#so two weeks ago i found my dog paralyzed in the yard

[emelkae]

Happy venting in the tags! Basically my dog wasn't doing well but he's improving fast, and I have nowhere else to talk about it.

[forever-rogue]

The Edge of Thirty - Part 10

Summary: Everyone seems to be getting married, having babies, or “growing up.” Except Y/N. Suddenly at almost thirty, reality seems to be crashing down on her – and hard. Nothing seemed as daunting as turning thirty…until she met Gwilym Lee anyway.  

A/N: Hiya! Thanks for reading and supporting this story. I hope you enjoy! Taglists are open! xx

Pairing: Gwilym Lee x Reader

Word Count: 4.6k

Warnings: mentions of death; pregnancy

MASTERLIST

"What?" Gwil dropped Jenny's hand as jaw fell open at her revelation. He heard the words, repeated them silently to himself, but still couldn't manage to wrap his head around them. I'm pregnant, I'm pregnant, I'm pregnant.

"I...I'm pregnant, Gwil," she repeated slowly, feeling her eyes well up with tears. She wasn't sure what response she expected from him, but for some reason his lack of excitement, or lack of any real response, was a little heartbreaking. Wishing she could go over there and shake him, to get him to say anything, her gaze was trained on him in nervous anticipation.

"Uncle Gwil," Jenny's small face had a frown on it as she tugged on Gwil's pant leg. She looked back and forth anxiously between Y/N and Gwil, trying to understand what was going on, "what's happening? I want to go and eat ice cream!"

"It's okay, sweetheart," Gwil took his niece's hand back in his own before bending over and picking her up, holding onto her tightly. She wrapped her small arms around his neck and burrowed her little face into his shoulder, the long day having worn her down. Still unsure of how to feel or what to say he turned back to Y/N, "I'm going to take her home."

"Okay," she said, unsure of what to make of his response. Was that it? Was there more to come? Just an excuse for a quick getaway. But she didn’t want to push him, deciding their interaction was rocky enough as it is.

"She's tired and I doubt she understand anything of what's going on," he could start to feel himself rambling, his nerves starting to get the better of him. The despondent look on Y/N's face broke his heart all over again, "I'll be back. I, ugh, I didn't expect any of this-"

"And you think I did?" she snapped at him, looking away and biting her lip to keep the sobs she felt welling up at bay. She could feel his eyes flick to her stomach, as if he was searching for any sign that she was lying or pulling some sort of joke.

"I didn't mean it like that," he sighed quietly, "let me take her home and I'll come over to yours...unless you want to come round to mine?"

"Just...come over when you're ready to talk," she waved her hand at him as if to dismiss him. She wasn't ready for a complete breakdown in the middle of the school yard. Once he caught her eye, he nodded before turning on his heel, still carrying Jenny who was fast asleep in his arms, "Gwil!"

He turned around wordlessly, one eyebrow raised in curiosity, and she meekly responded, "I'm sorry."

What exactly was she sorry for? She didn’t know either - sorry for ever meeting him? Sorry for how things ended? Sorry for getting pregnant? All of it?

“Me too,” was all he said before turning around and walking away without another word. Her heart shattered into what felt like a thousand little pieces as she walked him walk away. He didn’t want this; he didn’t love her. Any affection that he had for her was gone, and there was little doubt in her mind that was furious.

The small shovel she had been holding in her hand fell to the ground with a dull thud as tears started to trickle down her face, and a sob racked through her body. Everything was falling apart once again - it had seemed like things were finally starting to look up, finally after such a long time. But it was all taken away from her once again. Life had a cruel way of denying her happiness and she was starting to consider that maybe true happiness not her destiny.

Deacon rested his head on her leg, nudging her hand with his nose every once in a while as if to remind her that he was there. Sighing lightly, she put her hand on his little snout, and gave him a few pets. Once she’d gotten home, she’d found herself unable to do much of anything besides sitting on the couch and mindlessly starting at the television.

The sun had started to set, the last bits of daylights filtering into the apartment, giving it a soft glow. Normally she loved this time of the day, the way it lit everything up, but today the glow was eerie and the mood was tense.

She’d fetched one of the many pregnancy tests she’d taken to give to Gwil, just to confirm that she hadn’t just made the whole thing up. But she still hadn’t heard from him. Her phone had remained silent, besides a few texts exchanged between her and Ben. She’d awaited a call from Gwil, a text at least, letting her know he was ready to talk, or was on his way over. But there was nothing but radio silence. She didn’t know if she’d ever felt more alone, even though two little lives co-existed along with her, one with four little paws and one growing inside of her.

“I suppose we might as well go to bed,” she suggested and the small dog’s ears perked up at the idea of getting to snuggle up under the warm blankets. She leaned down and gave him a kiss, before lifting him off the couch and setting him on the floor. He immediately ran towards the bedroom, causing a small smile to appear on her face at the pitter-patter of his paws; at least there was someone who loved her unconditionally.

Toddling into the kitchen to grab herself a bottle of water to take to bed, she opened the fridge and retrieved a cool glass bottle, almost jumping out of her skin at the soft knocking on the door. It was so faint, it was almost like the person on the other end didn’t want her to actually answer. Figuring it was Ben, thinking he’d want to check in on her, she sighed as she went over to the door and pulled it open, “I’m alright, Ben, you didn’t have to waste your time by coming over.”

But it wasn’t Ben at the door; it was a very worn out, red eyed, scruffy looking Gwil. Her mouth dropped at the sight, and she opened the door wider, silently inviting him in. He paused for a few moments before shakily whispering, “I’m sorry.”

She gave him a small nod before beckoning for him to come in, both of them moving in awkward silence as she shut the door with a light click. She leaned against it for a moment, and they stared at each other, chests rising and falling rapidly with a mixture of nerves and anticipation.

“Here,” she whispered, grabbing the plastic stick from her back pocket and handing it over to him. He seemed confused at first, but quickly took it from her, studying it intently, although there wasn’t much to take in. It was short, sweet, and to the point, spelling out the almost cursed word, “I just didn’t want you to think I was lying to you. I’‘m a lot of things, but not a liar when it comes to stuff like this.”

“I-I didn’t think that,” he said quietly, running a thumb over the small display, “it’s just... I don’t even know what to think. I meant, just a few weeks ago we were joking about this, and now it’s come true.”

“It’s not exactly a blissful walk in the park for me either,” she let out a long sigh before before sitting down on the far end of the couch, fiddling nervously with her hands, “but it’s my reality now-”

“Our reality,” he interrupted her as he sat opposite her, keeping a small distance between then. He played with the test for a few moments, trying to think of what to say, but lost for words. He never thought he’d be in this situation, and now that it was here it caused him to be paralyzed in fear.

“Listen, Gwil,” she turned slightly to face, her stomach fluttering nervously, like there were thousands of butterflies in there, “I know you probably don’t want to hear this, but I’m going to say it. It’s all the things I said should have said to you when I had the chance. I realize it’s too late, and that you don’t love me anymore, but I think you deserve to hear it.”

“Y/N-”

“No,” she shushed him, getting up and heading into her bedroom. He was confused as to why she suddenly left, but decided to wait and see what she had in store for him, “it’s my turn to talk, and I’m afraid you’re going to be stuck listening to me. If you don’t want to listen...I suppose you could leave.“

“No. I want to hear everything. Wait, what...are you doing?” he asked softly as she came out of the bedroom, clutching an ornately gilded picture frame to her chest. She let out a heavy breath before handing it over it him. Gwil took the frame from her gingerly, trying to figure out what it was. It didn’t take him long to connect the dots as his eyebrows raised in confusion, an unreadable expression crossing his face - quickly followed by a look of sadness.

“This is James. James Von Renner, the man who I was supposed to marry,” she said quietly, “this picture was taken for our engagement shoot. It was a little bit before he died. Two months and twelve days to be exact.”

“You don’t have to do this,” Gwil said as he studied the picture, marveling at how happy the two of them looked. His own heart started to feel heavy, a hurt creeping into it as he looked between the girl in the picture and the same, yet very different, girl standing in front of him.

Y/N’s face has a grin that stretched from ear to ear as she beamed at her then fiance. She looked so happy, worry free, careless. He didn’t think he’d even once seen her look like that. The man in the picture was handsome, that was for sure, tall and handsome, with a smile that could charm the pants off of anyone, and he looked back at Y/N with just as much adoration. It was a beautiful display of two people that were clearly in love.

But he was gone now, only memories and photographs left to mark his place in the world. A tragic reminder of just how short life could be.

“I want to tell you,” she said as she got sat next to him, “you deserved to know from day one, from the day you asked me about my past relationships. You told me your story, and I should have just told you mine, then and there. Besides, it’s not something I’m ashamed of, or try to intentionally hide from people. It’s just hard, so, so hard. I’ve never forgiven myself for his death, Gwil, he’s gone because of me.”

“Love,” the word was out of his mouth before he could even stop himself, “I don’t see how that could be even remotely true-”

“Please Gwil, just let me get this off of my chest, it’s been there for a long time,” she put up her hand in order to stop him, knowing that if she didn’t continue now, she might never get the nerve to be able to do it. He gave her a small nod of understanding, sitting back against the couch and listening intently.

Letting out a long breath, she continued, “I met James during one of our first days at Uni. I was late to our first class together, an English Literature class if you can believe, and the only open spot was next to him. So. naturally, I took it, and we became almost immediate friends, laughing over everything. It didn’t take long before we started dating – he loved my friends and I loved his. Everything just seemed to fall into place, like it was always meant to be. It was like it was thoughtless, effortless in a way, I never had any doubts that I loved him or that he loved me.”

Closing her eyes to bite back her tears, she gave herself a moment to collect her train of thought. He hadn’t been on her mind nearly as much since Gwil had entered her life but rehashing everything felt like it was reopening all those old wounds that she were healed. In a way, she supposed, the pain would never fully go away, just get duller and duller over time.

“We stayed together throughout Uni, and shortly after we graduated, he asked me to marry him,” she could remember that day so clearly in her mind, like it could have been the day before rather than years ago, “and it was the most surprising question of my life. I’d never really thought I wanted to get married, it just seemed so odd, so foreign. But there was no hesitation In saying yes. I found myself done with school and getting ready to be married. He wanted to be a doctor you know; he was about halfway through his first year of medical school when he died.”

Y/N found herself unable to continue on, a wave of guilt and nausea washing over her, the same pain as it always was. She buried her face in her hands, trying to calm down, and keep herself from turning into a sobbing mess. Gwil watched her, unsure of how to respond; should he wrap his arms around her and let her cry into his chest, or let her get it out on her own?

He knew which option he wanted, but he didn’t want to upset her anymore. Instead, he gently reached out and put his hand on her thigh, using his thumb to rub gentle, soothing circles onto her skin. That’s when it hit him – she was carrying his child. This was the woman who was going to be the mother of his child, and that in itself was terrifying. The whole notion of being responsible for another life was a new whole spectrum of worry and fear.

After a few long moments of silence, she wiped her eyes with the back of her sweater, and put her hand on top of his, giving it a gentle squeeze.

“The night he died was a night he was coming to take me home from a club. It was a normal Saturday night and I had decided to go out with my friends and drink. I was so wasted; I couldn’t even see straight and I wanted nothing more than to go home. Instead of flagging down a taxi or whatever, I called James instead. He was coming down the street, and that’s when a drunk driver hit him head on. The only thing I remember is hearing this loud, horrible crash, and then people just screaming and shouting,” it had been such an awful sound, it was permanently ingrained in her mind. She prayed that she’d never have to hear it again, “people were just running about and getting shoved this way and that, and I remember getting knocked down, but then I saw the cars. I recognized James’ right away, and that’s when it hit me. Something bad had happened.”

“Y/N,” this time Gwil didn’t hesitate as he pulled her across the couch and held her in his arms, allowing her sob into his shoulder, almost immediately soaking through the material of his thin sweater.

She wrapped her arms around him, all the memories of how he felt against her body flooding back to her and make her cry even harder. Y/N hadn’t realized just how much she had missed, him even more than she originally thought, and she wished she hadn’t messed everything up with him. She wished she’d just been open with him, that’d she given him as much of her as he had of him.

“None of that was your fault,” he whispered quietly, rubbing her back up and down in soothing motions, “no one could have known what was going to happen. There was no way you had any reason to suspect anything would happen, people can’t just predict these kinds of things.”

