” he wet his upper lip with his tongue, dragging his hand over his face. he couldn't admit that to you right now. that would break you. it would break you knowing you were oblivious for years. he could tell it was already eating you alive that you didn’t confront him properly just a few months ago. you had a general time frame when you thought he started abusing painkillers, but mikey was the only man that knew when his issue truly began.

“you gotta know…” you pleaded softly. your tears were finally falling. you didn't know how they were contained before. gabriel's tiny hand was pulling at the top of your shirt to whine for his nightly feeding. you looked so vulnerable leaning against the bathroom counter, pulling down one side of your shirt and unclasping your nursing bra, allowing your son to nurse. that was life now, having someone that meant more to you than anything else because even if your husband was abusing opioids you had a son that was helpless without you. the world could be ending, but your responsibility would never be focused on anything else except your child. what were you supposed to do in this situation? keep gabriel safe before things get too out of control. that was the answer.

you didn't resent mikey or hate him. he was helpless much like gabriel. though he had unintentionally gotten himself addicted to opioids because of the exploding toilet from the beef, it wasn't his fault. he was caught in a vicious cycle that needed professional help; help you couldn't provide for him.

you couldn't do it on your own either, as much as you hated to admit it to yourself. you couldn't leave him because he was the person that you could lean on when you needed him. he was the man that forced marcus to learn how to make apple pie egg rolls so he wouldn't have to keep buying them from the bakery across from the beef. he was the man that sat behind you as you labored because he knew you felt better when he had his chin on your shoulder; he talked you through the entire thing and you couldn't be upset about it because every word he said comforted you and encouraged you. you could let him lean on you when he needed you most as long as it met that gabriel was safe.

“listen to me,” your voice cracked. “i don't know what to do, but i'm going to figure it out.” you managed to loosen one of your arms from gabriel. you wiped under your eyes. a painful and staggered exhale left your lungs. “ i won't be able to do this forever if you don't try to get sober, and it's not because of me, it's because of gabriel. he doesn't deserve this.”

“i know,” mikey said, reaching his hand out to caress his son's wispy black hair. you knew he wasn't going to take him. mikey needed comfort and gabriel was an easy little one to be comforted by. he was small and innocent. he loved his parents unconditionally because he didn't know the horrors of the world. he was being cradled in the bathroom unaware of anything that had occurred. he was blissfully ignorant. he was protected because he wasn't mature enough to understand the complex emotion that was surging through the apartment.

“i know you're going to have bad days. i know that you're going to relapse, and i know that this can't be fixed in a week, but damn, you have to try or i'm going to leave with gabriel.”

mikey leaned his forehead on yours. a quiet and consoling agreement that he would try his best. he couldn't ruin this with you. he made enough stupid mistakes with you in high school. he was supposed to be apologizing for those times now when he truly cared for you. he didn't reconnect with you later in life to keep being stupid, okay—maybe forgetting the condom a couple of months before your marriage was stupid, but the point was he wants to make things right.

the rest of the night was painful. you stayed up watching mikey sleep off his latest dose on the recliner and studying gabriel's small figure on the baby monitor. tonight seemed like the night that needed some silence even if it wasn't followed with peace.

mikey had taken your consideration of being sober seriously. he knew you were never one to back down from your word, and that ultimatum made him scared. scared enough to try and get his bearings in order, leave the beef to richie before he was past the point of no return. he was going to attend the narcotics anonymous meetings you had found online because they could allow him to find more resources to aid him. he knew it wasn’t going to be easy, hell, he was living through the hardest part, wanting more—another dose—before he even got in the car with you to attend the meeting.

he didn't want to be the dad that wasn't around. he gets sober or you leave with gabriel that was the deal. he couldn't stop this alone but that was the most difficult part—admitting he needed help. he couldn't keep fighting with himself, ignoring his fatherly duties, and he couldn't keep hurting you. he knew he wasn't acting like himself and he saw it most when you gave him that sad smile where your eyes wouldn't crinkle at the edges and your cheeks would barely rise. he knew he had to make a change.

“we'll be waiting for you because we love you,” you whispered in his ear. mikey had his nose buried in the side of your cheek, withholding the tears he so badly wanted to release. mikey was holding the railing to the steps of the church so tightly. his other hand was resting on gabriel's back. he was scared to let go. he knew he had to confront what had been haunting him. it wasn't just a back injury anymore it transpired well past that. it was beyond physical pain. it was an addiction. a festering, evil addiction that constantly gnawed at his entire body.

“i love you too,” he cleared his throat harshly, knowing if he said anything else he would break down. he wanted to do better. he wanted to be better. he needed to do better for the sake of keeping everything he loved.

