#this is really just wish fulfillment for me it's been stuck in my maladaptive head for weeks

[powderblueblood]

BEAUTIFUL!

ronnie ecker recounts the last first day of the worst of her life or i wanted to rewrite beautiful from heathers the musical, hellfire and ice version. warnings: first person narrative (ronnie's pov), swearing, era-typical misogyny, bullying and slurs, mention of eating disorders, everyone's a dick, everyone's kind of gay for lacy doevski. wc: 3.8k

September 1st, 1984. 

First day of the end of your life. It’s hard not to get a little intro-outrospective.

If I was a diary keeping person, which I’m not because I don’t like to leave a paper trail outside my own goddamn academic brilliance, I’d write something like this. 

Dear diary, I believe that I’m a good person–y’know, relatively speaking, if you don’t count that one time I bit that one kid for catcalling me. But, here we are! First day of senior year! And I look around at these kids I’ve known all my life and I ask myself–what happened?

We’re in the hallway, bottlenecking toward the cafeteria. It’s right around lunchtime, so everyone’s getting a real good look at everybody else, categorizing who they hate, who they hate more, who got boobs over the summer. God, do we ever stop slinging shit at each other, even when we think no one’s listening? There’s a constant cacophony in the hallways of Hawkins High.

Freak! Slut! Burnout! Bug-eyes! Poser! Lard-ass!

And no one does anything about it. 

It’s pretty sad, considering where we came from. 

We were so tiny, happy and shiny, playing tag and getting chased.

Freak! Slut! Loser! Shortbus!

Singing and clapping, laughing and napping, baking cookies, eating paste. Especially me. I was crazy for that shit.

Bull-dyke! Stuck-up! Hunchback!

Then we got bigger, that was the trigger, like the Huns invading Rome. “Shit, my bad!” That underclassman I just walked straight into looked terrified. And for good reason.

Welcome to my school, this ain’t no high school. This is the Thunderdome. 

Trailer trash!

For the very first very last time, I crane my head around the swamped hall and try to recall where my new locker is. First star on the right, and I wiggle in my combination and dump my books inside. I take a second, shoving my head inside the cool metal darkness (voluntarily, for once) and mutter, “Hold your breath and count the days, we’re graduating soon–”

“–Christ. College will be paradise, if I’m not dead by June.” 

I crane my neck out. Two lockers up from me, elegant fingers pull open an identical door to mine except hers, of course, already has a vanity mirror hung up inside. She checks her reflection, not like it ever needs checking. One of her faithful little redheads stands beside her, smacking bubblegum so loud it makes my ears pop.  

“You are so melodramatic, it’s crazy.” 

“What was that?”

“Nothing…”

It sucks how the chrysalis of adolescence has made most of us completely obnoxious. I try not to be a sucker for nostalgia, but I can’t help but remember how much easier this was in middle school. Waking up on a weekday didn’t have to be like living in a segment of Creepshow. 

I know, I know, I know, life can be beautiful. No plastic Jesus on my dashboard (or… handlebars, I guess) but I pray, I pray for a better way. If we changed back then, we could change again… 

Then I get a whole shoulder of dork, right to the face. Bubblegum snaps between snorts, I can see that he’s been shoved my way. Yeah, we could be beautiful…

“Ow!”

Just not today. “Hey, are you okay?”

This Jansport sporting asshole twists his face up right in mine. “Get away, nerd!” Jesus Christ.

The choir of angels go on–I’m just trying to make it to the cafeteria and grab a fucking chicken pot pie. I’m starving, and I could use a little less soundtrack.

Freak! Slut! Cripple! Homo! Homo! Homo! 

But, listen. It’s not a total nightmare. There’s light at the end of the tunnel. Things will get better soon as my letter comes from Harvard, Duke or Brown–

–or, NYU, if we’re being really serious. 

“Wake from this coma, take my diploma–” God. This chick’s voice seems to cut through the din of the hallway like a bell, “Then I can blow this town. Dream of ivy covered walls and smoky French cafes…”

“Sooo uber pretentious!”

“Watch it, freak!” I don’t even need to turn around to figure out who that’s directed at. But, I’m a little preoccupied with singing my own tune, here! Muscling through to the lunch line, grabbing a tray while I–

“–fight the urge to strike a match and set this dump ablaze. Hey, Ronnie!” 

Dude, shut up! I swing around, trying to spot the owner of that very different, very familiar dulcet tone when some duckbill hat wearing dickwad upends my lunch tray. Dressed in Hawkins Tiger green and gold, this is one of many prize dickwads. 

Bear with me, I’m trying to place him.

“Ooops.”

Andy Sweeney. Indiana’s worst point guard… “whose true talent lies in being a huge dick.”

Did I mention before about that lack of filter between my brain and my mouth? I patch it up pretty good most of the time, but sometimes…

“What did you say to me, skank?” Andy demands of me all darkly and shit. It’s scary. Even if I’ve got a foot and a half on him.