“I could have stayed home that night…I should have. But no, I just had to go out and party,” she insisted, squeezing her eyes shut as her body started to tremble slightly, “it’s my fault…it’s all my fault.”

“Y/N,” he repeated firmly, pulling back from her and putting his hands gently on her shoulders, trying to get him to look at her, “please, please don’t blame yourself for this. It wasn’t your fault. No one knew, and if it wasn’t him, it would have been someone else. This has nothing to do with you.”

“I just keep playing all these different scenarios in my head…what if I hadn’t drank as much, what if I’d left earlier, what if I’d just called a bloody taxi,” she let out a long sniffle, before finally flicking her eyes to meet his. His pale blue orbs were soft as he gently touched her cheek, wiping away some of the salty, warm tears, “there’s so many what-ifs and they’re always on a loop in my head. I feel like I’m the reason that someone’s child was taken, someone’s brother, someone’s friend…everything. No matter how hard I try the feeling doesn’t go away.”

“I’m not going to pretend that I understand your pain, or know how you’re feeling, because I don’t. I know it must be an intense sadness, and pain, and it is okay to feel those things. But to live with guilt and beat yourself up over it all the time is not,” his voice was soft and gentle, as he tried to get his point across. He wished he could take some of her pain away, but unfortunately there was no way to do so, all he could do was listen and support her; and he was willing to do just that, “no one blames you. No one can blame you. The only people to blame are the ones who decided to drink and get behind the wheel. I know it may not seem like it, but that’s the truth of the matter.”

“I just wish it would stop hurting,” she whispered quietly, her throat dry and sore from all the talking and crying, “it’s been almost six years, and it still feels like it was just yesterday. It’s gotten easier over time, sure, but it’s still there. And until recently, I had felt better than I had in a long, long time. It wasn’t always at the forefront of my mind.”

“Oh?’ he asked, giving her a slightly curious glance, “what’s changed? What’s made it better, if you don’t mind my asking.”

“You,” she confessed, fearing what his response would be. Everything was such a mess, and she didn’t know if he’d be glad, or annoyed. But she was done lying to him, whatever nature their relationship took on, she wanted to be completely open and transparent with him, “it’s been you. You’re the best thing that’s happened to me in so long. But I went and threw everything away.”

“I…” he paused and tried to search for the right words, feeling like he was grasping at straws. There were so many things he wanted to say as well, but he wasn’t sure if she would even want to hear what he had to say. Gwil had regretted his actions as soon as he left the wedding reception.

Something had just blown up inside him, and he hadn’t angry so much as upset. At that point he just couldn’t understand why she wasn’t willing to open up to him; he tried his best to show her that it was okay, that judging her was never his intention. And then to find out about a former fiancé, without knowing the whole story, had been the tipping point.

“Words cannot begin to describe how sorry I am,” he finally found the right words and said them in a rush, causing Y/N to spend a moment processing what was going. She stared blankly at him for a few moments before nodding slowly, “I was completely out of line, and overacted to everything. I shouldn’t have reacted the way I did, I’m so sorry, my love, for just walking away like that.”

“You’re sorry?” she asked quietly, trying to contain her sniffles as he nodded at her, a sad little ghost of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, “I spent the last two weeks crying myself to sleep every night over you, Gwil. I reached out to you and you didn’t respond. If you were so sorry, why didn’t you at least text me back?”

“I just…was mad at myself and I didn’t know if you’d even want me back,” he hung his head, annoyed at himself for not just giving in and admitting he too had made a mistake, “I’ve made a lot of mistakes recently, I know. I can’t do anything about them now, except to ask for your forgiveness and try to rectify things. Everything’s so much easier when it’s just said out loud...but I’m willing to try.”

“I wish you would have called,” she said quietly, wanting to be more angry and annoyed with him, but she didn’t have it in her bones anymore. She was tired of all the fighting, the arguing, the constant pushing away of people, “it would have made things so easier.”

“I know,” he agreed, hanging his head sadly, “I suppose I’m just an old fool who is not better than anyone else at all of this.”

“Just a foolish old man,” she agreed, finding a small giggle escaping her lips, “I suppose we’re both fucked up in our own ways. Mostly me, but ya know, we can work on things.”

“We?” he asked tentatively, a nervous beat pattern to his heart as he tried to rapidly analyze what her words meant. We. He really, really, liked the sound of that. Just like Y/N had, he’d also spent the last several weeks in absolute misery, only leaving the house to teach, or send obligatory time with his family. 

No one questioned him, but they all knew something was wrong. He was a far cry from himself, looking more unkempt, tired, and scruffy than he ever had. All because he thought he had lost Y/N forever.

“I...this is probably a big assumption on my part, but I’m willing to give things another try if you are. I-I don’t know what it is,” she trailed off, but quickly stopped herself - she knew exactly what it was. She’d experienced it once before in her life - love. She looked at him nervously, “no, I do. I am in love with you, truly. And I’m willing to try and make this work, if you are. Full transparency, full honesty, no matter how scared I am. So...I guess it’s up to you, if you’re willing to try.”

“Yes,” he said without thought. It was the only thing he really wanted, the only thing he was sure about, “I want you, Y/N, you and only you.”

She was about to say something else, but he cut her off by placing his large, soft hands on either side of her face, running a finger gently along her cheekbone. A pale pink blush crept into her cheeks under his oceanic gaze as he brought his face closer to hers, their lips mere centimeters apart. The smell of his cologne and sweet peppermint breath invaded her sense and a small sigh escaped her lips.

He closed the distance between their lips, pressing his softly against hers, the taste of her fruity chapstick flavoring their kiss ever so slightly. She put her hands on top of his, leaning into him and as they kissed for a small eternity. They had a lot of lost time to make up for after all.

“G-Gwil,” she interrupted their kiss suddenly, remembering in the first place why she had even told to come over in the first place. Surprised by the end of the abruptness he raised his eyebrows in question, “I-I’m pregnant! What are we going to do?”

“I think the first thing is not to panic,” he said calmly, taking her hands in his and holding onto them tightly, but not before giving them a small squeeze of reassurance, “it’s not like we’re kids who still live with their parents and don’t have jobs. We’re adults, stable adults, and we can figure this out together.”

“I’m scared, Gwil, I’m so scared,” she pulled one of her hands out of his, instinctively putting it onto her stomach, “I’ve missed two periods and I didn’t realize. I’ve been drinking while pregnant. I-I’m so stupid I’ve put this baby at so much risk already. If something’s wrong, I would never be able to forgive myself.”

“We don’t know if anything’s wrong yet,” he tried his best to calm her down, but he too was worried. If only they had known sooner, but between the millions of things going, both of them had missed the signs, “let’s not worry about that until we find out.”

“I don’t know if I’m ready for a child,” she confessed quietly, her voice barely above a whisper, so quiet that Gwil had to strain to hear it. She’d been giving it a lot of thought for the last couple of days, and she just wasn’t sure. Part of her thought she was ready, sure that she was ready, but a little voice lingering in the back of her mind told her she wasn’t. It was akin to having an angel on one shoulder and the devil on the other, both of them making very solid points.

“Oh,” was the only thing  out of his mouth. There was so much to process, so much to think about, it all seemed overwhelming suddenly. At the beginning of the day, he thought he was going to experience another dreary miserable day, but now? Now he was potentially going to be a father. But he knew this was a joint decision they needed to make, but ultimately Y/N had the last say, “I completely understand. The idea is utterly frightening, and frankly I’m scared too, and I’m not even the one that’s pregnant.”

“Yeah,” she let out a small, nervous laugh, “it’s crazy to think there might soon be a little person inside there. I just..I want you to know, that if I was going to have a child, I’d be honored if you were the father. I just don’t know...I feel so lost, so confused.”

“It’ll be okay, my love,” he promised her, “whatever decision you make, I will support you completely. Even if that means not having a baby right now, or if it does mean having a baby right now.”

“I think I need a few more days to think about everything,” she admitted to him, “there’s just so much to process, so many things to consider. But I think the first thing would be to make an appointment with the doctor.”

“When you make the appointment, let me know. I’ll be right by your side the entire time,” he brushed a lock of hair out of face, tucking it gently behind her ear. She gnawed on her lip to prevent the waterworks from starting again, and just gave him a small nod, “I’m with you till the end of the line.”

“No matter what?”

“No matter what.”

“Will you stay the night with me?”

“Always.”

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[girlbossfrankshepard]

Hey guess what! I just took upon myself the fun challenge of transcribing this early version of Rich And Happy from Broadway previews, and I managed to get most of it pretty good! If anyone could help me fill in the blanks, I would much appreciate it, because uh. It’s A Lot

[TERRY] So we bought this little condominium...

[KATE] So we found this little Chinese gardener...

[JEROME] It's a clear case of studio politics...

[PHOTOGRAPHER] We were stuck on the freeway till half past six...

[TERRY] So we bought this little condominium...

[FOUR GUESTS] Great… Hmm... Yeah...

[ALL] Party!

[FRANK] Life is swinging Skies are blue and bells are ringing Every day I wake up singing "Look at me, I'm rich and happy!"

Days are sunny Working hard for lots of money Filled with people smart and funny Filled with people rich and happy!

Who says, "Lonely at the top"? I say, "Let it never stop!" It's my time coming through All my dreams coming true: Gorgeous house, gorgeous wife Who wants any more from life?

Skies are beaming Future bright and prospects gleaming Best of all, I don't stop dreaming Just because I'm rich And happy And- oh, yes! Famous, too!

[KATE, speaking] Oh Frank! I am paralyzed with joy tonight! And I cannot tell a lie, so, you look very young and very handsome!

[FRANK] Ugh, I needed to hear that today! Only this morning I was asked to come back and speak at my old high school’s commencement next year! I will have been out 25 years.

[KATE] Oh, be still my heart! You going to go?

[FRANK] Ha, who knows what I’ll be doing a year from now? If my life is falling apart and I need some good press, I’ll go.

[KATE] Ah, come, come, my dear! This is your year!

[RU singing Good Thing Going in.. French I think? Also a bit of chatter I can’t make out]

[TED, singing] Which one is that one?

[RU] That one’s the rich one, Married to which one?

[TED] I think it’s that one. (scatting??)

[ALL] Party!

[MARY, speaking] Come on, Frank, get me a double vodka. Straight up. And a floor plan (?).

[RU laughs, MARY mocks his laughing]

[MARY] Could you have been so upset? After all, it’s only lies. And if I have to keep playing this one more depressing day… Who wrote that song?

[RU] The host.

[MARY] What? It’s been 20 years since he wrote it, inspire (?) anything else. What’s your name?

[RU] Ru, like the poet.

[MARY] My name’s Mary, like “good old Mary”. Ru, if you were somewhere else in the world, where would you be?

[RU] (something about living on a farm?) It’s got everything.

[MARY] So have you.

[RU] Excuse me?

[MARY] I was being a brat. I’m a 42 year old brat. Is this empty cup yours?

[RU] Well, it was.

[MARY] Can I just borrow it so everybody doesn’t know all my business? I want to have one simple double, and that’s all. Oh God, now you’re gonna think I’m a drunk, right? Well, I’m not. I happen to be a captain. (??) That guy over there is just crazy about me, but he hates it when I drink. Hehehe…

[ALEX, singing] Perfect house, perfect wife Yes, my dear And yet the hostess isn’t here I wonder where could she appear

[Sounds of frustrated people, “are you kidding?”]

[TERRY] So we bought this little condominium…

[Crowd chatter]

[TERRY] So we bought this little string of laundromats...

[ALL?] Great! Smog Points

{SOME GUY 1] These are the movers These are the shapers These are the people That kill the papers

[SOME GUY 2] Looking good!

[ALL] We are the friends of Frank!

[SOME GUY 2] Everybody’s looking good!

[ALL] We all have Frank to thank!

[MARY] These are the movers These are the shapers These are the people That give you vapors

[GUEST, speaking] Ah, there are oceans and champagne! This is all just set for the occasion! I believe we’re going to see some fabulously important movie premiere!

[RICH BACKER] And just wait until you see our darling child in it! Gird your loins!

[MEG] Mother!

[RICH BACKER, singing] Twenty years ago, Who’d have thunk? Who’d have thunk we’d be standing here? Hours of sobbing and overrun (?) You (?) with Frank

[GUEST] Looking good

[RICH BACKER] Now you represent Frank! And I’m his personal bank!

[“Everybody’s looking good” and “These are the movers” overlapping]

[ALL] Life is swinging Skies are blue and bells are ringing Every day I wake up singing "Look at me, I'm rich and happy!"

