#this cathartic yelling session brought to you by

[lunarsands]

Hi, sorry, I just need to do some cathartic yelling

I AM TIRED!!! OF BEING AFRAID!!!! TO MOVE FORWARD WITH MY OWN LIFE!!!!!!

I want to quit my job. I want to recover from my ongoing physical health issues. I want to get more help for my mental health. I want to go back to school to improve the skills I have and learn new ones. I want to be able to breathe without feeling anxiety over whether I made a mistake on big decisions. I want to be braver about talking to people. I want to create more art. I WANT TO HAVE MY OWN LIFE, not constantly be under my parents' and my sibling's shadows. I want to move away and be able to start over without being afraid. I want!!! to be able to provide for my partner and get married!!! and have a life together !!!!!!

[mcybree]

I think Jimmy first hit Scott and then was like 'oh this feels cathartic actually' and kept doing it for the rest of the session because Scott didn't physically retaliate

This is mostly due to the nature of SL with permanent damage, so players were less quick to punch back against Red Lives but still

Idk where I was going with this

Hold on I’m making a bad takes tag for this one. Not because of your ask but because I can’t talk about jimmy’s character beyond 3l, and 3l doesnt count because jimmy doesnt act like jimmy in 3l. Like I’m so bad at analyzing this guy we have literally one thing in common and beyond that I have no frame of reference, so take the following with a grain of salt

Anyways so yeah about what you said: that’s definitely how I see it. I think it felt good to have Scott run away from him and fear him, I think it finally felt like he was being taken seriously. And I think it definitely got to his head with how assertive he started being, even though all Scott did in return was find his attempts pitiable and amusing.

There’s also a very interesting link you could draw here between this story thread going alongside the Pearl story thread… Jimmy sends Pearl to go hit Skizz and then say it was a message from him, but Pearl felt bad about attacking Skizz so while she did succeed, she acted apologetic about it. Which made Jimmy Really Fucking Mad, for some reason? Like an unprecedented amount. He yelled “TOUGHEN UP!” and attacked her and told her that he found her “acting sorry” to be personally disrespectful and that he’s really disappointed in her and then guilted her about it and when she told him she tried her best, he told her that her best just wasn’t good enough. Like.. Hello? Jimmy? Do you need to talk, bud? Is someone projecting their need to be seen as a real threat and not a weak joke onto an unrelated party perhaps? Is someone trying so hard to move forward this season and block that part of themselves out, that a reminder of how they were in the past feels personally offensive? Like I think Pearl adding “and that was a message from Jimmy!” to her attack was what set him off, because then he felt like it reflected on him exactly what he didn’t want to be seen as, and he couldn’t let that slide. Not when he finally felt like he was making progress towards what he thinks he wants.

Idk! Jimmy had been acting more aggressively (genuine aggression. not really that fake aggression from previous seasons where he’ll get mad and then immediately backstep) prior to this, but attacking Scott still felt like a turning point to me, with how he was so hesitant when Joel first brought up the idea but then later took it to an extreme just because it felt good. But also I’m insane and always have to bring it back to f lower husbands because I’m obsessed. So you know

[voicesfromthelight]

A Simple Drum Meditation for Releasing Energetic Blockages

One of the best things we can do for ourselves not only as psychic practitioners, but as humans dealing with the ups and downs of life on earth, is to learn how to care for our energy bodies through releasing emotional blockages. This is one of the most basic functions of any kind of psychic healing work, and even if we do not have the luxury of having acquired fancy Reiki attunements, or extensive knowledge of energy work, there are some simple techniques we can use to help ourselves tune up our systems and keep our energies flowing freely. Chakra meditations are a great start, but today, I’m going to teach you a highly effective alternative to this: a simple shamanic drum meditation.

Before we get into the exercise itself, we’ll need to go over a bit how the energy body works. Our energy body, or aura, as per its metaphysical definition, constitutes the bridge between our physical body and the spiritual dimension. It is a multi-layered energetic emanation of sorts, that encompasses not only what might loosely be termed our “life force,” but the imprints of our thoughts and emotions as well as our physical state and bodily functions. Many illnesses that end up manifesting in our physical bodies have their origin in changes and blockages of energy flow within the aura, often stemming from mismanaged or unhealed emotional processes. This is why releasing these blockages is so important.

One fascinating thing that I have noticed in my decades of practicing energy healing is that often, when we have a traumatic experience that we do not release through properly expressing our pain, the ensuing emotion will embed itself in our bodies, forming an energetic blockage, sometimes for so long that we forget what actually caused it in the first place. I remember the first time one of my best friends, Anneli, gave me a Reiki healing when we were roommates in college. I sat in a chair, and she held her hand on my back for about ten minutes. I felt nothing. Zilch. I was starting to get bored, and to wonder if the whole thing was just an expensive hoax. Then, all of a sudden, I felt a twinge in my back, almost like someone had pinched me. (She hadn’t.) “Ow!” I winced. Then, at once, an overwhelming flood of emotion overpowered my senses, out of nowhere. I bawled my eyes out, with no idea where the emotion was coming from, or what had caused it. It kept going and going. By the end of the cathartic session, I felt lighter on my feet, energized and relieved. Anneli had helped me release an energy blockage that had become dissociated from its instigating event.

While there are many excellent books written on energy healing, such as Barbara Brennan’s “Hands of Light” and Amy Wallace’s “The Psychic Healing Book,” the best way to learn about energy healing is through practice. You do not need special attunements to do energy healing work! While I encourage you to read as much as you can and make use of the chakra meditations I have posted earlier in my blog, which are a solid foundation for this type of work, the drum meditation I will share today is a great way to familiarize yourself with what releasing energy blockages can feel like. It will help sensitize you to your own energy body, and teach your brain to tune into your subtle sensations. (It’s also a great cure for tension headaches and lack of sleep!) Are you ready? Here is what you will need to do.

1. Find a recording of a steady shamanic drum beat, between 20 and 40 minutes long. The more boring, the better. I do not recommend using one of the more “New Agey” ones couched in “pretty” synthesizer padding. You need something that will profoundly tire out your brain. Sandra Ingerman, for instance, has some good ones available, with rattles and whistles. You can find them online. You can even download shamanic drumming apps for your phone!

2. Set up a way to listen to this track on headphones. If you can listen from your phone, which you can keep in your pocket, it will have the additional advantage that you can get up and move towards the end of the meditation, if you feel like it.

3. Headphones on, lie down in a comfortable place, close your eyes, relax, and begin the drum track. Keep your eyes closed. Try to empty your mind. Your brain will probably start out with some resistance to listening to something so relentlessly monotonous. Go with the flow, but do not stop the meditation. Your brain will eventually give in, and shift to a different wavelength.