[reimeichan]

I know that when people say that DID has no cure, that those of us with DID will always have a DID brain and may even split again in the future, they're trying to be realistic about recovery goals and maybe even acknowledge that those of us who have reached Final Fusion or Functional Multiplicity are still part of the DID community. However, I've recently been finding those kinds of statements to sound.... defeatist, actually. There's oftentimes an underlying feeling of "what's the point of trying so hard if I'm just going to have DID forever?" or "no matter what I do there will always be the possibility for me to relapse", and as such I've started to see these phrases as being almost anti-recovery.

I agree, there is no cure for DID that we know of. We cannot change the fundamental way our brain works. However, that's not the same as saying there's no way to get better with DID, or saying there's no treatment for DID, or there's no way to live a happy, fulfilling life with DID. It takes a lot of work, yes, but it's absolutely possible to learn how to live with both dissociation and trauma to the point they have very little if any negative impact on your life. That's what expanding your coping toolbox is for. And learning emotional regulation. And trauma processing. I may never live the same life as someone who never developed DID or has the same traumas as me, but that doesn't mean I'll be unhappy and miserable and fighting against my own brain every day of my life. Instead, I've learned to work with my brain and with my disorders, and in the process I've learned how to not just survive day to day but thrive. I'm excited to see what tomorrow brings me. I'm hopeful.

And I think that's really what my feelings on those phrases boils down to. They feel like they lack hope and end up making me feel like working on recovery isn't worth it. But I know that's wrong, for myself at least. It's definitely worth it to keep walking forward one step at a time. Where I am now and where I was before are two very different places, even if some days it's hard for me to see those differences and acknowledge that. And there's so much more for me to look forward to as well.

So, here's to healing and recovery and thriving with DID.

[covid-safer-hotties]

Reference archived on our website

Highlights • Long-COVID is heterogeneous in its symptoms, severity, and illness duration. • There was no association between long-COVID and cognitive performance. • Cognitive symptoms may represent functional cognitive disorders. • Long-COVID had lower mean diffusivity on diffusion imaging than normal recovery. • Diffusion imaging differences may suggest gliosis as a mechanism of long-COVID.

To be clear: There was no cognitive difference between people post infection. I can see some people misunderstanding what this says. It says there is some form of brain damage from covid across the board, even if you don't have long covid symptoms or diagnosis.

Abstract

Background

The pathophysiology of protracted symptoms after COVID-19 is unclear. This study aimed to determine if long-COVID is associated with differences in baseline characteristics, markers of white matter diffusivity in the brain, and lower scores on objective cognitive testing.

Methods

Individuals who experienced COVID-19 symptoms for more than 60 days post-infection (long-COVID) (n = 56) were compared to individuals who recovered from COVID-19 within 60 days of infection (normal recovery) (n = 35). Information regarding physical and mental health, and COVID-19 illness was collected. The National Institute of Health Toolbox Cognition Battery was administered. Participants underwent magnetic resonance imaging (MRI) with diffusion tensor imaging (DTI). Tract-based spatial statistics were used to perform a whole-brain voxel-wise analysis on standard DTI metrics (fractional anisotropy, axial diffusivity, mean diffusivity, radial diffusivity), controlling for age and sex. NIH Toolbox Age-Adjusted Fluid Cognition Scores were used to compare long-COVID and normal recovery groups, covarying for Age-Adjusted Crystallized Cognition Scores and years of education. False discovery rate correction was applied for multiple comparisons.

Results

There were no significant differences in age, sex, or history of neurovascular risk factors between the groups. The long-COVID group had significantly (p < 0.05) lower mean diffusivity than the normal recovery group across multiple white matter regions, including the internal capsule, anterior and superior corona radiata, corpus callosum, superior fronto-occiptal fasciculus, and posterior thalamic radiation. However, the effect sizes of these differences were small (all <|0.3|) and no significant differences were found for the other DTI metrics. Fluid cognition composite scores did not differ significantly between the long-COVID and normal recovery groups (p > 0.05).

Conclusions

Differences in diffusivity between long-COVID and normal recovery groups were found on only one DTI metric. This could represent subtle areas of pathology such as gliosis or edema, but the small effect sizes and non-specific nature of the diffusion indices make pathological inference difficult. Although long-COVID patients reported many neuropsychiatric symptoms, significant differences in objective cognitive performance were not found.