[MEG] Gosh, he’s attractive Gosh, he’s so smart Gosh, it’s exciting being here Gosh, it’s my start! This is my first premiere I should be acting looser Gosh, this is my first affair With a first-rate producer

[Some guy fucking scatting again]

[ALEX, speaking] Mary! Come! That last review you wrote, I do not have the words! I read it over and over!

[MARY] Didn’t you get it the first time?

[ALEX] I do wish you wrote fiction instead of reviewing movies. I’d love you to write about our house last week when we thought we’d lost our little dog. All of us searching the house, the yard, everywhere, and you know what? Ha! I had forgotten I’d put it in the car!

[MARY] How can I get the rights? Excuse me, I promised that shy guy over there by the piano I’d (?)

[ALEX] See you later!

[MARY] I hope so!

[ALL] Days are stunning (?) stars are slumming

[TED] (?) The right one?

[RU] That’s their employer

[TED] Who’s the uptight one?

[RU] That one’s his lawyer And that one’s his agent And that one’s his banker (?)

[TED] And then there’s his “yes man”

[RU] Now where is his yes man? ...Oh yes.

[TED, speaking] You making money?

[RU] Sure. (I think I may have gotten these two mixed up a few times)

[GUEST] Shut up.

[ALL] Party!

[Frank and Jerome are playing Backgammon]

[JEROME] That’s two-thousand, I’ll take a check!

(?)

[FRANK] Did I say on the invitation “cocktail party” or “drinks before my premiere”?

[MEG?] Frank-

[FRANK] Meg, be a good girl, I’m trying to write a bad check.

[JEROME] After producing this movie, he now joins an income bracket that’s limited to oil barons and drug producers.

[FRANK] (Seemingly sullen) Yeah, and isn’t it wonderful? Now I have everything I have ever wanted. I have nothing more to wish for. My every want, my every dream has finally come true.

[KATE?] I guess that’s (?), Frank

[FRANK] God, Jerome. Don’t you wish you could put on your 18 year old glasses and see life the way Meg does?

[KATE?, singing] Twenty years ago, He parked cars

[A bunch of people overlapping here, “he was out of a job”]

[GUESTS] Now just look at us superstars Worth the national bank (I make cars) Each as big as his (?) (I own cars) Friends of president (?)

[GUEST] I’m still out of it!

[Too many people]

[GUESTS] Twenty years ago, Who’d have thought We’d be setting the trends? Who’d have guessed we’d be friends? Who can tell where it ends?

Making it (Get in line) Everybody’s making it (Get in line) Everybody’s got that hard-earned hungry look in their eyes

[TERRY, speaking] I think the last of the old contract-slayers here is falling apart! You got something on your nose, Jerome. (playfully) Your finger! Ahahaha!

[FRANK] Terry, you know Meg who is starring in my picture.

[TERRY] (to MEG) Not too gorgeous, huh? Oh, and don’t feel bad you don’t have bosoms like mine. It’s gonna take growing to have bosoms like these, (?) put silicone in their training bra! Meg, while you can, cause they don’t last long after (?) Oh well, tut tut. I used to have class like that. See you at the movies! Which is more than you can say for me! (gasp) Is that Mary?

[MARY] No. You see, Ru, I can’t marry you. No, I can’t, there’d be too many changes in my life. So don’t ask me. (approached by ALEX) What?

[ALEX, singing] Perfect house, perfect wife Yes, my dear And yet, well, Gussie’s not here I need the time

[Some overlapping voices, then a really uncomfortable long silence]

[TERRY?] So we bought this little piece of property…

[ALL] Days go zipping Even when they’re less than gripping Mostly though it’s like you’re tripping High on being rich And happy

Most fulfilling Even when you don’t get billing Every day you wake up willing Happy to be rich And happy (lol isn’t that kind of redundant)

Who says all our dreams get burned? Every bit of this was earned It's our time coming through All our dreams coming true All our days full of beans This must be what happy means!

Skies are beaming Future bright and prospects gleaming! Best of all, we don't stop dreaming Just because we're rich— And happy

[GUEST] And maybe-

[Bit of chatter]

[ALL] Famous too!

[devilsknotrp]

Congratulations, M! You have been accepted for the role of Sandy Silverman (FC:Nicole Kidman). As Mandy’s player, I was understandably anxious to find a player who could articulate the muddy depths of Sandy Silverman... I shouldn’t have even worried. Your application is absolutely incredible. Your writing sample alone made us both so excited, because something as simple as ringing the hotline for Brian is loaded with meaning and intent. We have to spotlight your headcanons. Fleshing out her backstory allowed us to see how much has happened to Sandy. The glimpses of Phillip (putting out a cigarette in his food: oh, God) were painful reminders of how complex domestic power structures can be. You have given Sandy such life. It will be truly wonderful to see her develop in game. Please have a look at this page prior to sending in your account.

OUT OF CHARACTER

Name: M Age: 24 Pronouns: She/her Timezone: GMT-5 Activity estimation: I have a full time job and other commitments but I’ll try to reply a couple times a week! Triggers: REDACTED

IN CHARACTER

Full name: Sandra Kathleen Silverman, née Moore Age (DD/MM/YYYY): Fifty five (08/04/41) – Leo Gender: Cisgender woman Pronouns: She/her Sexuality: Lesbian (closeted, even to herself) Occupation: Real Estate Agent, Great Lake Homes Connection to Victim: Sandy sold Linda the home in which the Goode family currently resides. She also sees Linda from time to time at PTA meetings – when Sandy manages to show up, that is – since they both have children in high school. And since Brian’s disappearance bears a resemblance to Pete’s disappearance years ago, Sandy feels an unusual connection with Linda. Alibi: Sandy reluctantly took Pete shopping in the morning, and dropped him off at home afterwards. She headed to the office to grab a few papers for a client and spent the afternoon preparing a house for its viewing scheduled for the following day. Faceclaim: Nicole Kidman

WRITING SAMPLE

The line rang three times before someone picked up. “You’ve reached the Brian Goode tip-line,” a man said, voice crackling through the phone line like crumpled paper. The voice was monotone. Sandy had clearly not been the first person to call this morning. She hitched her shoulder up, using the bony part at the top to press the receiver against her ear so she could take a sip from her coffee mug. A Michigan Nip, of course. 

“Hi, good morning, I’ve been meaning to call you,” she said. One week had passed and Brian Goode was still a ghost. 

Sandy’s eyes were focused on the phone keypad. If she looked hard enough, she’d swear that some of the numbers had been worn down just a bit more than the rest. All those calls, back and forth, twelve years ago. She practically had the department’s number memorized at this point. “It’s just terrible, isn’t it?”

“Yes, but we’re doing the best we can right now, ma’am,” the man said, and Sandy couldn’t contain the snort of laughter that came flying out. She was standing in very spot where she’d learned that her son was alive, and that her husband was dead. She’d never felt that the Devil’s Knot Police Department had done their best at just about anything. “Do you have any information to report?” he asked.

“Oh, yes, certainly. I was just calling to ask about the case, though. Do you have any leads yet?” Sandy asked the question matter-of-factly, and took another sip. After how long it had taken Charlie Taylor to botch everything last time, she figured the department owed her some goddamned information. 

There was a pause. “Ma’am, this is a tip line,” he said. The pitch of his voice rose at the end like he wasn’t sure if he should be asking or telling.

“I know,” Sandy said. “I thought the main line would be busy, and maybe I could get some information from you instead.” She heard shuffling behind her and turned over her shoulder to make eye contact with her son. “Just tell the Sheriff that it’s Sandy, he’ll understand,” she said, eyebrows raised, and shooed Peter away with a quick wave of her hand. The last thing she needed was for him to get re-traumatized, or whatever Dr. Shah had called it. She’d written some psychology buzzwords down a few years ago in case Sandy ever wanted to go to the public library and check a book out. In all likelihood, the piece of paper had gone through the wash in one of her pants pockets and disappeared entirely. 

There was another pause. Longer this time. He gave a sigh that crackled in her ear. “Mrs. Silverman, I – “

“Officer, come on,” Sandy interrupted, “Don’t you know what happened to my family?” Of course he did. Everyone did. 

“Yes, and I’m very sorry, but it’s ongoing investigation. If you have any information that you think could be helpful, please let us know.”

Twelve years later and apparently the department hadn’t gotten any better since Charlie Taylor resigned in disgrace. Sandy tipped the mug back and took a large gulp. The splash of whisky burned in her throat. “Let’s just hope you’re doing a better job this time around.” She looked down at her empty mug. The spiral cord trailed behind her as she took a few steps toward the counter to put it in the sink. “It didn’t take you a week to find my son in ’84. Do your fucking job. Good day,” Sandy said, and hung up.

ANYTHING ELSE?

Here is my Pinterest board for Sandy! 

Sandy grew up in a very traditional family. Her father was a physician, her mother a homemaker. She watched from a young age how the men in her life took up space; how they showed cruelty in the way they spoke loudly, making rules that only they were allowed to break. Irene, Sandy’s mother, taught her how to make herself pretty and small, so boys would like her. Her older brother was the pride of the family; all chiseled jaw and boyish charm, just handsome enough to get away with anything. The pedestal he lived on was so high she could barely see the bottom of it. She was just a girl, raised in chains, her parent’s Little Darling, unobtrusive and accommodating. Never enough, because she was never allowed to be. This disconnect deepened as she grew older – but if her parents wanted her to be a young lady, Sandy would be the best young lady in all of Indiana. She’d perform perfectly.

She was always good at getting people to like her. In high school, all it took was becoming cheer captain and giving out blowjobs after school in the parking lot. She was a good girl. Sloppy Sandy, they called her. It didn’t matter. They all cheered when she became prom queen, anyway. She went on to study sculpture at Moore College of Art and Design, and told the other girls that her family had been the one to give the school its name. Just to see their faces light up. Sculpting gave her permission, for once in her life, to stick her hands in the mud. When her mother referred to sculpture as a fine hobby, Sandy knew it was code for a pit stop on your way to marriage.

Phillip and Sandy met on a blind date. Irene introduced the idea during one of their mother-daughter dates at the beauty parlor. She waited until Sandy’s fingers were in the manicurist’s hands to inform her that Phillip Silverman would be picking her up that evening. Seven o’clock, sharp. Good genes, she said. Handsome. His mother had been crowned Miss Indiana in ‘22, after all. Irene had just been runner-up. Sandy agreed, of course, because she had to.

The following year, they were married. Phillip was a kind man, and everyone loved him, so Sandy did too. The word wife felt funny in her mouth when she said it out loud, so she put on an apron and shopped at Macy’s and picked up pilates. If she shaped herself into Woman incarnate, it made it all better, somehow. When she gave birth at twenty-five, the post-partum depression swallowed her whole. It left the dishes unwashed, diapers unchanged, and to-do list unchecked. She spent more time in bed than her infant daughter did. Phillip learned to bring the baby to their bedroom to breastfeed. More often than not, when she cradled their daughter in her arms, Sandy would start to cry. Bad mother, bad bad bad, she thought. Phillip seemed to think so too. It didn’t take long for the GP to write her a prescription for Valium. It helped. She started drinking more, and that helped too.

As Amanda grew, Sandy drank. Post post-partum depression, maybe. She didn’t have an excuse then; she just gave up. Sandy tried to fashion her daughter into a reflection of herself – dressing her in pink, putting her in cheerleading, teaching her to smile – but the connection felt irreparable. Thankfully, Phillip took over the bulk of the parental duties. He never let her forget it. At least the resentment was mutual; at family dinner, Sandy put her cigarettes out in Phillip’s food to let him know he’d eaten enough. No one was going to be fat in her family. Another child was out of the question, but sometimes, when Sandy was drunk, she forgot to take her birth control. The post-partum depression knocked her on her feet so badly the second time around that she got her tubes tied. After the procedure, she drove down to the beauty parlor for a manicure.

Sandy remembers very little of the two days her husband and son were missing. The panic was paralyzing. She was drunk when she got the call that Peter had been found; she drove to the hospital and took out two bushes in the parking lot with Mandy in the passenger seat. Her boy was alive! Later, when they found Phillip, grief was quickly washed out by rage. Why had he done this to them – to her? Everyone who’d called her the bad parent could kiss her well-toned ass. And they did. For a while, at least, when the frenzy was still about the poor Silverman family. A small part of her liked the attention. Finally, someone in Devil’s Knot gave a shit about Sandy Silverman when she was sober.