4. Turn your attention to your body, and tune into how you are feeling. Can you sense where you are harboring tension? Mentally scan each area of your body in turn for any discomfort. Pay attention to your shoulders, your arms, your face, your stomach, your throat, your knees, your legs, your feet, your toes… When you locate an area where you are holding tension, breathe into that area, and try flexing, vibrating or shaking it off until you feel a release. You can also squirm, change the position of your body, rub, massage, or hold your hand over any area that feels “asleep.” Breathe deeply. You will probably notice you are carrying tension that you didn’t even realize was there.

5. At some point, if you stay focused and keep releasing the physical tension as you notice it, you will also start to feel repressed emotions welling up. You might feel an urge to laugh, cry, groan, yell, snarl, sing or giggle. Whatever comes up, allow yourself to express it as fully as you can. Let it all out, and keep breathing deeply as it all bubbles to the surface. Keep going until you feel the emotions have all been released.

6. When you feel you have exhausted all of the pent up emotion, and released as much of the physical tension through vibrating and shaking as you can, you will probably experience a rush of energy. Your body will be warm and tingling. If you feel moved to do so, get up and dance. Move your body in ways you haven’t done in a while. Stretch out. Shake your behind. See how you carry yourself differently. Express yourself through movement and sound. Sing if you feel inspired. Keep breathing deeply and moving your body until the drum track ends.

How do you feel now?

Congratulations, you have just released ossified emotional blockages, and done an energy healing on yourself!

P.S. Since posting this meditation, people have brought to my attention similarities between this and holotropic breath work. It's true that there are similarities to that, and also to other techniques such as Osho's technique of dynamic meditation. While I arrived at the drum meditation exercise described above independently and instinctively, it goes to show how universal certain principles of energy healing can be. These techniques work! 

[thatgirlonstage]

Podcast Challenge 18/4/18

There is a lot today because I stayed home sick from work and I started getting a headache whenever my eyes were open for too long so I ended up just lying on my bed binging podcasts. Mostly Bright Sessions. I want to catch up with Bright Sessions since that actually seems like, in reach lol unlike MBMBAM. Underneath the cut because there is a LOT (although I chipped away at that monster too)

Bolded means I listened to an episode today. Strikethrough means I’m all caught up and waiting for the next episode :)

The Adventure Zone | Alice Isn’t Dead | The Bright Sessions | Can I Pet Your Dog? | Ear Hustle | The Flop House | The McElroy Brothers Will Be in Trolls 2| My Brother, My Brother, and Me | Sawbones | Shmanners | The Thrilling Adventure Hour | Welcome to Night Vale | Within the Wires | Wonderful!

Podcast: My Brother, My Brother, and Me

Episode: 128: Y Tu Hermano Tambien

Time: 1hr 3 min, 140% of goal

Commentary:

Petition to replace statues of racists with bronze statues of Travis McElroy reclining like Cleopatra

Episode: 129: Krumping Across America

Time: 48 min, 107% of goal

Commentary:

That first question about the Craiglist girlfriend, the one who wanted to have sex with a virgin man, that was just... that was so much, man, you can’t start with that, there’s nowhere to go from there.

Episode: 130: Holy Terror

Time: 49 min, 109% of goal

Commentary:

My ex boyfriend actually did have some kind of olfactory issue - it wasn’t that he couldn’t smell ANYTHING, I don’t think, I’m pretty sure his nose was just like extremely desensitized. The only time it had any kind of consequence was when another friend of ours accidentally forgot some boxed restaurant leftovers in his car and he didn’t notice for like two weeks until someone else got in the car and noticed the stench.

Podcast: The Flop House

Episode: #31 - Swing Vote

Time: 59 min, 131% of goal

Commentary:

That Mystery Team thing actually sounds like a fun concept, although why did they say “they have to solve a murder” like that’s not a thing that Nancy Drew/The Hardy Boys ever did like there wasn’t a ton of guts and gore but there were very much dead people in those stories

Episode: Movie Minute #20 - Pool Cleaning

Time: 3 min, 7% of goal

Commentary:

You know I meant to watch Benjamin Button and just never got around to it

Podcast: Shmanners

Episode: Travel: Boats and Planes

Time: 49 min, 109% of goal

Commentary:

I have been on too many planes I find nothing magical about it anymore. I’m sorry, Travis, I appreciate your optimism and the joy you find in life but I’ve flown a minimum of once every six months since I was three months old and I really can’t summon up awe for it anymore.

I really thought they weren’t going to talk about going through security and I was ready to riot because I could do an entire forty-minute episode of my own just ranting about the IDIOTS I’ve encountered who have no idea how to go through security and take like five years figuring it out

Episode: Travel: Trains and Automobiles

Time: 47 min, 104% of goal

Commentary:

Shmanners: drivers ed edition

“There’s no c [in Shmanners]” but there SHOULD BE THOUGH Lemony Snicket taught me this in The Wide Window when I was seven the prefix is “schm” and it honestly really bothers me that they got this wrong

Podcast: The Bright Sessions

Episode: S3E4: Patient #13-A-3 (Chloe)

Time: 25 min, 56% of goal

Commentary:

We finally meet Frank! His voice is not what I was expecting - I think I imagined him sounding older? - but I like it! And Saaaaaaaam I was wondering why Chloe ran out of the room like that

Episode: S3E5: Sam, September 13th

Time: 26 min, 58% of goal

Commentary:

Sam lists all of the questions I want to know the answers to. Also I really enjoy that we get Sam and Joan more as equals and friends now, I really like this dynamic between them.

Episode: S3E6: Caleb, 9/16

Time: 4 min, 9% of goal

Commentary:

That was TOOTH ROTTING I love it

Episode: S3E7: Friday, 9/23/16

Time: 24 min, 53% of goal

Commentary: 

So we can agree that the entire AM should be burnt to the ground except Officer Decker, yes? Yes.

Ooooooh new character, “Rose”

There should definitely be a Danny Phantom crossover where we fuse the AM and the GIW. I do really appreciate that we get to SEE the “evil scary government agent that does experiments on people” from the perspective of some of the people who work there who AREN’T mad scientists, see how they justify it and willingly blind themselves to the moral issues

Shoutout to Sarah for being the real MVP

“My nephew Adam” OH FUCK NO FUCK FUCK FUCK

Episode: S3E8: friday, studio time w/ the gang

Time: 23 min, 51% of goal

Commentary:

Me this entire episode: PROTECT THEM

Hmm so they’ve brought up the Intrusion episode twice, I thought it was like a non-canonical crossover thing but it seem like maybe they’re actually making a thing of it?

Episode: S3E9: Damien, September

Time: 20 min, 44% of goal

Commentary:

Mark yelling at Damien was WILDLY cathartic

Episode: S3E10: September 24th, 2016

Time: 37 min, 82% of goal

Commentary: 

I JUST WANT MARK TO GET HOME AND BE OKAY

Also lol @ Caleb just trying to handle his sex life while everything else is turning into a Bournian government conspiracy around him

Episode: S3E11: Frank

Time: 38 min, 84% of goal

Commentary:

That was... a lot. I sort of guessed at most of it but it was... a lot.