[gotham-ruaidh]

Little Bit Better Than I Used To Be

Catch up: Chapter 1 (Starry Eyes) || Chapter 2 (Save Our Souls) || Chapter 3 (Dancing On Glass)|| Chapter 4 (Merry-Go-Round)|| Backstage (1) || Backstage (2) || Chapter 5 (Danger)|| Backstage (3) || Chapter 6A (Love Walked In) || Chapter 6B (Without You) || Backstage (4) || Chapter 7 (Stick To Your Guns) || Chapter 8 (Time For Change) || Backstage (5) || Chapter 9 (Take Me To The Top) || Backstage (6) || Chapter 10 (Home Sweet Home) || Backstage (7) || Chapter 11a (Nightrain) || Chapter 11b (Nothing Else Matters) || Chapter 12a (Handle With Care) || Chapter 12b (I’m So Tired of Being Lonely) || Chapter 13a (Angel) || Chapter 13b (She’s My Addiction) || Chapter 13c (Patience) Chapter 14a (Where Do We Go Now?) || Chapter 14b (Where Do We Go Now?) || Chapter 14c (Where Do We Go Now?) || Chapter 15a (Dreams) || Chapter 15b: I Sing A Song of Love ||| Also posted at AO3

Chapter 15C: You Can Do This If You Try

Wilmington, North Carolina

Labor Day Weekend, 1988

Oh, take your time, don't live too fast Troubles will come and they will pass You'll find a woman, and you'll find love And don't forget, son, there is someone up above…

 - “Simple Man”, Lynyrd Skynyrd (1973) [click here to listen]

“I really appreciate you helping me with this.”

Jamie shrugged, and took a long drink from the thermos of Gillian’s sweet tea. “It’s the least I can do. You gave me and Claire a place to stay this weekend. Away from everything. That’s a true gift.”

Dougal set his toolbox on a stump. “Thought you could use a bit of peace and quiet, here in the back country.”

Jamie nodded, and pulled his t-shirt over his head. “I think I’d forgotten what trees look like. Or the inside of a building that wasn’t an arena or a hotel.” He draped the t-shirt over the unbroken part of the fence, and bent to pick up one of the boards he’d hauled across the field in Dougal’s battered wheelbarrow. “The last time we were at a house was for our wedding – and it was Joe’s house, and we didn’t even stay there overnight.”

“I’m sure you’re staying in top of the line hotels, in their biggest suites. My guest room must be too normal for you and your bride.”

Jamie smiled, just a bit sadly. “I don’t know what normal is anymore, Dougal.”

Dougal fished in his pocket for a nail. “I won’t even pretend to understand what your life is like right now.” Carefully, methodically he hammered the nail, fastening the board to the fence post. “But I have to tell you, I’m so impressed you’re still sober.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

Dougal rolled his eyes. “Oh, I can think of some reasons. Like, every single thing you were addicted to, is front and center of your life on the road. We talked about this a lot last year when you were with us at The Ridge. You’re back on the road – meaning, that all that shit is in front of you all the time again.”

Jamie nodded. “I remember. You said it wasn’t me you were worried about – it was everybody around me. That I was surrounded by people who enabled me.”

“Exactly.”

“Well – things are different now. I fired the bloodsucker that was my manager. I found Colum. I had some very honest conversations with him, and now all of those people and all the shit they used to put in front of me are out of my life. Plus, one very important new person is now in it.”

“And what does she make of everything?”

Jamie held up another board, and Dougal hammered it into place.

Giving him space.

“I thought I was ready to be back on the road,” Jamie added, after a while. “I really did. But I had no idea just how fucking hard it would be.”

He set the board against the fence post. Dougal began hammering another nail.

“And?”

“And…this time, I decided to just be open about it with everyone. It’s definitely gotten easier to talk about it – addiction, and sobriety, and recovery. And people do respect what I ask. They keep the substances and the groupies away from me. Obviously it’s still there – I just can’t see it.” He paused, thinking. “On the one hand I think they understand why I can’t be around that anymore, and they understand how terrible addiction is, and how fucking difficult sobriety is. But on the other hand – let’s be real, they know they have to listen to me and do what I ask. I’m the star of the show. I get what I want.”

Dougal took a nail out of his mouth, and hammered the other side of the board. “You didn’t answer my question.”

Jamie leaned against the fence post. “I think about it all the time. Drinking. Cocaine. Being in my dressing room with three girls at once.”

Dougal stood up straight, stretching. Squinting in the harsh midday sun.

“I don’t want to do any of that shit anymore, of course. But that doesn’t mean I don’t think about it.”

“And what exactly does that have to do with your wife?” Dougal asked patiently.

Jamie’s eyes were inscrutable behind his aviators.

“Because I flash back to the shit I used to do, and then I blink and she’s there with me, in the same rooms where I used to get really fucked up. And she holds my hand, and tells me she loves me, and then I tell her everything.” He jammed his hands into the back pockets of his jeans. “I can be straight with her, and she doesn’t care. She wants to know all of this shit about me, especially the shit I’m really not proud of. Because it helps her understand what I’m working on, and why I don’t want to be that guy anymore.” He cleared his throat. “Why I’m not that guy anymore.”