The rumors were relentless. Soon enough, the town was going to swallow itself whole. One morning, their dog Bonnie turned up dead in the front yard, blood pooling on the overgrown grass. Sandy got in the car in her silk pajamas, went down to the police department, and told Charlie Taylor just how badly he was fucking the whole thing sideways. Three months was too long. When they finally arrested Max Acosta, Sandy didn’t even care if he was guilty. She was tired. They asked her to corroborate the argument between Max and Phillip. She remembered the incident in a half-hazy way, but it must’ve been Fourth of July because she’d been drinking watermelon punch. Phillip must’ve started the argument, the bonehead. I have a sense about these things, trust me.

After the trial, she set Peter up with a psychologist because God knows she wasn’t equipped to deal with that. The children still felt far away, somewhere inaccessible to her, even after all that happened. Sandy tried joining the PTA, but that required sobriety on a Wednesday night, which meant her attendance was sparse. She got a real job, finally. Sandy Silverman, Real Estate Agent, Great Lake Homes. With a card and everything. Being a salesman is like being a woman: a test of how much you can endure. All the happy wives and mothers must be lying to themselves too, right? It’s just contest to see who can keep the smile pasted on her face the longest. Well, Sandy Silverman’s a professional, and she’s good at that too. She’s the best at it. And she’ll show you!

[cameronomicon]

I Dream of Jeanie

This blog begins like everything else: with the supernatural. A ghost story. Well, it’s a story about two ghosts: one is corporeal, flesh and bone, hungry. He haunts his own life and the lives of the people who love him. That ghost is me, Cam, a career alcoholic, prescription amphetamine and nicotine addict, and struggling adult human. The other ghost is haunting him. And others. In Orange County, California, of all the world’s god-forsaken places. 

It’s September 2, 2018. I have just emerged from medical detox in a treatment facility in Mission Viejo, California, where I was admitted the evening of August 30. 

The days and weeks preceding this were a blur of teary eyed calls with friends and coworkers, vomiting, tremors, all-day drinking, zero rest, little food, and, finally, an evening drive south to rehab with a very patient friend. I had my dog in tow. The vomit he had saved for over an hour an a half was his parting gift for my friend and her car’s interior as we pulled into the driveway of our suburban destination. 

She is a very, very patient friend. 

The first thing I remember at the facility was the cops showing up to deal with a violent intake who screamed at the graveyard shift tech relentlessly about getting their medication. For the next two and a half days, I staggered around the in an Ativan-induced fog. I managed to execute a supervised grocery run, though I have no recollection of this event. 

After detox, I was driven to one of the houses where I would undergo residential treatment for the disease that has ruled my life in one manifestation or another since that first, boiling-hot, high-school-sized swig of whisky in the Wyman family back house all those years ago. It was, frankly, magic. Alcohol activated something in me that finally allowed me to feel comfortable in my own skin, around others, and as a part of the world. 

A few days passed, and I began to emerge from behind the benzodiazepine cataract. I woke up early one day, as I did every day, and stumbled about in my coffee-making and dog-letting-out routine. I stood outside with a steaming mug amidst the low fog of the costal marine layer, which enveloped palm trees in a smudgy gray that, especially in the golden sunlight of the hours which follow, always seemed eerie and alien. That’s when the graveyard tech walked out to join me. 

“Morning, how you feeling?” he asked. 

“I’m ok.” My dog set off across the yard at a full clip to pursue a rustle in a bush. “Slept like shit, though.”

“Oh really? Must have been that woman screaming.” He laughed.

“The what?” I was incredulous. It was too early. I turned away and watched the fog lick at the clay rooftop tiles of the ascending rows of identical homes on the ridge that kept us from the sea.

“You didn’t hear it? I hear the screams every night.”

*

Over the next few days, residents and staff alike compared notes. All who heard the screaming said it happened late at night, around 3am, and they could not pinpoint the source. Some said it came from across the street, others swore it they heard the scream coming from down the hill. Some of the staff had contemplated calling the police. 

I never heard the screaming because I went to bed too early to be a witness. But there were the nightmares. Horrifying, vivid nightmares the likes of which I’d never experienced before. Graphic visions of being sexually assaulted, of torture, of humiliation and suffering. Horrible, paralyzing dreams that would interrupt my sleep several times every night and continued to haunt me well into my waking hours. The following is from my journal, slightly edited:

“I had a dream last night that I was violently raped by (someone) ... who I was sent to ... as punishment for making a rug dirty. (They) screamed at me and laughed while (they) did it and when I cried (they) made it worse ... Then I was surrounded by empty beer bottles in my childhood bedroom and voices kept saying 'I thought you quit.’”

At the time of this writing, I feel that the whole, unedited content of this and the other dreams I experienced is too graphic for me to feel comfortable sharing. 

This happened to me every single night for over a week.

*

When we told our reiki practitioner about the screaming, she was unfazed. 

“That sounds like Jeanie,” she said matter-of-factly before she began our sessions. “Jeanie died here. Fell out of her bed one night.”

Reiki is a dubious energy healing technique that was offered as a part of the suite of care in our treatment center. Having experienced it myself, I can say that reiki seems to be at best a meditative aid and at worst some psychic hoodwinkery. What we learned is that our reiki master had also serviced the patients in palliative care at our house when it was still a hospice, which was not very long ago at all. She had treated and came to know Jeanie, whose spirit she immediately and authoritatively claimed was the source of the screaming. 

That we seemed to have inherited both reiki and a restless, screaming ghost was a lot to digest on a warm, dry Thursday afternoon in rehab.

What most people don’t know about Orange County, if in fact they know anything at all, is that it is the treatment capital of the world. There is a massive drug and alcohol rehabilitation industry here, with facilities dotting suburban neighborhoods and costal communities alike. Many, such as ours, are indistinguishable from other homes from the outside. Only when you go inside can you spot the differences: no locks on the doors, cameras everywhere, California-required hazard signs and fire extinguishers, motivational-adjacent but woefully empty wall platitudes. 

“Don’t dream your life...live your dreams!” taunted me in perfect cursive from its place on a kitchen wall. In that moment, if I lived my dreams, I’d be in the worst hell I could imagine. Most mornings I simply ignored it as I avocadoed my toast. It was ultimately harmless and forgettable, though I admit I got a mildly satisfying kick out of sneering at it. 

Having administered both reiki and information about our ghost, the master left. We living residents of the house all sat together outside on the back patio to discuss what she had told us. The others smoked or vaped as they speculated about what it could all mean. I crammed a few handfuls of candy in my face, and then I told them about my dreams. 

“Holy god in heaven,” one of my friends cried out. “Now that’s some sick shit.”

Eyes downcast, faces ashen, I could tell my information had affected the others and added a gravity to the situation that hadn’t been there before. We did not speak of it again. 

That night, I dreamed about someone I loved once who couldn’t love me. I saw her across a crowded dance in a school gym. She was made up beautifully, wearing a blue dress, her hair cut short, colored blonde and bouncy. She smiled and reached out to me. I tried to grab her hand, but she fell back into darkness, crying out for me, falling farther and father out of reach, her eyes filled with fear. 

That was the last dream I had at the house. We found out suddenly the next day that we would be moving to a different location, and that the facility we were leaving would be transitioned into a detox. 

Of all the nightmares, this felt the cruelest somehow. I woke up at 3:30am and just sobbed. I was physically, mentally, and emotionally exhausted. And this was on top of all of the other challenging work of getting sober. 

But I never had another bad dream after we moved. And the screaming did not follow us.

* I would find out later that a common side effect of Seroquel, along with fugue-state ambulation and sleep-eating, is nightmares. This drug is often prescribed to patients who are in post-acute withdrawal from drugs and alcohol to treat insomnia. Seroquel is what I started taking when I moved into residential treatment. 

Graveyard shifts are notoriously hard on the human body. Inverting the natural  sleep rhythm can do an absolute number on the brain, and often leads to chronic insomnia. Anyone who has stayed up all night can attest to how significantly it messes with your internal systems. I have stayed up multiple consecutive nights before, and have hallucinated. I have heard screaming when there was none, I have seen shadows morph into human forms and vanish just as quickly. 

This is all to say that there seems to be a perfectly logical explanation for the dreams, for the screaming. The reiki master could have just been having some fun with the unruly and obnoxious adult children that were her clients. She could just be full of shit. Night shift guys could have just heard things, or maybe it was a coyote. An owl. Someone actually screaming (hey, maybe it was a detox patient at another facility!) One morning I awoke earlier than usual to find one of the graveyard techs standing in the dark, staring at a street lamp. He was transfixed by a silvery form hanging below it in the yellow light.

“Is that a goddamn bat?” he asked, horrified.

It was a spiderweb.

But...I continued to take the Seroquel after we moved houses, and the nightmares never returned. The other house, Jeanie’s house, became a chaotic mess for the staff. Patients in detox were found fucking in multiple rooms, people disappeared in the middle of the night and others showed up suddenly in the morning...the entire detox program of this treatment facility seemed to be plunged into unmitigated bedlam, and it wasn’t like that before. Sure, there is always going to be some drama at places like this, but techs said they’d never seen things so bad. Anywhere. Additional workers were hired. Others quit without notice. And I have to wonder.

So, this story also ends like everything else: with the supernatural, with the unknown. Life ends with a big fat question mark, and that’s ok. One thing I’ve grown to appreciate is not having all the answers, to accepting the unknown and allowing myself to dip a toe into superstition. Human beings are no strangers to faith, but faith is especially vital for a person like me: faith in myself that I can stay sober, faith in redemption, faith that there is something, somewhere, greater than me that can save my ass. Faith in good friends, faith in good dogs. Faith in a life worth living well. Faith that Jeanie will find whatever she needs to cease her wailing, and faith that one day I’ll be there in time to stop somebody’s falling.

[writingforyourlovee]

I Am Not Brave. (trigger warning).

I am wearing pink plaid pajama pants and my favorite, blue Sara Bareilles t-shirt, dancing around to Christmas music at 8:15 am on December 12, 2016. I am really trying to ignore the screaming between my mom and younger brother. I just can’t wait until he moves out; I am sick and tired of the daily fights, of him not thinking that any of us love him because we do not support his poor life decisions. I wanted him to be sectioned four days ago, but no one listened to me. No one ever listens to me.

My mom knocks on my door, says she is leaving for her hair appointment and she will see me before I head off to class later that night. I say okay and go back to procrastinating the eleven papers to write before the semester ends--all of which I have to write in one week’s time--so obviously I think that this could be a good time to go Christmas shopping. I take out my headphones and grab a sweatshirt out of my closet, debating in my mind whether or not I should get changed and go shopping.

But, for some reason, I have this feeling in my bones. A feeling that says today, something bad is going to happen.

Today, something bad is going to happen.

I hear yet another knock at my door. This time, it is my brother. He is lingering in the doorway; annoyed, I ask him what he wants. He blinks twice and says, “Do you have a clipboard I can borrow? I have some things I need to write down.”

My first thought was “what the fuck?” I had not seen my brother write anything down or use anything other than a cell phone to communicate in years. I tell him no, strictly because I don’t want to give him my “good” clipboard that I use for school.

I said that my boyfriend sat on my shit because I left it on the couch a few weeks ago.

“Well, guys don’t care about looking down when they sit. We just sit without regard to what is below us,” he said back.

I laughed a little, and so did he. Again, he kept lingering. He asked if I was on my way out; I said I might be going shopping, but that I wasn’t sure yet. My stomach is dropping like a ton of bricks, the little red flags inside of me raising. Something bad is going to fucking happen, I thought. I felt. I walked downstairs to keep myself busy; I opened the dishwasher and took out three, glass mugs.

Today, something bad is going to happen.

“Hey,” my brother said as I took out the mugs. “I’m um, going out to the garage to do some stuff, so just lock the door behind me.” He had totaled out his car the day before; he was fine, but the car was not.

Rewind:

Yesterday at 4:43pm, I am pulling into my driveway, surprised to see my brother pacing in the yard frantically waving his arms;  didn’t he just work for 15 hours straight, why is he up?  Stepping out of the car my heart is in my stomach, something bad happened. He is crying, stating that he got into a car accident; his car was totaled. My heart begins to race and I am paralyzed by fear, he is standing in front of me, he is alright.