Episode: S3E12: September 30th, 2016

Time: 10 min, 22% of goal

Commentary:

I suppose I ought to feel a little bad for Damien, but I REALLY don’t. Careful what you fucking wish for, you hypocritical douchebag

Episode: S3E13: Patient #13-A-3 (Chloe)

Time: 22 min, 49% of goal

Commentary:

Mark is such a sweet innocent bean and any attempt to make the AM morally grey is belied by the fact that they, without any cause, kidnapped him, locked him in a basement, and experimented on him for years

Episode: S3E14: sunday, after my session

Time: 5 min, 11% of goal

Commentary:

“You’re the struggling artist and I’m the wealthy old lady patron.” Chloe still isn’t my favorite character but I LOVE her and Sam’s friendship so much

Episode: S3E15: Patient #11-A-7 (Caleb)

Time: 26 min, 58% of goal

Commentary:

Caleb: Okay can we stop talking about my sex life and CONCENTRATE ON THE EVIL GOVERNMENT AGENCY THAT KIDNAPS PEOPLE

What is going to happen to him though because I do NOT like where this foreshadowing is going

Episode: S3E16: Patient #14-A-8 (Rose)

Time: 30 min, 67% of goal

Commentary: 

Rose is super cute! Also, oh man, Mark, I just want to give Mark a hug, man.

Episode: S3E17: Telephone 2

Time: 22 min, 49% of goal

Commentary:

Oh yes hearing Wadsworth get her comeuppance by having Adam confront her was AWESOME

Episode: S3E18: Safe House Part I

Time: 24 min, 53% of goal

Commentary: 

“I beat you once in 1998″ peak sibling right there

Frank WHY

Episode: S3E19: Safe House Part II

Time: 55 min, 122% of goal

Commentary:

Caleb, oh honey, oh, no

I just want all of them to be safe and okay GOD. I mean, Damien can die in a hole, but I don’t want Caleb to have KILLED him, he can die in a hole of natural causes. Chloe is not my favorite character but oh hell yes her last bit in this episode was EVERYTHING to me

Total Listening: 11hr 49 min, 1576% of goal

Ahahahaha like I said, literally all I did today was zone out and listen to podcasts

Ah well, no one on this website has a right to judge me for binging anything

[sofard]

"I’m not a racist, but...”

A friend of mine once used a fake name on a job application. He had the kind of pedigree that would have all but guaranteed him at least an interview were it his name was of the fairer skinned variety but as it were, he was deep in a several-months-long streak of rejected applications and the skin suit he was blessed with at birth was of the Indian persuasion.

Evidently what inspired his decision to lie about his name was a study published around that time that showed that people with traditionally “black” names were a third less likely to be called back for an interview than those with “white” names and he figured what might be true of the Daquans and Tyrones of the world might be true of the Daneshes and Tanvirs. 

In what proved to be a fortuitous state of affairs for him and a sad state of affairs for humanity, he was right. He landed the interview (and the job) and apparently explaining to your would-be boss that your name is actually Navin Modi and not Nathan Madison is indeed as awkward as one would expect. Upon receiving word of Navin's deceit, his boss was predictably upset but also afraid of the HR nightmare that might ensue should he raise an uproar, and Navin, for his part, was left with the kind of morose self righteousness one feels when our worst suspicions are vindicated. 

This story is worth sharing because it bears on the pernicious subtlety of contemporary racism. Racism with a capital R still exists, but we have mostly silenced it. The tragedy of today is that even in the upper echelons of progressive, liberal, socially-conscious society, there remains the kind of racial biases we assume we have shed. And because calling someone a racist has become more taboo than actually being racist, accusations of “race based decision making,” to put it kindly, are welcomed with a kind of awkward denial the likes of which you might expect if you publicly point out someone’s hair plugs. 

I think the shaming of racism speaks to why there is so much silent disagreement over its prevelance. Political correctness has done too great of a job of shutting out explicit bigotry in the public sphere, and so pointing out its more complicated or subdued manifestations can make you sound like a conspiracy theorist at times. 

We are wired to notice change and ignore the consistent. It is why we miss partners most when they are gone. And because lynchings and residential schools are a thing of the past, we are left bickering over things like whether or not police brutality is indeed discriminatory, each side cherrypicking favourable details from academic papers and criticizing study flaws to make their point.  

There is a scene in Django Unchained where Leonardo Dicaprio’s character, Candie Calvin, owner of Candie-land, a prosperous plantation, threatens to murder his slave (the protagonist’s love interest), Broomhilda, by bludgeoning her with a hammer, unless his unwelcome guests pay him twelve thousand dollars. Regardless of your opinion of the civil war or race politics today, I imagine any viewer, save perhaps psychopaths, was reeling in empathy watching that scene. Even the most bigoted amongst us will find it easy to condemn the racial-slurs-screaming antagonists portrayed in films; those characters who are portrayed with an ugliness on the outside to suit the ugliness inside. 

Candie Calvin threatening to murder his property, Broomhilda.

These kind of extremes, in film or history books, serve as a sort of healing stone, placating our conscience and forgiving us of the kind of daily prejudices that go unnoticed. This is why it is possible for some to simultaneously hate german nazis from World War II and sympathize with modern white nationals who extol similar rhetoric under the guise of preserving history or cultural identity. 

In this way, art and media pacify our conscience. I am not yelling chink at every Chinese person I see crossing the street and so I am better than the worst portrayed in film, I am conditioned to believe. This is what our understanding of racism today looks like, if you can call it that. The very word evokes such a garish or violent extreme of bigotry that we become blinded to its more detrimental and subtle varieties the way staring into headlights blinds you to the muted glow of the stars. 

People like resolutions. The tearing down of the Berlin wall was a great symbolic end to the cold war. The images of young men and women, sledge hammers in hand, swinging at the graffitied wall bear some kind of cathartic victory over a darker past. There is no physical wall separating races, no monument celebrating racism (though if there were I would be the first person to volunteer its design) we can tear down and so instead we erect one-dimensional symbols of intolerance and make peace with our history by defeating them. 

I once had a conversation about race with a white friend of mine who said sincerely “I wish I took advantage of white privilege” as though it is government-issued token you can cash in opportunistically. “Sorry, I am seeing someone” — “Wait, I have 3 white privilege vouchers” — “Why didn’t you say so? Where should we fuck?" 

There are endless statistics to measure at least the empirical manifestations of racism. White people are less likely to be arrested for the same crime as minorities, more favoured romantically than any other race on dating sites, more likely to be hired with the same resume, more likely to be cast in film roles, more likely to be acquitted for a crime, more likely to be given a loan — the list goes on and on. 