“What does she say when you bring up all the shit you used to do?”

Jamie pursed his lips. “I know it hurts her. The last thing I ever want to do is hurt her. But I’d hurt her more by not telling her the truth.” He ran his fingers through his hair – almost back to shoulder length. “And every time I tell her something, she tells me something. What it was like to go through high school without parents. Or one time when her miserable excuse for an ex-husband hit her and she fixed her own busted lip in the bathroom. How she’d do surgery while high. How she destroyed pretty much all of her friendships when the pills became the most important thing in her life.”

A blue jay settled on the fence, chirping.

“I didn’t want to tell her all the shit about me, and what I’d do when I was using. The man I was. I don’t want that to…to trigger her or anything, and compromise her sobriety. But because we share it, and we talk about it, it makes us accountable to each other to not fuck it up.”

“So as much as you depend on her for sobriety, she depends on you for hers.”

Jamie nodded. “We’re tied together in so many ways, it’s insane. We are addicts. We were at the top of our professions and we were miserable. We’re terrified that one day we’ll wake up and the other person will be gone. And…” he swallowed. “When we’re together, when we love, it’s…I can’t find the words, Dougal. We waited for intimacy until our wedding night. And I’m so fucking glad we did. Because if I knew what kind of magic we can create, there’s no way I would have ever agreed to go on tour and spend even a few hours every day away from her.”

Dougal leaned against the fence post. “You never think that this could all be too much for her? It’s a tremendous amount of pressure. And both of you being in recovery just complicates things.”

Jamie pursed his lips.

“It’s like I told you last night – she’s my high. Knowing she’s there. Touching her. Sleeping beside her. Loving her…all of that keeps me grounded and focused. I wrote a song about it, and it’s the fucking title track of the new album. She’s my addiction.”

“But is that asking too much of her?” Dougal pointed to the tattoo above Jamie’s heart. “You don’t want to develop too much of a dependency. She’s not a drug. I know that love is intense, Jamie – you know my story with Gillian. But neither of you should completely lose yourself.”

Jamie shifted uncomfortably. “If you’re asking if I have other ways to cope with the stress – I have my guitar, and I have my wife. And I have a few people like you, who I trust. Right now I don’t have much time for anything else.”

Dougal crossed his arms. “You need to make the time. If not for you, for her. Especially if you’ll be touring next year. Going all around the world, far from home – your stress levels will be off the charts.”

Jamie sighed. “They already are. I’ve been having panic attacks.”

Dougal sat next to Jamie on the fence. “Has that happened to you before?”

Jamie shook his head. “Not until this tour. And not every day. We’re in early September, and we’ve been on the road since May…maybe fifteen times since then.”

“Is there one particular thing that triggers it?”

“Not that we can tell. Thank God Claire’s a doctor – she’s helped me figure out when it’s starting, and she helps me get to a quiet place away from everyone.” He swiped his eyes beneath his sunglasses. “I usually end up not being able to breathe, and crying, and freaking the fuck out, and my wife is the only thing that physically holds me together. It’s fucking scary, Dougal, and it’s so not fair to her. It’s yet another thing that stresses her out. She has had so much shit in her life these last few years, I can’t fucking stand that she has to see me like that. Deal with yet another level of my bullshit.”

Dougal turned back towards the house. Watched Claire and Gillian on the porch, shaded from the sunshine, enjoying the rocking chairs. Watched William chase around their dog Bram, knowing it would exhaust them both before lunchtime.

“I’ll be straight with you, Jamie, because it’s what you deserve. Claire told Gillian about the panic attacks, and that you were considering bringing a therapist with you on tour next year.”

Jamie crossed his arms. The flames and flowers of his tattoos flexed.

“Gillian and I – let us help you find someone. Someone you can trust implicitly. With the panic attacks, and with your sobriety, and in managing all of the stress. Someone who can help Claire, too. Because the last thing you want, Jamie, is to be in some random city in some random country and it’s two AM after a show and Claire is somewhere else and some asshole backstage has left a baggie of cocaine on your chair and you have a panic attack. And you’re all alone, or with people who you don’t want to see you like that.”

Jamie scuffed his boots in the grass.

“More importantly, you don’t want Claire to start resenting you, for being the person to hold you together.”

Jamie, surprised, whirled to face Dougal. “I don’t think – ”

Dougal raised a hand. “I’m not saying she ever would. I’ve seen you two together. What you have…it can’t be described. But don’t you agree, that you don’t ever want to do anything to fuck that up?”

Jamie pursed his lips. “I promise her every day that I won’t.”

Dougal stepped closer to Jamie. Grabbed his sweaty shoulder. “Then let me help you. Please.”