I suffer from PTSD from a car accident a year and change prior. I was slammed by a truck on my way home from school. I watched as the driver in front of me was t-boned, the next thing I knew, my biggest fear in the world, a box truck crossing the double yellow line, coming towards me. The next thing I knew the airbag was in my face and I faced months and months of physical and emotional pain.  My brother didn’t believe that I was hurt by my accident, he did not see my emotional pain, so to him I was dramatic. But I must feel for him, because his feelings are always the most important, according to him.

Present Day:

I noticed how nicely he was dressed: nice, ironed khakis; an orange, button-down shirt with a sweater over it; his peacoat; the hat I got him for his birthday; his new LL Bean boots. I go back to the dishes. He turns to leave, as I say a icey tinged “okay”. I hear him call for the dog and then the door slams shut, I hesitate to go and lock it.

Today, something bad is going to happen.

Then, it hits me.

Today, something bad is going to happen.

Fucking Christ.

Today, something bad is going to happen.

Frantically, I run upstairs. I open his bedroom door. I start searching. Paper. I look for paper. My mind is screaming, my stomach is dropping like a ton of bricks, the little red flags inside of me is flight high. The adrenaline kicks in, this can’t be his end.

My brother is going to kill himself.

Today something bad is going to happen.

Paper. I need to find the fucking paper. I gravitate towards his desk, there is a piece of cardboard covering a stack of perfectly straight  papers, filled with his hand writing. I can’t bring myself to read them just yet.. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Before picking them up, I grab the house phone, ready to dial 9-1-1.

Today something bad is going to happen.

With the phone in my hand, I realize that I’m shaking. I reach for the papers.

In my hands, I hold nine suicide notes.

Today something bad is going to happen.

I ran full-speed down the stairs, threw open the back door, and started screaming for my brother. He was standing in the garage holding an electrical wire. I told him to stop, that I love him too much for him to do this.

He looked at me coldly and said, “I’m not going to live in a world where no one loves me.”

Today something bad is going to happen.

Fuck.

Not knowing where to go, I ran back into the house, up the stairs, and started to dial 9-1-1. Dispatch answered--a woman--and she asked me to state my location and emergency.

“I found nine suicide notes in my brother’s room he is nineteen in our garage holding an electrical wire I need someone and I need them NOW,” I blurted.

Today something bad is going to happen.

Now, is when someone finally decides to listen to me.

I was screaming; I was told to breathe, and she asked where I am in relation to my brother. I told her that I was in my house, and she instructed me to go outside and watch him. Stupidly, I asked if I could go and get a pair of shoes because at some point I had lost my socks and it was icy outside. Looking back on it, running into my room was the worst decision I could have made.

The dispatch woman told me that I needed to stay calm. Please tell me, I thought, how does one stay fucking calm with a pile of suicide notes in their and a brother who may already be dead because they were concerned about being cold?

I made it back into the view of the garage, but all of the doors are shut. Fuck. I told dispatch to hurry, pleaded with her to make them come faster, told her that the doors are closed.

Knowing that one of the doors could be pushed open, I ran for it. Dispatch tells me to keep him in my sight. Inside, I found my brother bawling and carrying a ladder. Again, I was screaming, begging him to stop, begging him to put the ladder down. He started setting up the ladder. Climbing up the ladder.

I started bawling. I ran over to him. I tried to pull him down.

Today something bad is going to happen.

He pushed me across the garage, crying and he telling me to leave.

Today something bad is going to happen.

Dispatch tells me to back away, but to keep him in view. I hear sirens now. I ran, this time towards the sirens. Another bad decision.

I hung up the phone, flailing my arms as I directed the police officers down my driveway. I was still screaming, telling them that he is on the ladder. We run together. We pull open the garage.

He was out of my sight for less than two minutes.

Today something bad is going to happen.

There, my nineteen-year-old brother is hanging from the rafters of our garage.

Today something bad is going to happen.

I can’t move.

The police officer ran toward him with a knife out. I heard the rope break. My brother was unconscious on our garage floor, the police officer now screaming at me to leave. The police officer asked what my brother what he was thinking.

I heard my brother say, “I don’t want to be alive anymore.”

Today something bad is going to happen.

I watch my brother and the police officer walk out of the garage, my brother’s his hands behind his back. He will not look me in the eye, but the look on his face still haunts me to this day. His face was sad; his eyes were empty. I watched as he was loaded into the ambulance. I asked the officer who cut him down if my brother is alive, despite seeing him walk right by me. The officer hugged me and told me I am brave, that I am a hero. I ask him to go get my dog and I will go get him the suicide notes.

I am not brave. I am not a hero. I am a sister who almost lost her brother.

I ran down the stairs, but I stop on the last step. I stop to see if he wrote me a note.

Today something bad is going to happen.

The third sheet from the top. I see mine and my boyfriend’s names

Today something bad is going to happen.

My world stopped at this moment. I have chills going down my body right now as I type what he wrote.

“You have been such a great sister,” he wrote. “Thank you for everything you have ever done. I love you so much.”

To my boyfriend, he wrote, “You’re a good guy and you make my sister very happy. Keep doing that. Make sure she is taken care of.”

I am not brave. I am not a hero. I am a sister who almost lost her brother.

The days, weeks, and even months following were a blur. I was diagnosed with Acute Stress Syndrome the day after the ordeal. The syndrome is early stage PTSD, which I had already been diagnosed with previously. My heart still races and my stomach still flips when I hear ambulance sirens; I feel the weight of my sorrows pressing on my chest.

All I have ever wanted since this happened is for someone to understand. To understand that while the person suffering--existing within the means of a mental illness--their family suffers, too. While I did not suffer a loss, and I do feel fortunate that my brother is alive, it is still a struggle. Often times, I wake up late at night and check to see if my brother came home. For the first month after he was hospitalized, I would check to see if he was still breathing. I suffer from flashback-like Polaroid pictures in my mind, reminding me I really didn't need to go get shoes. I think that maybe he would have not hung himself if I was there more.

The therapists keep telling me what I did was brave. That I am the reason my brother is alive. That I should not feel the guilt that I do. That, because I had a gut feeling, he is alive.

For a while, I thought that he owed me a thank you. That he, in his manic depressive state of mind, owed me some kind of grand gesture for saving his life. With time I have realized that he does not owe me anything. He owes it to himself to come to terms with his “illness.” While mental illness is as real as any medical illness, he must realize he is more than his diagnosis. All I can do is hold on to hope, that one day he will view medication as lifesaver to his manic states, that my parents and myself will be behind him 100% of the way, that despite his demons, he does mean so much to every person he has touched.

He is not only bipolar type two and borderline personality disorder.

He is my brother.

He is, one day, all that I will have.

He is worth every second of life.

He is the king of shower singing.

He is my dance partner to Avril Lavigne’s Complicated.

He is the only one I know who can put 17 black cherry warheads in their mouth (at once)!  

He is the little boy with huge brown eyes.

He is frustrating yet he will always be a piece of me.

[underbananamoon]

I have exactly one picture (that I can locate, anyway), of him as a kitten. Since he was born early 00’s, cell phones with cameras were not in-pocket and at-the-ready, to capture every kitten nuance.

My husband was diagnosed with 5 yrs. to live and ALS had him confined to a chair, paralyzed, and with a feeding tube at that time. A solace I had at the time was to make sure he was comfortable, put a baseball game on for him, put the baby monitor in my pocket so I could hear him (it had incredible reach, I could walk to the corner school bus stop with my then 5 yr. old daughter and could hear the monitor). His vocal cords were not functioning well, but if he made a sound, I could hear him and rush home. It’s funny, I could hear the baseball game from my pocket and people must’ve assumed I REALLY liked sports.

My friend (since moved) had a lot of stray cats. One day she called me because a stray female cat had dropped two kittens in her yard and took off, abandoning them. I wasn’t surprised. I once had a cat who was such a terrible mother, she systematically killed off every kitten in the litter. Another cat I had, during the birthing process, spun in a circle till the kittens came flying out. I digress.

I put the monitor in my pocket and walked to her house, not far away from mine. Two scraggly orangey “twin” kittens were unmoving in a box with a towel lining the bottom. They didn’t look like they’d make it. In fact they were wet looking and had the appearance of a baby bird, newly born, blind and featherless, that had fallen from a nest. They were incredibly tiny, with closed eyes and heads that bobbled as if the strenuous motion of their neck trying to support their head was not possible.

“I can only give a home to one!” I said. How to decide? I did “eeny-meeny-miney-mo.” And I put the winner in my shirt and walked him home, with the other baby weighing heavily on me, perhaps I should take that one too? But even though my husband was dyiong, he was going to give me hell for taking this one. We already had one cat. I received a frantic phone call from my friend. She was horrified to have witnessed a hawk from her kitchen window, swoop into the box, and pick up the remaining kitten. As it flew over the yard, it dropped the kitten in the grass, then swooped again, and made off with it.

All I could do was love the one I was trying to save. My middle son immediately felt a kinship and named him Mister Po. My son was a twin too, but I lost the twin during the pregnancy. We took turns feeding him pet store kitten milk with an eyedropper and then a kitten bottle over the next few weeks, throughout the night every three hrs. or so round-the clock. As he amazingly grew less wobbly, more ginger, and stronger, I actually thought he might live.

I found that Boost nutritional drinks (vanilla) which were covered by insurance, and which I had stacked by the case 6 feet high, that I used for my husband’s feeding tube, worked well for this cat. When I filled the plunger with it to inject slowly into my husband’s stomach, I would dribble the dregs from the can onto the coffee table and Po really looked forward to this. Perhaps the nutrition provided by this nutrient-packed drink accounts for his long life. But what accounts for his sweet nature? He was just that way.

Friends, other pets, even my husband, either moved, faded away or even died but Po was here with me, as I cried on him, and met a new partner who would eventually move in…as my kids moved out and made families. Po was steadfast. During a getting-to-know-each-other phone call with my partner, he asked “so what are you up to?” I remember replying “Sitting here with a cat on my lap.” He replied, “I have a feeling that’s a pretty common thing for you to be doing.”

I am not the first person to have to make a euthanasia decision. At the end of his life, his spine was such that he was dragging his legs, and if you touched a certain spot, he would have a seizure or turn and bite the air. My finger got in the way twice and twice he bit me for the first times ever in his 19 year old life. It became infected, as cat bites on fingers are wont to do, and I needed antibiotics. I wasn’t giving up on him. Then he decided to spend ALL his time in a cat box. He’d bury his face in the litter and lay there like that, a certain sign a cat knows it is near the end. Still he cuddled me, burrowing into my neck, purring so loud and the decision I made was agonizing and painful.

Here is a “painting” I made of myself and Po, around the time frame when I realized he wasn’t immortal, by cutting up paper. It’s technically a collage, but I like to think of this as “painting with paper,” although no actual paint is used, just lots of cutting/gluing.

Maybe some of you “get it,” he was my best friend, and my long term relationship. Just before the last trip to the vet:

My kids said goodbye (my oldest made a FB post: “Goodbye good boy” and people from my past, from over a decade ago, remembered him and posted pictures) and we gave him a last meal of tuna. I brought him outdoors (truly his longevity is also in part keeping him safe from disease-indoors.)

  He was the subject of memes and photoshop and had a FB page I devoted to him just because I thought I might bore people on my personal, author, or artist FB pages with bombardments of pictures of him. My son made this one:

Cool cat

He played well into his gentleman years.

  Tolerant.

A long-hair cat, he shed a lot and one day after a brushing, I stuck his own hair on his head.

He was about 2 or 3 yrs. old here.

The dog felt my grief when I returned from the vet, bawling, she was all over me: Nurse Minnie, she is. And Po’s little sister, not so affectionate and kind of a loner, roams the house merrowring.

Po belly:

I got through this without crying, writing IS therapeutic! Bye, till we meet again.

https://www.facebook.com/Oneandonlymisterpo/

    Caring for a cat through every life stage, then saying Bye, till we meet again I have exactly one picture (that I can locate, anyway), of him as a kitten. Since he was born early 00's, cell phones with cameras were not in-pocket and at-the-ready, to capture every kitten nuance.

[andrewdburton]

How to get started with difficult tasks

Yesterday in the /r/financialindependence community on Reddit, /u/mkengland asked a seemingly innocent question:

What made you stop planning/researching financial independence and actually start?

Was there a tipping point for you where you finally felt ready to start your FI journey? What made you finally take the plunge, open that first IRA/brokerage account/etc., and throw your money into the market?

[…]

I'm waffling over details, though…and can't seem to just DO IT.