We call this kind of stuff systemic racism. I believe we do so in part because it helps absolve any particular individual from prejudice. It’s more comforting to know that institutions and socioeconomic classes are responsible for prejudice than we are as complicit, voting, individuals. Racism, and other isms, in this way, have evolved from a choice of an individual to a phenomenon as natural as hurricane winds; something to be studied and measured and explained through psychological and socioeconomic theory. 

How privileged a race is on the spectrum of societal tolerance can be measured by the extent to which their improprieties are afforded context. A white woman who murders her cheating husband is understood to be blinded by temporary insanity or moment of passion. We might punish her out of civil duty, but deep down we extend some empathy to the heart stricken widow. Films will be made and books written attempting to explain what compelled an otherwise lovely woman to commit a crime of passion. Psychologists will be interviewed to assess how, perhaps, her father’s frequent trips overseas and the condom she once found in his travel bag plagued her with a mistrust of men throughout adulthood and how that combined with an abusive boyfriend in her past all but guaranteed destiny would bring her to this horrible act. 

Stereotypes are a burden carried by minorities and individuality a luxury afforded to the light skinned. When I go to a restaurant, I make sure to give a nice tip even if the service is terrible. I feel that in social settings I am an ambassador for Middle Eastern people the world over, like I am carrying a lanyard with the words “Iranian Male Corp. Name: Saeid Fard. Ask me about how non threatening I am.” One act of rudeness or impropriety might be generalized to my entire community, I fear, and conversely all the stereotypes of middle eastern men, the chauvinism, homophobia, or proclivity to douse ourselves in a shroud of cologne, are assumptions I have to actively invalidate. 

I recall one corporate training session years ago when conversation of diversity in the workplace came up and the lead administrator, the kind of person who gets off on being offended, asked the group to raise their hands if they have a gay friend. One of my closest friends at the time was gay (which I hate to bring up because invoking friendship with a minority is the go to defence of any bigot), but I declined to raise my hand on grounds of how ugly I found the question to be. I wondered if he would feel as comfortable asking the group if they have a black friend. Did not raising one’s hand imply that one is necessarily homophobic? Needless to say, I was the only one with my hand down. I was hoping this would spark some kind of dialog where I could make the point of how I found his very question insulting and unproductive. Instead he made eye contact with me, lectured us briefly with platitudes about the importance of diverse perspectives, and moved on. That was it. It was a homophobes-anonymous roll call and apparently I was the only member. Perhaps it was my own insecurity, but I imagined him looking up my name on a clipboard later with the words “hates gay people” next to it and a box labeled “verified” which he gleefully checked.

I have spoken to many members of visible minority groups who feel the same way — feel that they must proactively fight against the assumptions made of them. Even “positive” stereotypes are destructive in that they strip us of complexity. Blacks as athletic or asians good at math, are the kinds of expectations that strip  people of the freedom to self actualize. Slavoj Zizek touches on this point in his talk of political correctness and racial cliches. In one binary cultural narrative of the west, natives are cast as stewards of nature living in harmony with the environment, while the white colonialists on the other hand conquered their environment and are now dealing with a rapprochement of sorts. The truth is, of course, more complex. Natives, for instance, employed what would be considered today barbaric hunting practices that brought the buffalo population of North America to near extinction. Giving people the benefit of being fully human requires giving them the dignity to be horrible. 

Modern day racism is the stripping of individuality and complexity. We spend more effort trying to understand why people of European descent do things and yet generalize the behaviours of coloured people to inherent flaws (or virtues) of their race. A white serial killer is a case study in human psychopathy. A brown one is a terrorist. A white drug user is self medicating, or exploring their identity or navigating societal norms. A black drug user is a thug. It’s worth noting now that there is also an undeniable element of social and economic class at play but describing our penchant to strip minorities of individuality cannot only be deconstructed by race. 

When I was in seventh grade I had the misfortune of being granted the nickname Saudi Arabia from my class of mostly east Asian and White children. Kids will be kids and most of them will tease and be teased, but it’s not if but how you are teased during your formative years that defines what talismanic insecurities you will exercise into adulthood. Already different from every student, I became acutely aware of how physically different I was from my peers at the time. Darker, hairier, wide-nosed, the list goes on. Insults and defamations aside, words have a way of mirroring your identity, a literary conduit into the perceptions of others. I was brown (or olive or whatever) and that brownness or oliveness or whatever really seemed to mean something to people. 

Two paths emerge when people are persistently reminded of their differentness from such a young age, they either let that differentness empower them or swallow them whole. We carry our adolescent identities and insecurities to our grave. And it is through those formative experiences and labels that we develop the racial pride and resentments that bias the decision making of even the best of us. 

Our present inability to rid ourselves of this whole messy racism thing is in part due to the fact that we have been trained to care about race in the first place. The moment you devise an arbitrary way to separate people, whether it be race, national boundaries, or gender, the pernicious “ism” won’t be too far behind. Make too much of a fuss about the sexes (as we have for centuries) and sexism will brew and, like a parasite, snake its way into the most fundamental assumptions we make about each other. We have collectively decided that talking of the “positive” elements of our race is permissable but talking of the “negative” is not. The problem is they are two sides of the same coin. The instant you allow a place for value judgments, there will be both good and bad judgments. 

I don’t believe we can ever truly rid the world of racism, but we can make progress to reduce it. And that starts with the inconvenient step of thinking twice when we celebrate our particular race or culture. That is hard, and perhaps controversial, because many would argue that celebrating our race, particularly as minorities, is a step towards empowerment. And that’s true, but empowerment perpetuates the very acknowledgement of race that can stifle progress. 

Our tendency is to cling to identity myths to help give our lives meaning. Race serves as a kind of semi-exclusive club we are born into. Some clubs have better member benefits than others, but better to be a part of a club than a pariah. 

We are tribal, after all. Study after study has shown that when you give groups of children or adults an arbitrary identity, like making some of them team blue and others team red, they will eventually begin to drape themselves in that identity and build real favouritism for their own and resentment for others. We are literally hard wired for it. 

I dream of a day where we have successfully interbred to the point where the human genetic soup becomes some kind of mono race. Then, we can hate each other for entirely novel reasons.

[yoireverse]

lather & rinse

((wowzers!!! there are now 1k+ followers on the reverse AU blog and I am totally floored. :O as something of a celebration, here’s a short piece that takes place in the season where yuuri comes back to competition. enjoy, everyone!! ♥♥♥))

summary: As a couple in constant competition with each other, they have only one rule to keep the romance alive and well.

Today, it’s Yuuri’s turn to wash Victor’s hair, and he starts off a little miffed, but by the time the shampoo is in his hands, the older man is already beginning to relax. word count: 1.3k rating: t ✮read on ao3 | ✮reverse fics | ✮reverse art →my personal | →em’s art blog

Yuuri has a reputation to maintain, and that fact is currently ruining his life.

“That quad was sloppy!” Yakov yells at the brunette from across the rink, and he nods his head, starting to get worn down from doing this part of the program for the last four and half hours. “You keep forgetting to add in an extra element in the second half when you’ve had a sloppy jump. Figure out your best sequence and adjust. Break time. Your legs are too tired to continue!”