Jamie slipped off his sunglasses to meet Dougal’s eye. “OK. Thank you.”

Dougal smiled. “Consider it our wedding present. Now come on – just a few more boards.”

[cavegirlpoems]

Is it VtM you like specifically or do you like other WoD games too? :) I've only played 5E so far (not from lack of looking for groups) and the WoD games appeal to me, especially Mage.

So Vampire: the Masquerade is my first love, but there's a wide variety of other world- or chronicles of darkness game's I've enjoyed, including: -Changeling The Lost, a genuinely beautiful and nuanced game about trauma and recovery. -Wraith The Oblivion, a fucking bleak game about emotionally tormented ghosts that also has cosmic nonsense going on in the background. -Hunter The Vigil, which is a much more grounded game about regular joes interacting with the terrifying supernatural.

On top of this, there are a few different edditions of various games, with different strengths. VtM 5th edition is quite focussed on the ground-level personal horror aspects of the game, while 20th anniversary edition is a much broader toolbox that explores a lot of the more obscure bits of the setting.

I can't speak for other games like Mage, but I know there's a lot of very good play-by-post vampire games on Discord, that are actually pretty easy to find and get involved with. Heck, I think pbp is probably my favourite way to play vampire; before discored I was playing it similarly on irc and mushes and such.

[unwelcome-ozian]

Hello Everyone,

I updated the website with some workbooks. Here's the LINK.

Please continue to let me know how I can support you and what information you would like.

Take care,

Oz

12 Techniques to Help You Move Forward After A Trauma

Body Awareness Workbook For Trauma

Coping with Trauma

DBT Assignment Workbook Dealing with Trauma

Finding Away To Cope With Trauma Foundations Of Trauma Informed Care Workbook

My Story, My Terms

Trauma Recovery Workbook Trauma Treatment Toolbox For Teens

Worksheets for Trauma

[microcosmiclymbic]

"She continued to believe that his inability to express his frustration and grief in a healthy way killed him long before his time."

- Survival is a Promise : Alexis Pauline Gumbs

[latenightcinephile]

Film #920: 'The Unknown', dir. Tod Browning, 1927.

Keeping track of the films on the list is often a complicated task, especially when you're trying to find films years in advance of any opportunities to watch them. The master spreadsheet I keep has about two dozen films that are still marked 'UNKNOWN' in orange, and ironically Tod Browning's The Unknown was among them for over a decade. Fortunately, a restoration was undertaken in 2022, and you can now find the Criterion version easily accessible.

Silent film is a fascinating subject after a century of sound pictures. It operated with a very limited palette of techniques, and as such needed to make the most of what it had available. People often complain that silent films are too 'theatrical', but the lack of synchronised sound meant that a silent film in fact had fewer tools at its disposal than the theatre did. While modern films can use realistic sound (or its lack thereof) to punctuate, draw attention to or minimise particular moments of a film, in silent films these tasks had to be shifted onto an actor's performance or onto the film's musical score. Even the use of a score was not foolproof, as theatre musicians would have to compare the requested music with what they had available. A larger toolbox available in contemporary cinema has evened out the workload, and it's less common to see a modern film rely so heavily on, say, performance. Tod Browning's film, though, is a stellar example of how films from before the advent of talking pictures honed these elements - to the point where you almost forget that you're watching something with no audible dialogue.

The star attraction of a circus in Spain, Alonzo the Armless (Lon Chaney)'s main act is to use his feet to throw knives. He is smitten with his partner in this act, Nanon (Joan Crawford), who is also the daughter of the circus ringmaster, Zanzi. Nanon has a fear of being touched or held by men, which means that she easily finds solace in her friendship with Alonzo, and spurns the advances of the strongman, Malabar (Norman Kerry). Eager to further draw Nanon into his clutches, Alonzo encourages Malabar to display his strength to Nanon more and more. The situation is complicated when it is revealed that Alonzo actually still has his arms - he hides them in a corset to make his act more sensational. Alonzo's friendship with Nanon infuriates Zanzi and, after an altercation, Zanzi discovers that Alonzo still has his arms. Out of rage and fear, Alonzo strangles Zanzi to death. Nanon sees the strangling (and in particular, that the culprit has two thumbs on one hand) - but doesn't recognise Alonzo - and her fear is exacerbated. A cursory police investigation doesn't find the culprit, and when the circus moves on, Alonzo and Nanon stay in town, with Alonzo hoping that he might be able to draw Nanon's affections more.