This question seems innocuous, right? Yet, I've been thinking about it for the past 24 hours.

I hear questions like this relatively often. People want to know how to get started with saving and investing. Or with debt reduction. Or they want to know how to get started with budgeting. And, in fact, it's the sort of question I had too back when I started my own journey away from debt and toward financial freedom. It all seems so overwhelming! Where do you begin?

Trust me, I know how easy it is to over-complicate things. My ex-wife used to call my Overanalytical Man due to my superhuman ability to overthink even the simplest subject. Although I do this less often (and less severely) than I used to, it's still a problem that plagues me.

Today, let's talk about what I've learned about how to get started with difficult tasks.

Action Not Words

Generally speaking, things aren't as complicated as I (or you) want to make them out to be. Most problems can be solved with simple solutions. It's how we implement these solutions that adds layers of complexity.

A healthy weight, for instance, really is as simple as “calories in, calories out”. Yes, I realize there's a lot of debate about this subject in recent years. And yes, I understand there's additional nuance and complexity to the discussion. But that doesn't change the fundamentals: If you want to lose weight, you have to burn more calories than you consume.

Likewise, all of personal finance boils down to one simple rule: To build wealth, you must spend less than you earn. End of story. This is the fundamental rule of personal finance, and all of the books and blogs and TV shows about money — all of the added layers of complexity — are simply clothes draped across this basic body.

When I see questions like “How do I get started toward financial independence? It all seems so complicated!”, my mind immediately goes to this. How do you get started? By spending less than you earn. Want to get out of debt? Spend less than you earn. Want to save for a down payment on a house? Spend less than you earn. It all comes back to this one idea.

Any move that increases your income or decreases your spending is a step in the right direction.

In a way, allowing perceived complexity to prevent you from doing the right thing is a variation of the optimization trap. The optimization trap is the belief that small tweaks make more difference than they actually do. Optimizing small things (clipping coupons, say) is often a way for people to feel like they're doing something meaningful when they're actually avoiding big, scary moves that could truly make a difference (downsizing their home, for example).

When people like me overcomplicate things at the start, we're doing so for similar reasons. We're nervous about making big changes. We're complacent. We're comfortable with our lives at the moment, so instead of doing the things we know need to be done, we spin our wheels while focusing on details that don't matter.

Right now, for instance, I am fat. There's no way to sugarcoat it. I've been gaining weight for several years now, and thanks to this quarantine, I've reached peak J.D. (in terms of size, anyhow). I know what I need to do to get fit again — eat less, exercise more — but I find it very easy to allow stupid details to prevent me from doing the right thing. “My bike needs a new tire. I don't have weights at home and the gyms are closed. I don't like vegetables. I don't know which tool to use to track my calories.”

All of these details are bullshit that distracts me from the fundamental problem: I need to burn more calories than I consume, and I'm not doing that.

If I want to get started with weight loss, I must achieve (and maintain) a calorie deficit. If /u/mkengland wants to reach financial independence, (s)he must spend less than (s)he earns. In both cases, thinking and deliberating does nothing. To achieve our goals, we must take action.

Start Where You Are

For overthinkers like me, action is key. Instead of finding the perfect time and place to start, we should start anywhere. Screw perfection! When starting a long journey, a perfect first step isn't critical. If you stumble at the start of a sprint, you're likely to lose the race. But if you stumble at the start of a marathon, it makes no difference. All that matters is that you've begun running.

As my friend Paula Pant once told me, “An imperfect plan you follow is better than a perfect plan you don't.”

One of the core tenets of the Get Rich Slowly philosophy is that the perfect is the enemy of the good. Too many people never start putting their finances in order because they don't know what the “best” first step is. Most of the time, “best” is irrelevant in this context. Don't worry about getting things exactly right — just choose a good option and do something to get started.

Here's a non-financial example from my own life.

As you know, Kim and I moved into our country cottage nearly three years ago. For the first couple of years, our time and money and attention were focused on home renovations. There were a lot of repairs that had to be made. Last year, we took a break. But this year? Thanks in part to the coronavirus quarantine, we've begun tackling our yard.

We have an acre of land. About half of it is seldom-used forest that slopes down the hill to a creek. But the other half is our fenced yard. It's a gorgeous park-like setting — or could be, if it were maintained. But the previous owners let things get out of control, and we've done little more than tread water since we bought the place. We've kept things from getting worse, but haven't done anything to make things better.

Here's a February photo of one corner of our yard:

This year, though, Kim and I have resolved to make our park-like setting actually park-like. That'll require a lot of work. Like, hundreds of hours. In February, we toured the yard to talk about what we needed to do. We each made a list as we walked along. When we finished, we were both overwhelmed.

“There's so much,” Kim said. “Where do we start?”

“I don't know,” I said. “I guess we start with whatever feels most pressing.” We drafted a short prioritized list of projects…and then never followed it. (Seriously. The top thing on our list remains undone two months later haha.)

Instead, here's how things went down.

On her first day laid off from work, Kim went outside to play with the dog and the cats. She got distracted by some weeds in the “tea garden”, so she paused to pull them. This led her to prune the climbing rose. Then she hauled the yard debris to the bottom of the hill, where she found more yard debris that needed to be cleaned up. And so on. Before she realized it, she'd put in a full day of work. But it wasn't the work we'd planned.

What we've found is that if we go outside, we'll see something that needs to be done. If we do that thing, a second step will become self-evident — or we'll see something else that needs done nearby. In other words, if we simply put ourselves in motion, if we do anything that contributes to our future vision of the yard, we'll continue to work on the yard, continue to be productive, until we're tired and done for the day. It doesn't matter which chore we choose. All that matters is that we choose a chore.

Kim has been home for maybe six weeks now. (Who knows anymore? My sense of time has warped.) In those six weeks, we've made huge strides. Sure, there's still much left to do, and we know it. But every day, we do a little more. Our yard has already been transformed, and it's only going to get better as we continue to do more work.

This is a current panorama of the entire yard (click to open larger image in new window):

Here's the (very obvious) moral of this story: Start where you are. Do what you can with what you have. Don't concern yourself with “right” or “best” options. Choose a good option and get going.

When tackling a big project — whether that's renovating a yard, digging out of debt, or saving for early retirement — it matters less how you begin than that you begin.

How to Get Started

I grew up Mormon. One of the songs we sang in Primary (a.k.a. Sunday School) was called “Do What Is Right”. I think of it often, even today. Here's the chorus:

Do what is right; let the consequence follow. Battle for freedom in spirit and might; And with stout hearts look ye forth till tomorrow. God will protect you; then do what is right!

“Do what is right; let the consequence follow.” Yes! Exactly! Nowadays, I've incorporated this idea into my personal philosophy.

On my office computer, I have a sticky note: PROCESS NOT OUTCOME. This is a reminder to myself that I cannot control outcomes. I can only control effort.

If I do what is right — that is, if I do what is necessary to achieve what I want — and if I do my best, then I've done my part. By doing what's right and doing my best, I'll likely get the results I'm after. But if the results aren't what I wanted? Well then, I can live in peace. I know I did what I could, and I'm fine with that.

I can control my effort and actions, but I cannot control the results.

This “PROCESS NOT ACTION” reminder is important to me, and not only because I'm Overanalytical Man. I'm also paralyzed by self-doubt. It's easy for me to not take action because I'm afraid.

So, when I take on a big project like the course I just wrote for Audible, I often find it tough to get started. Before I even begin, I'm already imagining how painful it will be to read reviews from people who hate my work.

“PROCESS NOT OUTCOME” is a reminder that if I work hard and provide good info, then I've done my part. I can only control what I put into a project, not what others think of it.

So, let's return to the Reddit question that inspired this all. How do you get started with difficult tasks? Easy. By doing anything that moves you toward your goal.

Don't make things more complicated than they have to be. Identify fundamental principles and pursue them. Especially at the start, don't worry about making perfect choices or about optimization. Simply start. Take action. You can optimize later.

Do what is right. Do your best. Let the consequence follow.

from Finance https://www.getrichslowly.org/how-to-get-started/ via http://www.rssmix.com/

[vannadee37]

There are currently seven four-legged loves of my life: four dogs – C.T., Dakota, Daisy, and Doc, and three cats – KitKat, Sonny and Cher. This post is really only about the dogs. As I write this, I’m thinking about what my husband and I have been through this past week with having to let our sweet, precious Daisy go, and the journey we are currently on to pick up a new four-legged rescue, who is really kind of rescuing us. 

Top: C.T. and Dakota Bottom: Daisy and Doc

First of all, let me share with you a little bit about the first two four-legged loves of my life.

The first four-legged love of my life was C.T., a German Shepherd we rescued in the summer of 1998, shortly after we purchased our first house. After almost a year of trying to deal with C.T.’s separation anxiety, I found the next four-legged love of my life at a flea market. He was a chihuahua-pomeranian mix we named Dakota. C.T. and Dakota quickly became partners-in-life, and stayed that way until we had to let C.T. go {cancer sucks, by the way, even for animals}, which was on July 5, 2010. After we buried C.T., Dakota began to grieve himself to death. I asked our vet for advice, and she said that we had two choices: (1) put him on medication, or (2) get him a new companion. Dakota’s grief and my search for a new companion happened so fast, but I didn’t want to lose Dakota after just lost C.T.

That’s when the next four-legged love of my life came around. I found three dogs on PetFinder that I thought my husband would like, and Daisy was one of the choices. He looked at all three photos and chose Daisy, whose name at the animal shelter was actually Diana. We renamed this little beagle-poodle mix Daisy.

Daisy came into our lives just when we needed her. She brought Dakota out of his depression and they quickly became best buddies. Daisy was still a puppy when I brought her home. She was born on April 24, 2010, and we adopted her on July 10, 2010. She brought so many smiles to our faces and so much laughter into our lives over the years. There is no way to measure the happiness and love she brought into our home.

Dakota showing a young Daisy who’s the boss!

Dakota looks at us while we laugh at the mess Daisy made in the floor.

About five years ago, the fourth four-legged love of my life crossed our yard and into our lives. My husband named him Doc, after Doc Holliday from Tombstone, which I think is his favorite movie. Daisy was named after that line in the movie, “You’re a daisy if you do!” We rescued this pit bull/mountain cur/boxer mix (we think) from the mean country roads, but he really is the sweetest dog. He loved Daisy, and yet, he feared Dakota. Doc, without his Daisy, is lost.

Dakota, Daisy, and Doc – all in a state of slumber

So now that I’ve introduced you to all four of the four-legged loves of my life, let me explain what happened to our sweet Daisy, and why we had to let her go on March 20th, the first day of Spring.

This past week has been very hard on my husband and I, as well as on Doc. You see, over a month ago Daisy was diagnosed with intervertebral disc disease, which is common among long-bodied-short-legged dogs like dachshunds and beagles. She had some back problems in the past and I had taken her to the vet for check-ups. Each time they would tell me that it could be a pinched nerve or a pulled muscle. Except this past week was different, in that it wasn’t a pinched nerve or a pulled muscle. It was far worse.

Back at the beginning of February sometime, after I had already left for work, she jumped or fell off our bed and landed awkwardly. My husband jumped out of bed and gently picked up a yelping, whimpering Daisy. He told me about what happened and when we noticed that she seemed to be walking like a drunken sailor, I took her to our vet, Dr. Tara.

Dr. Tara did a physical exam, then took Daisy about 10-15 feet away from me and had her walk to me so she could observe Daisy’s drunken sailor walk. She came back into the exam room and said that she thought Daisy had IVDD. Surgery was an option, if we had $4000 or more just lying around the house, which we didn’t. Another option was to keep her crated, walk her on a leash, try some alternative therapy {acupressure and massage therapy}, and limit her running and jumping. Dr. Tara then told me that if Daisy suffered another traumatic injury, that it could be life-threatening, that she could become paralyzed. If that happened, then we had 12-24 hours to get Daisy to the Emergency Vet for surgery, otherwise, Daisy would be permanently paralyzed.

That thought shook me to my core. Daisy was my world, more so than Doc {my heart hurts admitting that, but it’s true}. When Daisy was a puppy, she would whine and cry all night. I would take her into the living room where I would lay on the couch under a blanket, with Daisy nestled on my chest, and softly sing to her…

“When I was just a young pup, I asked mommy what will I be. Will I be pretty? Will I be smart? This is what she said to me… Que sera, sera Whatever will be, will be The future’s not ours to see. Que sera, sera… What will be, will be.”