“Got it,” Yuuri murmurs tiredly, slumping to the side for a long gulp of water. Once he gets there, Victor is waiting, fresh-faced and dewey-eyed. The two of them had promised to work on composition for his FS in the afternoon, but honestly, all Yuuri wants to do is sleep.

After his practice has concluded, he goes for a quick cool down jog, then meets back with Victor. His bangs are a mess, and his glasses are crooked, but he’s determined to be there for his fiancé when Victor needs him to be.

Their session is not great. Yuuri gets nit-picky. Victor quips that he wants more creativity in his jump combinations. Four hours pass before Yuuri realizes that he’s going to snap, so he walks away from the rink to cool down, horrified to find that he’s taking out his frustration with his own feeble skating out on Victor. Once he pulls himself together, he dismisses practice for the day.

Victor leaves with him easily, both of them jumpy and irritated as they walk home in silence. The atmosphere between them is sour when they slump back into the apartment and greet Yukachin. Minutes of silence stretch between them before Yuuri finally sighs, kicking off his shoes and putting his bag down lightly.

The sun is setting through their apartment windows, and both of them stare outside until the older man breaks the silence at last.

“It’s my turn today, Victor,” Yuuri murmurs, carefully taking his glasses off. “Meet you in fifteen?”

“Mm,” Victor hums.

Neither of them smell fantastic. Yuuri is still embarrassed about how much conditioning he has left to do before he’s in shape for competition again. Victor has confidence in his body, enough so that he’s not afraid of being unclothed around his coach, but right now, he doesn’t have the utmost confidence in his words. He’s usually so unafraid with his words, but he’s gotten to know Yuuri, and he knows that the man loves him no matter what, but Victor wants to be careful.

He wants to be kind and sweet to Yuuri, instead of saying all of the harsh things in his mind. They wouldn’t help anyone, so he hurries to get undressed and meet the shorter man in the bathroom.

The water runs for a time, and Victor sits with a towel across his lap while steam fills the room. Yuuri comes in with a robe on fifteen minutes later, as promised. Victor awkwardly crams him long limbs into the bathtub. They had specifically chosen this place because it had a freestanding basin, so Yuuri can easily come behind him, undo the tie holding Victor’s hair in a bun, and run his fingers through the long silver locks. Victor slinks under the water for a moment to get his hair wet, and Yuuri moves away to grab a comb.

Just like that, with Yuuri’s fingers tickling Victor’s scalp and curling around Victor’s hair, both of them begin to relax. Yuuri combs and hums lightly, making Victor giggle, lost in the easy sensation of it. As soon as Yuuri reaches for the shampoo, angling himself over Victor’s chest to do so, the younger man pulls his coach down to peck his cheek.

“I’m sorry,” Yuuri whispers, adjusting his body so that he can quickly kiss Victor back on the forehead. “It’s been a long month.” Before he moves to lather his hands and Victor’s hair, Victor reaches for his right hand, his own dripping with warm water.

“Yes,” Victor replies easily, rubbing his fingers over the glinting gold band Yuuri wears. “It has been.”

“I’m glad you suggested doing something like this,” Yuuri says, pulling away to kiss Victor’s crown, then start pulling sudsy-fingers through it. “Your hair is really nice, so it’s cathartic.”

“Yeah, well, imagine how I feel,” Victor says, fully aware of his own body heat in the water as well as the sounds of Yuuri kneeling against tile and humming something off-key. “I could fall asleep.”

Yuuri smacks his forehead, narrowly avoiding getting shampoo in Victor’s eyes. “Don’t you dare. You’re too heavy for me to carry to the bedroom.”

“Yuuri, I am offended!” Victor pretends to act scandalized. “Are you calling me fat?”

Yuuri rolls his eyes, moving his nails over Victor’s scalp to properly cleanse the oils resting at his roots. “I seem to recall a certain someone calling me fat a few days ago. I wouldn’t want to stoop to his level.”

“I didn’t mean it like that, c’mon,” Victor whines low in his throat and Yuuri chuckles. “I was only teasing, dearest.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Yuuri hums. He plays with Victor’s hair for a few more minutes, eventually taking the piles of it and making a floppy spiral on top of Victor’s head. “Time for a rinse.”

“I have to wash first. Do you want to stay?” Victor looks up hopefully at his coach, but Yuuri just shakes his head sweetly, kissing Victor’s cheek.

“Not today, V. Maybe next time.” He hurries out of the bathroom to relax until Victor’s finished, probably going to take a quick shower before joining Victor in bed.

Victor rinses out his hair in the tub and quickly wipes his body down with a sudsy washcloth. Before he can wonder if he’d brought anything to wear to bed, he sees that Yuuri has left him a pink silk robe hanging on the front of the bathroom door, balanced on a hanger. His heart swells, and he wonders if he could just kiss Yuuri silly, but he knows his partner is no mood, so he settles with beaming at the gesture.

Once Yuuri has washed and the two of them are curled up on the pillows, Yukachin padding into their room and sleeping just below their feet, Victor murmurs at the back of Yuuri’s neck, his damp hair flaring around him. “I love you.”

“You should’ve blow-dried it so you don’t get sick,” Yuuri replies softly, yawning and closing his expressive eyes.

“Too tired,” Victor hums, tossing a leg over Yuuri’s thighs and laughing when the older man grumbles. “Are you still cross with me?”

“I wasn’t mad at you, Victor,” Yuuri assures him quietly, curling into his fiancé’s hold. “Just sort of pissed with myself. It wasn’t your fault.”

Victor breathes with relief, chuckling lightly. “Okay. I’m glad.” He toys with Yuuri’s fringe, which is soft and fluffy fresh out of the shower. “It’s my turn next time.”

“It can’t be fun with my hair this short.” Yuuri laughs lightly. “Maybe I should grow it out.”

Victor’s heart figuratively stops for a moment, and he yelps. “Really?”

“I mean, probably not. It’s too much effort.” Victor obviously deflates at the words and Yuuri snorts. “But I guess I can think about it.”

The taller man slumps over his partner with a whine. “You can’t tease me like this, I’m weak.” Before he can truly answer and continue to be snarky, a yawn pries its way out of Victor’s throat and his long lashes start falling on his cheeks more rapidly. “This discussion isn’t over, Yuuri.”

“Yeah right,” Yuuri mumbles around a yawn as well. “You’re going to be asleep in like five seconds.”

True to form, Victor quickly dozes off and Yuuri laughs at his expense, always entranced by his ability to shut down and sleep. Lulled by the warmth of being freshly washed, Yuuri follows him to rest shortly afterwards.