Before long, Nanon embraces Alonzo - an act that alarms Alonzo's friend and servant, Cojo, who worries that Nanon will see through the deception. Realising that he is so accustomed to hiding his arms that he can get by without them, Alonzo hatches a plan to have both arms amputated, which will conveniently hide any evidence that it was he who killed Zanzi. He blackmails a doctor into performing the surgery, and hides from Nanon for the period of his recovery. During this time, ironically, Nanon overcomes her fear of "men and their hands", and kindles a romance with Malabar. Together, they plan a new theatrical show, built around Malabar's strongman skills.

When Alonzo has recovered, he visits Nanon and Malabar at the theatre (hilariously, Nanon notices that his torso is a lot thinner than it was before). They reveal their engagement to Alonzo, and describe the centrepiece of their new act, in which Malabar uses ropes to tether two horses running on treadmills in opposite directions. Alonzo is driven to hysterics by the news, especially because it was delivered in a way that got his hopes up tremendously, and plans to disrupt the performance so that Malabar is maimed in the process (as Malabar cheerfully admits, if a treadmill stops suddenly, "the horses would tear my arms from my body"). During the show, Alonzo locks away the technician who controls the treadmills, and abruptly slows the treadmills, panicking the horses. Nanon tries to calm the horses down to prevent them killing Malabar; Alonzo then pushes her to safety before he is fatally trampled by one of the horses. With Alonzo out of the picture, Malabar and Nanon can finally spend their lives together in security.

This is a relatively brisk summary of the plot, but it's put in greater context when you realise that the film is only about fifty minutes long. There's a small pile of things in the plot that make no sense - why does Alonzo, who is certain Nanon would come to forgive him for having arms, elect to have them both amputated, and not just remove his extra thumb? Why doesn't Alonzo come up with any explanation for his absence while recovering? - but the film moves along at such a breakneck pace that there's no time to properly question any of them before the next complication arises. Characters are also very fond in this film of saying the most on-the-nose things imaginable, partly as a way of dispensing with any long and realistic exposition. It doesn't take Alonzo long to realise his plan at the end of the film, mostly because Malabar outright says the plan aloud for him. Nanon unintentionally rubs salt into Alonzo's (literal) wounds when she says "I used to be afraid of Malabar's hands, but I love them now."

This excessiveness is one of my favourite elements of The Unknown. It operates in both directions - the excess of comedy becoming farce, and the excess of violence. When the performance with the horses at the end of the film goes awry, Browning cuts rapidly and close, drawing attention to the strain on Malabar's shoulders through close-up shots (and the version of the soundtrack used in the Criterion release piles on the kettledrums at this moment to underscore the tension. It feels like we're moments away from witnessing some terrific gore effects, even though those would be decades away when the film was produced. There are moments, though, where the emotional effect is deflated through farce. The moment Zanzi discovers that Alonzo still has his arms, Alonzo deals with this by... immediately hiding his arms behind his back. These moments sell the horror even more by contrasting them against the absurd.

Lon Chaney's acting is the heart of this film. It's the thing that lets us look past the absurdities of the plot, and buy into the emotional veracity of the film. Although many of the scenes of more fine motion were done with a stunt double, Chaney learned to manipulate things with his feet for wider shots, and it's deeply believable. Audiences at the time would have known that Chaney was not a double-amputee, but the opening scenes of the film sell this so well that the audience I was with murmured in shock when his arms were revealed. Chaney throws the whole of himself into the more emotional scenes, too, so that the intertitles are often superfluous to understanding the direction of a conversation. The performance has to carry a lot of weight throughout the film, too: Alonzo is a murderer and a con artist, driven to extremes by unrequited love, who then descends into hysterics when it is revealed that his extreme measures were unnecessary. In two minutes, he needs to go from hope that Nanon might intend to marry him, to shock that she has fallen for Malabar, to frenzied laughter when he realises he has had his arms chopped off for nothing. Are the emotions overplayed? Sure. But they're in proportion to the scope of the film, and Chaney has an ability to move between these emotions lightning-quick without being abrupt.

Browning does something really interesting with this film, though: he uses the cinematic tools to play into his themes. The best example of this is in the scene where Alonzo realises his plan to have his arms removed. Lost in thought over the idea that Nanon might reject him when she discovers he murdered her father, he absent-mindedly lights a cigarette with his feet. Cojo laughs at him, commenting that he's forgotten he has arms. Alonzo recoils at this, but in Chaney's performance, you can see the plan form (a slight widening of the eyes, a twitch at the mouth). A shift happens here: we move from a dialogue-heavy sequence to one where there are no intertitles at all. Alonzo continues to speak, giddy with realisation, but what he is saying is too horrifying for the intertitles. Cojo's expression turns to shock, and we do get an intertitle when he says "No, no, Alonzo! Not that! Never do that!", but the act itself cannot be spoken, or even written. In the very next scene, Alonzo and Cojo visit the surgeon, and once again there are no intertitles to describe the actual plan - the closest we get is a single ambiguous gesture Chaney makes at his left shoulder. You can sort of make out the words in the movement of his lips, but the audience never receives the confirmation of what has happened.