{It’s my take on the theme song that Doris Day sang for her show, The Doris Day Show.}

Daisy would drift off to sleep and then I would drift off to sleep as well. I would sing that song often to my sweet Daisy, like when she would come into the bathroom and lay beside the bathtub while I bathed, or after she had to have knee surgery and had to be crated. Anytime she started to whine or cry, I would start singing to her and she would settle down. The last time I sang that song to her was last Sunday afternoon, as I sat in the floor beside Daisy, who was laying in her crate.

You see, Daisy was improving. I was walking her on a leash; we kept her confined to the breezeway and the back deck; she was absolutely not allowed to run or jump, period. I was doing twice daily acupressure therapy on Daisy’s back and she was getting her mojo back, so much so that over the past couple of weeks, she had started dancing around on her back legs, jogging {as best as she could} around the yard while still on her leash, and jumping up and down off the furniture. I tried to catch her either before she jumped up or jumped down, but I wasn’t always fast enough.

Prime example was last Thursday, when I brought Daisy and Doc back into the house from their evening potty break after I got home from work. She was following my into my dressing room, or so I thought. I heard her jump onto the chair by the picture window, but when she jumped down, I could tell just by the sound that she landed hard and awkwardly. I rounded the corner and in four steps, I had reached her and was helping her up. She didn’t yelp or cry. She just kind of shook herself off and acted like everything was ok. Little did I know, but she was seriously injured.

Friday morning, after I had already left for work, my husband noticed her walking awkwardly and leaning/falling over to her left side. It was more noticeable on Friday evening after I got home. It was far worse on Saturday morning, and by noon, Daisy couldn’t walk at all. By Monday night, we realized that her situation was far worse than what we initially had thought. I called the vet’s office first thing Tuesday morning while on my way to work. They could see her at 9:45 a.m. My husband took her to see Dr. Will, who coincidentally did Daisy’s knee surgery, and who is married to Dr. Tara. By 10:00 a.m., my husband was telling me over the phone that we had to make a decision, but that he had already made it.

“We have to put her down, and I am having her cremated because I cannot bury another dog.”

His sobs came through the phone, and I laid my head down on my doctor’s desk and sobbed as well. That jump down from the chair had broken her neck, and within 48 hours she was a quadriplegic. She was the kind of dog that needed to run, jump, and play around almost constantly. And for the last three days of her life, she was confined to a crate, paralyzed, unable to move, jump, run, or play. She could still move her head, and her eyes were at times bright, and yet other times, they were dull and almost lifeless.

She and I spent our last night together in the living room, me on the couch and  her in her crate. She would whine and cry until I leaned over to scratch her head or touch her. I got little to no sleep that night, but neither did she. When I left for work that Tuesday morning, I knelt down in front her of, planting sweet, gentle kisses on her head and nose, telling her that I loved her so much. Little did I know that that would be the last time I would shower her with kisses or stroke her head.

Daisy loved sitting on the bench, looking out the picture window.

I brought Daisy’s ashes home from the vet’s office on Friday morning. I let Doc sniff the cherry colored box and his tail set to wagging. He watched over me as I read the Certificate of Cremation, and then placed the certificate and the box in the glass cabinet under our television. I can see the box from my place on our couch, or better yet, I can see Daisy from where I sit.

Which brings me to today, Saturday, March 24th… my husband and I are traveling to North Carolina to pick up a new four-legged rescue. She is a one-year-old Australian blue heeler/Texas heeler mix named Daisy, but we are changing her name to Kate. Why Kate? Because Kate was the name of Doc Holliday’s girlfriend in the movie Tombstone. We have a theme going with our furbabies! You’ll see our newest rescue on our personal Instagram feeds {@vanessa_h_wood or @rpmgarage22}, as well as the one for our pets {@daisy_doc_kitkat_sonny_cher}.

My husband needs this rescue dog in his life as much as, if not more than, Doc. Both of the men in my life – my human and my furbaby – are lost. As much as I love and miss Daisy, I am trying to be strong for them and yet I’m balling my eyes out in private.

I like what my husband wrote in his last Instagram post about Daisy’s passing. “Please, do not pray for us. We would rather you hug an animal, treat it with kindness, maybe even let it lick your toes…one of Day’s favorite things. Maybe even ‘rescue’ one…like Daisy rescued us.”

With all my heart I believe that as much as we like to say that we rescued Daisy {or any one of our family pets}, I honestly believe that it was our rescued pets who rescued us.

Thank you for reading this very long post, and maybe even crying along with me. It may take years for my heart to heal, but I will cherish the memories I shared with Daisy.

Yours Truly, Vanessa

The Four-Legged Loves of My Life There are currently seven four-legged loves of my life: four dogs - C.T., Dakota, Daisy, and Doc, and three cats - KitKat, Sonny and Cher.

[artsoccupychi]

The Day Everything Became Crystal Clear

Recently, I had a very…bad…week. I thought I’d share a very personal story with you, in the hope that it helps you enjoy Thanksgiving with more gratitude.

(Gratitude is the highest vibration emotion ever recorded by ECG and EEG!)

My 17-year old son texted me, while I was in San Diego at a conference, that something was wrong with our much-loved cat, Charlemagne.

Charlie wasn’t yet 2 years old, and he was fine when I left. He’s never been sick. When I got home the next day, I found that his back legs were paralyzed.

The next day I took him to the vet, and she said she would run some tests, that it looked like heart disease and blood clots.

Thirty minutes later, the vet called me to tell me Charlie had suddenly just taken one deep breath and…died.

The next day, I went to court against my children’s father.

While we’d never been to court before, we’ve been to many legal mediations over 9 years, and I’ve incurred many thousands of dollars in legal bills.

To save money, I had released my attorney, and represented myself in court.

And the judge awarded me everything. Including my attorneys’ fees, since my ex-husband’s violation of court orders caused the legal fees in the first place.

But then, the judge, scrolling through the online court system, told me he couldn’t find the bill from my attorney, filed as an affidavit with the court.

Turns out, she forgot. So, my children’s father got to walk away from that large bill, and I was left holding the bag. All due to a technicality.

I wish those were the worst things, in my very bad week.

The next day, we found out that my new book, Vibe, had pre-sold well over 15,000 copies, prior to the week it published. The book project itself represented 18 months of hard work: landing the deal with Simon & Schuster, writing, and editing several times, and marketing it for months leading up to the excitement of publication date.

And that day, I learned that even though I outsold 9 of the 10 authors who made the New York Times bestseller list that week–even Oprah–my book somehow didn’t make the New York Times list.

“Things happen in threes,” I have said at several times in my life, including that week.

If I’m telling the truth, I may have thrown a little pity party. I felt like I shouldn’t have so many sad things happen to me, rapid-fire. I went to bed early.

The next morning, after the bad news of the NYT list ignoring my book, I was at tennis practice, and my teammate, Susan, said,

“Hey, congrats on your book. I was at a care facility last week, and I met a lady who is a big fan of yours. She was showing me your book and was all excited about it.”

I asked Susan where the care facility was, and what the lady’s name is. It turned out she was just two miles from my home. The next day, I stopped by, hoping to sign the lady’s book, and chat with her.

Merry, it turned out, is 63 years old, though her skin looks 35, as if she’s never been out in the sun–and she has a long, blonde braid.

She was in a twin bed with two other ladies sharing the room. She sits in an old, broken wheelchair, because she has no income, no pension, no husband, siblings, parents, or children—and the broken wheelchair she sat in was recently gifted to her.

Her eyes got wide, as I walked into the room, and she whispered:

“Is it you??”

It turns out, she didn’t have my new book, Vibe, at all, as I’d assumed. She wouldn’t likely know about it, since she has no access to social media, and has never sent or received a text in her life, doesn’t own a smart phone.

Her entire life is lived in a corner of a shared room, in a rundown care facility.

She picked up the 2007 first-edition, self-published version of my 12 Steps to Whole Foods course, next to her bed, and handed it to me.

She pointed at my photo, in the Intro, and said, “That’s you!”

“Yes it is,” I told her, “a long time ago!” She told me about the public lecture I had given, many years before. Her neighbor had offered to drive her to it.

Half the pages were torn out of the 12 Steps course manual.

She picked up a large, 3-ring binder, to show me where the rest of the pages were. She had been tearing out the pages, one at a time, cutting off the ragged edges with scissors, and putting each page in plastic sleeves, in the binder.

The 12 Steps to Whole Foods manual was extensively marked up with highlighting, careful notes in the margin in ballpoint pen, recipes circled that she wanted to try.

The 10-year old manual looked like it had been well loved, well used, dog-eared.

Only it wasn’t. Because Merry cannot cook. Merry can’t walk anymore, 26 years after her diagnosis of Multiple Sclerosis when she was just 37 years old.

She told me about her life. How she tries to get to the exercise room every day, to stand (or sit, when her legs won’t hold her) holding onto the rails of the vibration plate.

She told me that doing so wears her out, and after one of these “exercise” sessions, she sometimes sleeps for 36 hours.

She told me how she would love to eat a healthy diet, as she’d read in my 12 Steps to Whole Foods manual—but she would somehow have to get the ingredients to make a green smoothie. And a blender.

Reading that manual, and looking at the photos, for her, is like reading a travel book for someone who dreams, someday, of seeing the world beyond her back yard.

Merry told me that the only vegetables served at the budget-conscious care facility–alongside ham, pie with cool whip, and the usual cafeteria fare–are severely overcooked vegetables, to cater to the mostly elderly population in the care facility.

I asked her how I could help her. I left with a resolve to use my own resources to get Merry a large, daily green smoothie.

She told me, with determination in her voice, several times: “In just a few weeks, I plan to be leaving here.”

But, Merry came in, walking, 10 months ago—when she fell, and her landlady broke her own rib, picking Merry up off the floor–causing Merry to realize that now, finally, she needed a higher level of care.

But 10 months after walking through the front door, Merry’s health has declined to the point where she can no longer walk at all.

“I’m going to get out of here, though,” she told me, several times, resolve in her eyes.

When I left that day, I walked out into the parking lot of the care center. It is mid-November here in Utah, but we’ve had an amazing indian summer, and the sun was shining.

I could smell the decaying leaves all around me, a smell I’ve always loved. I stopped, by my car, struck with this thought:

I am walking across this parking lot. I just walked out of that facility. No one in there can walk out here.

I am standing out here in the sunshine. Where I could run, across this parking lot, if I want to.

And I’m going to get in that car, which is available to me all the time, and I’m going to drive it.

To enjoy Saturday night out with my girlfriends.

And because I have a job and access to cash and credit, I can buy myself dinner, and enjoy the evening doing whatever I want.

As I got lost in total awe and gratitude at my incredibly blessed circumstances, I noticed that, in the middle of the parking lot where I was standing, tears were rolling down my cheeks.

I threw my head back, and felt the sun on my skin. I took a few deep breaths, amazed and awed by my healthy body and mind.

Any vestiges of my pity party from earlier in the week melted away. I felt like the luckiest, most blessed, happiest person alive. I was flooded with compassion for another living being whose suffering was real and yet, she wasn’t complaining, and her vibration actually uplifted me.

I realized that my “problems” weren’t worth losing even a moment of happiness over.

I hope you take a moment to focus on the good, to show more love, to find someone to serve, and to remember what you have to be grateful for.

P.S. Of course you will want to know if I’ve adopted Merry and am helping serve her needs, and I am, don’t worry!