[artificebcdy-blog]

@feralaim

   he’s lost his sense of time here.

  it’s mostly the drugs, combined with the laundry list of surgeries that keep him comatose for hour stacked on top of hour. the days don’t feel like days anymore. just fragments. time suspended. for a while now, he’s not even sure his waking moments have been real. he’s been wrapped up in a fog as they work to give him back any semblance of not spending the rest of his life in a bed.

  his decision was cathartic. no one here would allow him to die. no matter how much he yelled, no matter how much he screamed and told them that there was no point in trying to save him, that he had no one and nothing to live for, no one would end his life for him. even when he softened those words, when his voice would dissolve into cracks, he couldn’t convince the doctor--angela, it took him forever to learn her name before the surgeries--to let him go. she explained, eyes saddened, shocked even when he spoke to her. determined, though, all the same. she exchanged his situation with hers.

  they were all helping people. healing the sick, defending the poor, all of that wishful thinking. that was her role here--to aid as many people as she could. somewhere back, genji had heard of this organization. they were beyond him, a distant legend. defenders against the omnic crisis. one would have to be living under a rock to not know who they were. genji was surprised it took him so long to realize who had picked him up, though it’s still beyond him how these people of all managed to find him. he could ask over and over again, but everyone who wandered into his room seemed to be just as clueless. could be they’ve all been wearing masks this entire time, wanting to fool him with some elaborate web of lies. wouldn’t that be ironic for an organization of ‘heroes’.

  they’ve exchanged those words. he was a barrier for a while. everything she said bounced off wall after all because every syllable stung like a needle. the offer was blackmail, plain and simple. they wanted his help, so they were willing to fix him. wouldn’t do it without his promise, without his given word. his conversation with commander what’s-his-face had given him enough reason to believe that being fixed wasn’t perhaps in his best interest anyway. the more they spoke, though, the more he could see how fervent her words were. she wanted his trust. she fought for his trust. she came to him, plan after plan of how she could not only fix him, but augment him. improve him. and how, afterwards, he would be valuable to their team.

   but her words were kind. she could be wearing a mask. there’s all these horror stories of doctors attempting to manipulate their patients, an anxiety growing a knot of fear in his chest with that realization, coupled with the thought that he already knows they want to use him. it was one day, though, that her words struck him. a slap across the face. a twisted knife into his still-healing wounds.

   let us help you, genji. we know you could help so many people too.

   he didn’t want to help them. he hadn’t wanted to help anyone for so long. but he remembered the corpse he was, lying in front of that scroll in a mess of limbs. that silly boy who made his frivolous pursuits, but genji was always suffocated by his clan’s crimes. they were hurting people, and it filled him up with nausea. he’d never realized to what degree it was until his father had passed. staying within those walls didn’t make a difference for anyone. the vultures--the men who placed him into a noose and hoped he’d choke to death--only took and took and took. they never gave to a world, and the sparrow could never fit into their box.

   skirt-chasing, drinking, misspending his time in the arcade, it was all fun, but his plans were bigger. he wanted to do more. he wanted to bring a smile to someone’s face, improve their life, even if it was only in a small way. it was better than any life in the clan could have ever given him. he’d only wanted to do something more with his life, and life backhanded him in return. left him mortally wounded. betrayed.

   even so, the words did strike a chord that day. as if he was hearing them for the first time, or... not him. the soul of the dead man he used to be, it remembered. it remembered its past, and it closed his throat. ‘what-ifs’ flooded through his mind like rushing minnows, rippling water. it was a perfect piece of bait, hanging in front of him--genji knows that if they want to use them, this is the way to do it. he could never help anyone before. and now the chance was in his reach. a chance at life, no matter how much he mourns now. no matter how much everything he’d known in hanamura had fallen apart in pieces.

   being in a hospital bed is lonely. it wears you down when you stare at the ceiling, make conversations with yourself. maybe his decision is a product of all that. anesthesia blanketed his mind for a long time, and then he woke up. month after month, he had lost. periods of waking up, only to drift back off into blackness. a limbo state had surrounded him again, but he one day, he could finally see. the pain blindsided him, barreling into him like a fucking train, but he could reach. curl fingers. his mind would flash images of flesh and blood, and he would be convinced they were his own again. magically sewn back on, and functional.

   and then the vomit came. the nausea. reality confronted him. all these diagrams, all these talks with angela about what he would become had hit him, but now they were knocking him over. mirrors knocked him over. everything was changed. patches of skin and bone and human here and there. but wire and metal covered more than that. he really was changed.

   it sent him into tears. sessions of trying to make them work. trying to get used sensation in them when that little thing was finally administered into his spine. too much pain here, not enough, too much, just right, just leave it there, fuck it. then she would grab those hands when he was finally used to him, try to get him on his feet again, only to have him be sent into a hysteric breakdown when he crashed to the floor.

   it was crying, a little progress, more crying, more cursing, and wishing to die. today, he could finally grab the railing. hoist himself up, trail his hand along the wall. his feet feel so heavy. every step is a lumber. a labor. he’s trailed up and along the halls before, glancing away from the smiles of anyone who greets him, who says they’re proud of him. maybe it’s just hunger, maybe it’s just not wanting to be brought the same tasteless food over and over again, but he avoids them today. his hand keeps him upright on almost every surface he can manage a grab on.

   he’s not used to eyes yet. it’s easier to avoid them, and so he does. it’s too early for anyone to gawk at him anyway, and even though he can feel glances when he emerges into the cafeteria, genji settles himself into the back. the cook is nice enough to offer to bring the food to his table without him saying much of anything. he doesn’t want her to. actually, what he wants is for her to stop talking, never offer again, because he should be doing this himself by now, but genji nods anyway.

   it’s so difficult to sit. he practically crashes down in the chair, and he ends up having to pull himself closer to the table. it’s all a racket that leaves him with his heart thundering in his chest, lowering his head between his hands.

   move past it. move past it. move past it.

[ecotone99]

[RF] Soulmate Therapy

“But why did you love him?”

I thought for a moment about how to answer a question that was so complex yet so simple. My palms became sweaty and I began picking at the skin alongside my fingernails.

“I just did. From the moment that we met, I instantly knew who he was. He was my bestfriend and the love of my life, all in one.” Doctor Fordham did not like that answer. His eyeline rested above my head, and although he was blind, it felt as though he was looking through me.

“Amelia, that is not a complete answer. You’re smarter than that. What specifically did you like about him?”

I tried to remember. The thought of him, of his face, his body, his laugh, it filled me with grief. Despite this, I decided to think of him. The reasons why I loved him.

It was the spring before graduation. I sat on the balcony of my apartment and used watercolors to paint the scenery in front of me. My college rested in a beautiful town. The student apartments were built alongside a cliff that overlooked the ocean which extended for miles. Each front yard had a range of green grass that never seemed to brown. Palm trees were meticulously placed so that each house had at least one. It felt as though I lived on a private island, a paradise. I continued painting before hearing a voice down below.

“Hey. I’m Grant. What are you doing up there?” I looked down to see a tall man with blond hair staring up at me.