I find this fascinating. Usually, silent films don't have the luxury of holding anything back - they have to be repetitive and clear to the point of redundancy. Here, Browning has taken something shocking but admittedly rather mundane, and turned it into a taboo strong enough to abolish one of the tools normally at his disposal. The performances in these scenes, from Chaney, John George as Cojo and John St. Polis as the surgeon, are all so strong that it's easy to misremember the film as more explicit than it actually is. As a result, the film is far more subtle than a lot of Tod Browning's other collaborations with Chaney (ten in total), and probably the most restrained of all of Browning's horrors.

The Unknown is a genuine work of art, a film that moves from merely using its elements to portray a story to using its elements to enhance the story. I don't think it's quite like anything else from the silent era. Is it stagey and melodramatic? Yes, but those aren't bad things, and I'd argue they're necessary to make the film's more subtle elements work. This is a film that's well worth seeing; a little Halloween treat that I'm really glad has been rediscovered.

[rawliverandgoronspice]

My time to invade 👏 2. Anything that you'd like to write but feel like you're unable to?

10. Top three favourite fic tropes. 28. Any writing advice that works for you and you feel like sharing? 40. Write a 9-word fic. (Because SOMEONE inflicted this on me so I must inflict it on someone else)

Invade away!! (even though that LAST ONE!!!!)

2. Anything that you'd like to write but feel like you're unable to?

So I mentioned romance/smut, and it's not like I absolutely want to write that well (it's fine to have an uneven writing skillset I think) as much as I feel like that's a missing tool in my trusted toolbox of putting characters in Situations and examine their reaction. And as much as I know myself capable of writing characters isolating themselves and breaking down over time, and the occasional bonding moments and even potential recovery and rekindling of trust and genuine connexion that may ensue (I am an angst writing through and through u_u), I have a hard time letting characters being plainly happy and enjoying themselves and being vulnerable without being punished for it in some way. And it's a shame, because I love when authors manage to pull you alongside a genuinely good time and making you feel like you're building precious memories that will stay with you forever alongside the characters living through them. I'd like to be able to do more of that, and with less effort! Or just, plain unpunished vulnerability. I think that would be nice!

10. Top three favourite fic tropes.

Hmmm in general I'm open to everything as long as it's good, but I guess if I had to pick...

I'd say Hurt/Comfort, I had pretty transcendant experiences reading really good Hurt/Comfort fics that kickstarted a lot of wonderful things in my real actual life, so.

Found Family Tropes (or just platonic/friendship bonds being explored in general, when it's well written it can be so incredibly excellent)

Experimental Bullshit. Aka plays with the formatting, temporality, point of view, crossmedia stuff... If you take fanfic as a genre/format and make it an active part of the text, I am kissing you on the top of your head.

28. Any writing advice that works for you and you feel like sharing?

I think my core advice is pretty generic and maybe stupid, but embracing it helped me a lot so here it goes: there's no good or incorrect way to write. As long as it makes sense to your specific brain, it couldn't matter less whether it happens prettily or not. I tend to write completely out of order, sometimes across an entire project and sometimes in the same scene. I tend to write all of my dialogue at once, then put "//" and highlight it in yellow where I need to come back and add more text. It looks like hell. But I don't care: my brain feels constricted by linearity, so it makes sense, and so I let it happen and I actually write things instead of letting weird expectations about how one "should" write slow me down unnecesserily. It's been particularly helpful in cases where I actually *have* to write and can't afford a writer's block because of a deadline, etc. It's important to try stuff out and accept "bad" habits if they are actually just your own natural rythm.

40. Write a 9-word fic.

(argggh)

(okay so all of my attempts ended up at 12 words for SOME REASON so here's to the best I could do.)

Tetra promised the shore this time would be different.

(and another attempt (MidZel-adjacent!!! I tried!!!!), where I pulled an insane cheat but it wouldn't have fit otherwise I'm sorry ;;)

Lips dusted with mirror-shards, Zelda murmured: I know why.

[mistertiberius]

oof that whole water situation sounds awful (especially with these temperatures)

hope your dad is doing alright, he got injured if I remember correctly?

and just overall wishing you the best <3

My dad is doing better, though his recovery (he had fractured two ribs and bruised the rest) was set back two weeks because his brother is an asshole and threw a toolbox at his chest because they were arguing. But he's doing alright other than that particular hiccup and, last I heard (which was yesterday) my dad had a job interview.