[Read More ...] http://greensmoothiegirl.com/media/uploads/2017/11/shutterstock_741769930-1024x683.jpg http://greensmoothiegirl.com/2017/11/22/gratitude/

[augustissunny-blog]

3

A week later Hank and Jones came into my room and said they needed to talk to me. Jones spoke up first, he was as tall as Hank but much trimmer. "Ruby, Hank and I have been talking, we think we need to do something about Harold Wilts." I looked at him skeptically. "What kind of something?" Jones glanced at Hank and went on hesitantly. "Like get back at him for what he did. He doesn't deserve to get away with that." "Well what about the cops Jones?" Hank said. "I think we should just report it." I agreed. "We all know the cops won't do shit. They don't do anything anyway and with the track record dad had with them.." Jones dropped off. None of us liked to talk about our father sense he had died in prison a few years ago. "I guess its true they didn't listen when you got beaten up Hank." I said looking at my oldest brother. "We are going over there tonight." Jones said with finality. I tried to convince him to not but he was set and after we talked longer Hank got on board too. "We want you to come with us Ruby. That's why we told you before." Jones said. I looked at him solemnly. "Alright. What time do we go?" "Midnight." Hank said and left it at that. They left shortly after that and I was alone my thoughts. Midnight came far too fast. I wasn't looking forward to doing what we had to but I knew my brothers would never drop it until justice had been carried out. They got me at twelve and we went down stairs and out into the street. We didn't speak at all on the walk. Jones seemed to have some quiet rage burning under his skin. Hank walked with a slight slouch and seemed he really did not want to be doing this but he knew he had to go with his family. I felt nothing but dread and anxiety about going back to such a terrible place. The night was still and quiet. Not one car drove past us and we didn't speak until we reached his block. "I think we should try the back." Jones said looking down the alley I had cut threw so many times. We both silently agreed and went on. When we reached the fence with the Honeysuckle on it, I pulled it aside to see the fence underneath. There was a hole in the wooden planks that looked man made. Big enough for a person (or dog) to fit threw. It must have been where Mr.Wilts' Rottweiler had come out to look at me all those months ago. Jones ducked down and went threw the hole. Hank who was much more muscular had a harder time getting threw. I followed with ease and straightened up to see yard in need of cleaning badly. Trash and items were littered across the grass and there was a broken down car by the side wall. The yard was very enclosed though. No one could see in unless they had had a ladder to look over the tall walls on the side. We walked forward into the grass up to our knees. After maybe ten steps I froze. I heard a soft, low sound from behind me. Hank and Jones both come to a stop as another growl came out of the darkness. As the Rottweiler stepped into the silhouette from Harold's house Jones stepped forward and brandished a thin but long knife. The dog barked loudly and ran at him. At the same time the other black beast of at least 190 pounds ran at Hank from behind. Bitting him on the leg, Hank fell to one knee and pulled from under his jacket a short baseball bat. Swinging it around with one hand he knocked the Rottweiler on the neck, killing it almost instantly. Turning frantically from the lame body before him to Jones who was losing the battle between his own attacker. His throat was gushing alarmingly and the dog was sinking ever deeper into it. With a scream of rage Hank smashed the dog with the bat. So many times even once it was dead and then fell next to Jones with a soft cry. I was paralyzed with fear this whole time but now I found motion as I ran to kneel next to hank. "Jones...Its okay..." Hank was at a loss for words. His hands were trying to stop the blood but there no helping him. Jones died in front of the two of us. The paralysis from Jones dying broke all of a sudden when a loud crack sounded threw the night. I had only a moment to look up at Hank as he went flying back. The sound loud enough to deafen came with a temporary light, so that I could clearly see the slight line of blood that came out of Hank as he flew threw the air. Turning quickly to the back porch (where the light had come from) I saw a dark shadow coming at me. Coming far too fast. The next thing I knew the stock of a rifle made contact with my head. I did not yet black out but I did fall to the ground and did not do much to protest as the man dragged me up the stairs. However I did find the strength to kick in on the wrist holding me once we were in the kitchen. Scrabbling up and to the counter I could now see Harold Wilts nursing his weakened right wrist. I see a kitchen knife holder and grab for one of them, unfortunately it was one of the smaller ones. Harold then pulled out his own knife from a sheath in his pocket casting his gun to the side. "Please. Stop this. I just want to leave." I pleaded with him. Hoping that he was only defending himself from my brothers. Then why did he drag you in here? My little voice said. He looked a man of a thousand years. His skin seemed to hang off him, looking like nothing of the man who had given me coco a week ago. "Fuck you little bitch." His tone was of hatred. He ran at me with the knife by his side swinging out to meet the side of my ribs. At the same time I slashed at his face and missed. Instead I hit is neck. Blood came gushing out and down his brown shirt. He feel onto me and dragged me to the ground with his weight pushing the knife deeper into my rib cage. I drew the knife back again and plunged it into his temple. He stopped moving all together with a loud but silent exhale. With all my might I pushed him over off of me and put my hand to my side where he had speared me on. I felt the blood drain quickly and my vision blurred. Then everything when black. 

The End

[andrewdburton]

How to get started with difficult tasks

Yesterday in the /r/financialindependence community on Reddit, /u/mkengland asked a seemingly innocent question:

What made you stop planning/researching financial independence and actually start?

Was there a tipping point for you where you finally felt ready to start your FI journey? What made you finally take the plunge, open that first IRA/brokerage account/etc., and throw your money into the market?

[…]

I'm waffling over details, though…and can't seem to just DO IT.

This question seems innocuous, right? Yet, I've been thinking about it for the past 24 hours.

I hear questions like this relatively often. People want to know how to get started with saving and investing. Or with debt reduction. Or they want to know how to get started with budgeting. And, in fact, it's the sort of question I had too back when I started my own journey away from debt and toward financial freedom. It all seems so overwhelming! Where do you begin?

Trust me, I know how easy it is to over-complicate things. My ex-wife used to call my Overanalytical Man due to my superhuman ability to overthink even the simplest subject. Although I do this less often (and less severely) than I used to, it's still a problem that plagues me.

Today, let's talk about what I've learned about how to get started with difficult tasks.

Action Not Words

Generally speaking, things aren't as complicated as I (or you) want to make them out to be. Most problems can be solved with simple solutions. It's how we implement these solutions that adds layers of complexity.

A healthy weight, for instance, really is as simple as “calories in, calories out”. Yes, I realize there's a lot of debate about this subject in recent years. And yes, I understand there's additional nuance and complexity to the discussion. But that doesn't change the fundamentals: If you want to lose weight, you have to burn more calories than you consume.

Likewise, all of personal finance boils down to one simple rule: To build wealth, you must spend less than you earn. End of story. This is the fundamental rule of personal finance, and all of the books and blogs and TV shows about money — all of the added layers of complexity — are simply clothes draped across this basic body.

When I see questions like “How do I get started toward financial independence? It all seems so complicated!”, my mind immediately goes to this. How do you get started? By spending less than you earn. Want to get out of debt? Spend less than you earn. Want to save for a down payment on a house? Spend less than you earn. It all comes back to this one idea.

Any move that increases your income or decreases your spending is a step in the right direction.

In a way, allowing perceived complexity to prevent you from doing the right thing is a variation of the optimization trap. The optimization trap is the belief that small tweaks make more difference than they actually do. Optimizing small things (clipping coupons, say) is often a way for people to feel like they're doing something meaningful when they're actually avoiding big, scary moves that could truly make a difference (downsizing their home, for example).

When people like me overcomplicate things at the start, we're doing so for similar reasons. We're nervous about making big changes. We're complacent. We're comfortable with our lives at the moment, so instead of doing the things we know need to be done, we spin our wheels while focusing on details that don't matter.

Right now, for instance, I am fat. There's no way to sugarcoat it. I've been gaining weight for several years now, and thanks to this quarantine, I've reached peak J.D. (in terms of size, anyhow). I know what I need to do to get fit again — eat less, exercise more — but I find it very easy to allow stupid details to prevent me from doing the right thing. “My bike needs a new tire. I don't have weights at home and the gyms are closed. I don't like vegetables. I don't know which tool to use to track my calories.”

All of these details are bullshit that distracts me from the fundamental problem: I need to burn more calories than I consume, and I'm not doing that.

If I want to get started with weight loss, I must achieve (and maintain) a calorie deficit. If /u/mkengland wants to reach financial independence, (s)he must spend less than (s)he earns. In both cases, thinking and deliberating does nothing. To achieve our goals, we must take action.

Start Where You Are

For overthinkers like me, action is key. Instead of finding the perfect time and place to start, we should start anywhere. Screw perfection! When starting a long journey, a perfect first step isn't critical. If you stumble at the start of a sprint, you're likely to lose the race. But if you stumble at the start of a marathon, it makes no difference. All that matters is that you've begun running.

As my friend Paula Pant once told me, “An imperfect plan you follow is better than a perfect plan you don't.”

One of the core tenets of the Get Rich Slowly philosophy is that the perfect is the enemy of the good. Too many people never start putting their finances in order because they don't know what the “best” first step is. Most of the time, “best” is irrelevant in this context. Don't worry about getting things exactly right — just choose a good option and do something to get started.

Here's a non-financial example from my own life.

As you know, Kim and I moved into our country cottage nearly three years ago. For the first couple of years, our time and money and attention were focused on home renovations. There were a lot of repairs that had to be made. Last year, we took a break. But this year? Thanks in part to the coronavirus quarantine, we've begun tackling our yard.

We have an acre of land. About half of it is seldom-used forest that slopes down the hill to a creek. But the other half is our fenced yard. It's a gorgeous park-like setting — or could be, if it were maintained. But the previous owners let things get out of control, and we've done little more than tread water since we bought the place. We've kept things from getting worse, but haven't done anything to make things better.

Here's a February photo of one corner of our yard:

This year, though, Kim and I have resolved to make our park-like setting actually park-like. That'll require a lot of work. Like, hundreds of hours. In February, we toured the yard to talk about what we needed to do. We each made a list as we walked along. When we finished, we were both overwhelmed.

“There's so much,” Kim said. “Where do we start?”

“I don't know,” I said. “I guess we start with whatever feels most pressing.” We drafted a short prioritized list of projects…and then never followed it. (Seriously. The top thing on our list remains undone two months later haha.)

Instead, here's how things went down.

On her first day laid off from work, Kim went outside to play with the dog and the cats. She got distracted by some weeds in the “tea garden”, so she paused to pull them. This led her to prune the climbing rose. Then she hauled the yard debris to the bottom of the hill, where she found more yard debris that needed to be cleaned up. And so on. Before she realized it, she'd put in a day of work. But it wasn't the work we'd planned.

What we've found is that if go outside, we'll see something that needs to be done. If we do that thing, a second step will become self-evident — or we'll see something else that needs done nearby. In other words, if we simply put ourselves in motion, if we do anything that contributes to our future vision of the yard, we'll continue to work on the yard, continue to be productive, until we're tired and done for the day. It doesn't matter which chore we choose. All that matters is that we choose a chore.

Kim has been home for maybe six weeks now. (Who knows anymore? My sense of time has warped.) In those six weeks, we've made huge strides. Sure, there's still much left to do, and we know it. But every day, we do a little more. Our yard has already been transformed, and it's only going to get better as we continue to do more work.

This is a current pano of the entire yard (click to open larger image in new window):

Here's the (very obvious) moral of this story: Start where you are. Do what you can with what you have. Don't concern yourself with “right” or “best” options. Choose a good option and get going.

When tackling a big project — whether that's renovating a yard, digging out of debt, or saving for early retirement — it matters less how you begin than that you begin.

How to Get Started

I grew up Mormon. One of the songs we sang in Primary (a.k.a. Sunday School) was called “Do What Is Right”. I think of it often, even today. Here's the chorus:

Do what is right; let the consequence follow. Battle for freedom in spirit and might; And with stout hearts look ye forth till tomorrow. God will protect you; then do what is right!

“Do what is right; let the consequence follow.” Yes! Exactly! Nowadays, I've incorporated this idea into my personal philosophy.

On my office computer, I have a sticky note: PROCESS NOT OUTCOME. This is a reminder to myself that I cannot control outcomes. I can only control effort.

If I do what is right — that is, if I do what is necessary to achieve what I want — and if I do my best, then I've done my part. By doing what's right and doing my best, I'll likely get the results I'm after. But if the results aren't what I wanted? Well then, I can live in peace. I know I did what I could, and I'm fine with that.

I can control my effort and actions, but I cannot control the results.

This “PROCESS NOT ACTION” reminder is important to me, and not only because I'm Overanalytical Man. I'm also paralyzed by self-doubt. It's easy for me to not take action because I'm afraid.

So, when I take on a big project like the course I just wrote for Audible, I often find it tough to get started. Before I even begin, I'm already imagining how painful it will be to read reviews from people who hate my work.

“PROCESS NOT OUTCOME” is a reminder that if I work hard and provide good info, then I've done my part. I can only control what I put into a project, not what others think of it.

So, let's return to the Reddit question that inspired this all. How do you get started with difficult tasks? Easy. By doing anything that moves you toward your goal.

Don't make things more complicated than they have to be. Identify fundamental principles and pursue them. Especially at the start, don't worry about making perfect choices or about optimization. Simply start. Take action. You can optimize later.

Do what is right. Do your best. Let the consequence follow.

from Finance https://www.getrichslowly.org/how-to-get-started/ via http://www.rssmix.com/