“Oh. Hi. I’m Amelia. I’m just painting. It’s a beautiful day.”

He scratched his head out of nervousness. “It is. Well I live a few blocks down and I’ve seen you riding your bike by my house a few times. Anyways, I was wondering if you’d like to get coffee sometime?”

It was the first time I had been asked out on a proper date. I never found myself particularly attracted to blondes but I found the offer endearing.

“Sure.”

I made my way down the apartment steps so that I could properly greet him. He was large with the body of an athlete. The top of his head was about a foot taller than mine. His eyes were a piercing shade of blue that stared directly into my heart. My cheeks began to blush.

“Here’s my number. I’m busy this week but I’d love to get coffee with you sometime this weekend.”

Grant was attractive but in a specific sense. He had blonde hair and blue eyes that resembled a majority of the men in my town. However, the way that he spoke seemed to melt my heart instantly. His voice held a pitch of confidence and charisma all in one.

“Okay great. I will call you this weekend.”

I stared at the clock in the corner of the room, anticipating when this session would be over. Dr. Fordham’s gaze was still set above my forehead and his intense stare rested on the wall behind me. I have always had the inclination to withhold my tears. My mother raised me to believe that crying is a sign of weakness while silence indicates strength. However, Dr. Fordham could not see the tears falling past my cheeks, and so, I allowed myself to cry silently for a moment. Unaware of my emotional state, he decided to continue with the session.

“So when you first met him, you felt as though you already knew him?”

His voice wreaked of judgement. Dr. Fordham had always been a critical thinker and valued intelligence above emotion. I appreciated this aspect about himself, yet, at the same time, we lacked a certain common ground. I romanticized the idea of love and even possessed this notion that my soulmate existed somewhere within the world. Our differences impeded upon my ability to openly share my experiences with love, but I continued on.

“Yes. I felt like he was the one. The one that I had been looking for. Like a soulmate.” Fordham looked puzzled by my comment. He thought for a moment about what he should say next.

“Have you ever considered that Grant is not your soulmate. I don’t think you were ever in love with him. I think he managed to trigger your schema. You’re confusing this for love.”

Schema. Another concept that I have mulled over time and time again. Relationship schemas are quite complex, but Fordham explains it as: my childhood was insufficient, therefore, I seek out partners who are also insufficient.

“I hear what you’re saying doc, but I loved him. Regardless of my schema issues.”

“Yes, but you wouldn’t be consciously aware of your schema. This leads you to believe that you love him regardless of the way he treats you. What are some things you did not like about him?”

This was immensely easier for me to talk about. Focusing on his negative traits helped me cope with the pain of losing him. Oftentimes, I would make a note of his negative characteristics so that I could forget what it was like to love him. “Well, for starters, he was terrible at communicating. He never called me and when he did, it seemed like he was doing it because he had to. After three months, he stopped putting in any effort. We never went on dates, he never brought me flowers, and soon it felt like we weren’t even a couple anymore. Oh, and when we fought he would immediately escalate the situation and begin yelling. He said anything he could to put me down and almost never apologized for it.”

I could go on but I thought I would spare Dr. Fordham from an emotional rant. His philosophical mind was built for psychoanalyzing complex individuals with severe mental impairments. Yet, here he was, counseling a young girl for a breakup.

“Well it seems to me like he wasn’t a very good boyfriend. He never provided you with the love that you wanted. He left you empty handed and yet you dwell on this breakup. You even go so far as to say he is your soulmate.”

I realized what he was getting at. The skin around my fingernails began to bleed. “Despite the hurt he caused you, you want to grovel after him. What does that say about you?” My heart began beating noticeably faster. An image of my mother came to mind. It was a specific incident that occured after my father left. He too left her empty handed and it filled her with rage. She managed to control her anger by extinguishing it on a young girl: my former self.

“Amelia, talk to me. What are you thinking about?”

“Nothing.”

“Then please answer the question.”

“It says that I am insecure. That I feel unlovable because my father left me and my mother hates me. As a result, I put men on a pedestal. And when they leave me, I feel abandoned or become anxious. Instead of realizing my worth, I cling on to them even more.”

My head was tilted downward in shame. I attended these sessions in hopes that I could be saved or cured; yet I always left with the notion that I was unfixable. More tears began to drift down my face. I used the sleeves of my sweater to wipe my cheeks all while staying very quiet.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes I’m fine.”

My nose began to drip and I could not help but to sniffle.

“Amelia, are you crying?”

The emotion of my past began to pour out of me. It felt as though I was hit by a bus or punched in the stomach. The pain, the anger, the sadness, everything that I had held onto was forcing itself out of me. I could no longer see past the tears in my eyes yet I took comfort in knowing that Dr. Fordham could not visibly see my wretched state. I continued to wipe my cheeks; my sleeves grew black from the mascara that had crumbled across my face. I gathered my feet into my chest and made myself small.

“Yes, Dr. Fordham I am crying. Can we talk about something else? Please.”

“Okay but you never answered my initial question.”

Although an intelligent man, Dr. Fordham could never understand how to properly comfort another person. I grew frustrated at his lack of emotional support.

“What? What is the damn question I need to answer. I have answered everything.”

His training allowed him to remain calm despite my defiance. I waited for a sarcastic response, a rude remark but I was met with a soothing voice instead.

“Why did you love him?”

This time, I truly thought. I thought about all the reasons for why I may or may not have loved him. Images of our relationship came to mind: the happiness, the thrill, the excitement, the loss, the grief, and the despair. Despite these intense emotions, I realized, it could not have been love.

My infatuation became muddled with the needs and wants of my childhood self. I lacked a father figure, a loving mother and a safe home; it bred the desire within myself to pursue love in those who could not give it to me.

When I left the session, there was a small feeling of relief. While the act of crying has never left me feeling dignified, the experience was pleasantly cathartic. From then on, I no longer thought about him. I no longer thought about a soulmate.

submitted by /u/emmastudent [link] [comments] via Blogger https://ift.tt/32U2Kag

[roadtorima-blog]

reading between the signs.