[reimeichan]

ooo purposeful splitting? is that a temporary thing while you continue to recover or a part of your overall recovery goal?

tbh kinda playing it by ear? We're unsure if temporarily splitting is actually healing for us or if it's a maladaptive form of coping that we will work on eliminating, but I think truth of the matter is sometimes we may regress to old coping behaviors and beating myself up over it versus just accepting it's a thing and being intentional when I notice it happening is probably more helpful in the long run.

Like, somedays I'm so stressed out that I use video games to relax. Video games themselves aren't inherently bad, but over-reliance on them as a coping mechanism to the point I neglect my responsibilities and my relationships is bad (which is something that has happened for me in the past). Similarly, temporarily splitting when I'm stressed or overwhelmed every once in a while will probably help me in the short run but I do need to be mindful about not overly-relying on splitting and dissociation all the time. I hope to include more and more coping mechanisms in my toolbox as I continue to heal and recover so that I can rely less on dissociation but I also acknowledge that sometimes it may just be the best tool to use in that situation for whatever reason.

So with all this in mind, it's not really a temporary thing nor is it a goal. It's just... a thing that's going to happen. I hope that made sense, anon.

[warningsine]

A rare butterfly is being reintroduced into the Welsh countryside decades after it disappeared, thanks to a team of conservationists.

Hundreds of marsh fritillary butterflies, with their unmistakeable cream and orange wings, can now be spotted on Llantrisant Common in Rhondda Cynon Taf.

The man behind this resurgence is Rob Parry, the founder of Initiative for Nature Conservation Cymru.

His team took caterpillars from the wild, reared them and released them back into the area - a controversial approach but one he feels is increasingly necessary.

"Many of our species are on the brink, right on the edge, and we can't afford to monitor them disappearing," he told BBC Wales Live.

"Once we do that - getting them back is so much harder. That's why these projects - where we are intervening before they become extinct - is really important."

According to the latest State of Nature Report almost one in five species in Wales were classed as being at risk of vanishing in years to come.

But why butterflies and why this particular one?

According to Butterfly Conservation UK, butterflies are recognised as indicators of biodiversity and their survival can provide a serious warning about our environment.

"Marsh fritillaries are incredibly rare and we are losing populations in Wales as well as throughout the UK and Europe," Rob said.

"Wales is still a bit of a stronghold for the butterfly, so it felt right. The marsh fritillary is a bit of an icon here."

The project has seen butterflies mating and laying eggs on the common.

Vaughn Matthews, who has helped rear and release caterpillars, said it was "an incredible experience" after "20-odd years of there being no marsh fritillaries on there".

But reintroduction is not without its critics.

Last year, the UK government’s Department for Environment, Food and Rural Affairs said this was not a priority and it aimed to reach biodiversity targets through methods such as habitat restoration.

Natural Resources Wales rejected Rob's original project proposal in 2016, which he felt was "a sign of where nature conservation is or was at".

"A lot of it has been protecting what we’ve already got, monitoring and doing science, research and so on," he added.

This changed when he resubmitted plans in 2019.

Liz Halliwell from NRW said she understood the role reintroduction could play, but it had to be considered against other options.

"This is one tool in a toolbox of things that we need for species recovery," she said.

"We need to look first at the causes of the things that have made that species decline or go extinct.

"It's that balancing act of saying 'it’s important, let's do it properly'."

She also points to some of the risks of reintroduction, saying "it is not enough to just get some animals and chuck them out" as there could be risks to native wildlife through competition and disease.

"Habitat restoration would be needed in advance to make sure you're not releasing animals that are then lost as well," she added.

The Initiative for Nature Conservation Cymru always intended that the caterpillars' environment would be at the heart of their plans.

"Although the focus is the butterfly, fundamentally, it’s about getting more habitat in the landscape," said Rob.

The butterflies thrive on Rhôs Pasture, a distinctive marshy grassland, that is home to a number of different wetland species.

Food production and a movement from cattle grazing to sheep in Wales has led to a lot of this land being drained.

Rob and his team have been working with landowners and communities to help bring the landscape back to life and give their butterflies the best chance of survival.

In response to wider reservations around reintroduction, he said: I would love to see a Wales where we didn't have to intervene, but that ship sailed decades ago."

A period of monitoring is the next phase for the project and a team will monitor them over several years with the hope they are able to build the population and thrive.

They then look at other species that might need a helping hand.

[etherealhole]

hhhhhhhhh omg

helping them fix this recovery thing is HARDDDD

hmm

🔥✨️BH, YOU CAN TOUCH THINGS SAFELY FOR THE REST OF THE DAY!✨️🔥

i need a screwdriver, and a hot glue gun chop chop im trying to save your 'best friend'

THANKYOU!!!!! And here's the stuff!

-proceeds to pull out a handy Manny branded toolbox and hands you the required items-