I didn’t “read between the signs” until recently, mostly because i didn’t believe they were signs at all. I honestly don’t know exactly when I stopped doubting the signs i was seeing, but I do remember the first sign that gave me no room to doubt its meaning: what i like to call the “unlikely ladybug.”

but let’s backtrack for a minute. 2015 and 2016 were two of my roughest years. when I say “roughest,” I do not mean that these were overall bad years for me; i am blessed enough to say that I have never experienced an overall bad year - let alone week - in my 24 years living. you might say that the positivity is due to circumstance, but I would argue that it’s equally (if not more so) due to perspective. anyway, I digress...

i went through some things in 2015 and ‘16 that i traumatized and hurt me in ways that i could have never imagined. i believe that i will never go through those things again, but, until recently, i was reliving some of that pain just by virtue of not confronting the remnants of emotions that those experiences left behind. 

i used to think that true liberation and bravery came in the form of transparency and willingness to yell your deepest fears and most hurtful experiences on the highest mountaintop; concurrently, i used to believe that the things i was unable to speak/write about were those same things that had a hold on me, that were unresolved, my kryptonite(s) of sorts. i no longer feel this way about the inextricable correlation between communication and bravery. some things don’t need to be discussed publicly for them to be resolved. some things i can never discuss on this blog out of respect for who and what i represent, but that’s a topic for another blog post.. again (and like i will continue to do so throughout these posts unapologetically) I digress...

long story short, i was “going through it,” and the worst part about it is that I didn’t really want to let myself admit that i was feeling hurt, damaged and less powerful. instead, i sought out activities and behaviors (that soon became habits) that further perpetuated the disconnect i was feeling between me and myself. i was going out, A LOT; avoiding family; avoiding pretty much anything that provoked the deep, critical conversations that I needed to have with myself. i stopped writing. i formed intentionally temporary relationships with people because they helped me forget. i was fighting with the people who cared about me the most. i brought pain and tears to those people because they couldn't understand why i was not confiding in them; why i was "braving” (more like cowering) through this “storm” alone, without even letting them watch through a window. 

i remember my brother talking on the phone to his girlfriend at the time. he thought i was asleep, but i was in one of my moods where i didn’t feel like talking to anyone, so i acted asleep when he walked in my room. he said: “I don’t know what her issue is. My sister has honestly been a mess. Like a serious disaster. She doesn’t care about anything but her students and her friends right now. She’s just in this phase where she’s shutting out the whole family, and i can’t wait until it’s over.” 

i remember crying for an hour after overhearing that conversation. i allowed myself to rationalize it by pretending i was upset that he would be discussing my personal life with someone else, and that i felt betrayed by his words. the truth is that he was right, and it hurt me so much that i was allowing my behavior to make my family feel like i didn’t care about them. it hurt even more because i wasn’t planning on changing anytime soon, so i blocked out the truth behind his words, and convinced myself that i was just upset that he said that.

instead of confronting what was so clearly there, i spent a lot of nights in my room trying to let my rage out in the form of slightly satisfying sob sessions that weren’t loud enough for my parents and younger sister to hear. no follow up. no much needed writing session. no intervention and promise to start acting from a place of self-love. just temporarily cathartic crying sessions to get me through the next day. 

one of these nights was most memorable to me though, and it was the same night of the “unlikely ladybug.” 

i had just had another fight with my parents that resulted in me going to my room, shutting the door and crying. even though i really can’t remember what it was about, it usually was some rendition of my very perceptive parents trying to figure out what the root cause(s) of my disconnected, withdrawn behavior was, and me resisting their attempts to understand and better love/nurture their daughter. 

this time, i was feeling particularly sorry for myself, so i texted my older brother some things about my parents that i knew i didn’t mean, just because it felt good to say those things. something along the lines of “i’m so sick of them and can’t wait to get the hell out of this house and live on my own so i never have to deal with them” (basically my 2015-16 anthem). then, it happened. 

it was the middle of the winter. i mean like January Michigan winter, and this random lady bug came out of nowhere and legit attacked me as soon as i sent that text. i call it the “unlikely ladybug” now because it was in my upstairs bedroom and just so happened to attack me as soon as I sent my text about my parents. i hadn’t seen a ladybug in months. after it attacked me, it flew over to the headboard of the bed, and just stayed there peacefully all night with me. 

i know that in my more doubtful days, i would have read this and been like “okay, so it just so happened to attack you when you really needed to get slapped, and it was in your room during the winter - big deal. stop trying to overanalyze everything.” that’s cool if that’s where you’re at too. but that night, i really couldn’t deny what i was feeling. i felt like the unlikely ladybug was a reminder to me during one of my lowest moments that i need to get my ish together. that the universe (and God) was going to hold me accountable (aka attack me lol) but love me (aka spend the night posted on my headboard) at the same time. 

as cheesy as it may sound, i felt companionship and understanding with that ladybug that night. i felt a remarkable and undeniable attempt to remind me of who i was and who i knew i was becoming. that there was a light at the end of my longest, darkest, most ambiguous tunnels. that i need to hold myself accountable when i do or say anything that counters the “rima” i know i am and the “rima” that i am working to become, because i will do and say those things occasionally. i cried myself to sleep that night because of how overwhelming the sign felt in my space, because of how badly i needed that support, but didn’t want to ask for it from anyone, let alone give it to myself.

today, i feel much happier and connected, and i still see signs almost everywhere i go. now that i’ve opened myself up to their presence and purpose, i have started connecting dots that add so much more meaning to my path. i’m not here to convince you to believe in signs. that the young girl who told me that i’m her #goals the other day in the exact moment i was having negative thoughts about myself and my body image was more than a coincidence. not trying to make you believe that the text message i got last night from my brother asking how i’m doing because he “sensed something” literally as soon as I had an anxiety attack is more than serendipity. 

i’m not really trying to convince you of anything, honestly, i just wanted to share the power in my perspective shift once i started becoming open to the greater purpose behind my interactions with the universe, because it really is a beautiful thing. now that i’m blogging/writing again, i’m going to try to capture some of the signs that i experience, whether subtle or striking, or somewhere in between. the images included in this post are but a few examples that i’ll briefly explain below.

This first sign is actually my most recent; it occurred just yesterday. I was having such an amazing day. I felt especially connected, healthy, loving. I felt like my work, life, relationships, had so much purpose and value. It was just such a great overall day, and i remember that i kept thinking about how great i was feeling all day. as soon as I got to my car, i saw my ladybug friend, and it was a beautiful affirmation. i got to my destination, and she was still on my car. i took her presence to be another reminder that, good or bad, God is there for the ride. i originally posted the picture with “serendipity,” but, i actually don’t think there was anything coincidental about it. 

I saw this “Remember Why You Started” sign during my trip to Toronto last weekend. I had recently started this blog, and was feeling really inspired to continue my #roadtorima brand and explore all of the possibilities that come along with that. but, naturally, with motivation comes mini pockets of doubt, and i believe this sign was a subtle reminder that i’m on to something.

The #RoadToOctober16th calendar was less subtle for me. I came back to my parents’ house to visit and be with my family a couple weeks ago. My father is experiencing some health issues that have had me feeling anxious and scared. I was particularly stressed coming home that day. When I walked into my room (that had recently been cleaned out), someone had taken my calendar off the wall and put it on the dresser. It was the only thing on the dresser, and its contents had been fully erased, except for the #RoadToOctober16th heading. #RoadtoOctober was singlehandedly the starting point of my entire #roadtorima journey, my commitment to better health, self-love, this blog, and pretty much all of the intentional positivity i have in my life right now. #RoadtoOctober extended far past October, but it was the light at the end of a once very dark tunnel. Seeing it was a striking reminder to stay positive, and keep doing what i’m doing.