“Aaah!” I recoil, looking at his flexing fists, “Nothing.”

I back up from him, way way up, leaving my mess of a lunch tray on the ground. Even though that makes me feel shitty–when did I become the guy who left stuff for the already harangued janitorial staff to clean up? 

We were kind before; we can be kind once more… 

Head down. Stalk through. Find the Hellfire table. But, not before someone chucks me lightly on the arm. 

“Agh!” I holler before I register him. I am totally on edge. “Hey, Eddie.”

“Hey,” he grins in a sardonic way that says I cannot believe we’re putting ourselves through this again. 

Eddie Munson. My best friend since pre-pube. The closest thing I’ll ever have to a brother, unless Granny finally lets me get that gecko I’ve always wanted. I’m almost eighteen, for Chrissake, I should be allowed. 

Anyway, Eddie rocks. We know this. Look at him. 

“We still on for movie night?” he asks.

I beam. Our first day of school comedown tradition. “Shit yeah, you’re on Jiffy Pop detail.”

Eddie’s got a little pep in his step and it jangles his wallet chain. Dude can’t help but attract attention– almost all of it unwanted. “I rented Evil Dead.”

“Hohoho, again? Wait, don’t you have it memorized by now?”

“What can I say?” Before I can even warn him, Eddie’s backstepping straight into– “I’m a sucker for a gory ending.” 

“Eddie Munson, king of the trailer park! What, you didn’t qualify for free lunches this year?”

A hand comes down hard on the age-old tin lunchbox Eddie’s carrying. The clatter it makes against the lino makes me want to cover my ears and hide, especially when I see Eddie’s face. Total resignation. It’s humiliating. 

This guy?

Tommy Hagan. He’s the smartest guy on the basketball team, which is kind of like being the tallest dwarf.

“Too goddamn easy, man!” he guffaws, and I would try to figure out what farm animal he most resembles, but apparently I’m too busy–

“Hey! Pick that up! Right now!” –being the hero.

“I’m sorry, are you actually talking to me?” Tommy also tries to tower over me, but I’ve got a decent number of inches on him too. 

My cheeks blaze.

“Yes, I am. I wanna know what gives you the right to pick on my friend. You’re a high school has-been waiting to happen. Tell me, Tommy, do you actually have a personality outside of sticking your nose right up Steve Harrington’s ass?”

Tommy gets closer and closer. So close that I can see the nose hair move as he huffs through his freckly nostrils. His finger points right between my eyebrows.

“… you have a zit right there.”

Cue rapturous laughter from the peanut gallery. 

Dear diary…

Why do they hate me? Why don’t I fight back? Why do I act like such a creep? Why won’t he date me? Why did I hit him? Why do I cry myself to sleep? 

Somebody hug me! Somebody fix me! Somebody save me!

Send me a sign, God! Give me some hope here! Something to live for!

The doors of the cafeteria burst open and Tommy’s attention is thankfully wrenched away from me. Everyone’s attention is wrenched away from me. Because we’ve all been waiting for this.

They enter the caf in a solid formation, so solid that people part for them. Some gazing, some gawping, some glaring. The name calling ceases, the bullying pauses. 

This is the royal court. They float above it all. 

Tina Burton, head cheerleader. Her dad is loaded. He sells engagement rings. 

Heather Holloway, runs the yearbook. Badly. No discernible personality, but her mom did pay for implants. 

Even the lessers are notorious. Carol Perkins has been having sex since, like, seventh grade. Cass Finnigan’s been pretending to save it for Jesus but giving a backdoor key to whoever buys her peach schnapps. Nicole Summers invented three new slurs last year alone. 

And finally, Lacy Doevski. 

The Almighty. 

She is a mythic bitch. 

These girls, they’re solid Teflon. Never bothered. Never harassed– 

“I would give anything to be like that.”

And I know I don’t sit in that thought alone. Glancing around the tables, the coagulation of cliques, I can hear the desire coming from my classmates. 

I’d like to be their boyfriend. If I sat at their table, guys would notice me. I’d like them to be nicer. 

“What’s the over-under on one of those harpies getting kidnapped, taken to some abandoned warehouse to be photographed naked and left for the rats?” Eddie mutters into my ear as we slam ourselves down at our regular table. 

I roll my freakin’ eyes. “I told you that your Barb Holland theory was insane.”

Eddie shrugs, flipping open his recovered lunchbox. “Just sayin’... They never found a body. Anyway, my money's on the ice queen. If everything they're sayin' about her dad is true, she is prime ransom material.”

“You are so unnecessarily twisted.” But my eyes are still following the crown jewels. I notice that Lacy, Tina and Heather all rise to the girl’s room immediately after they finish their minimal lunch. 

I interrupt Eddie and Gareth’s too-intense-for-lunchtime debate about the morality of posthumously publishing The Silmarillion. “I have to take a leak.” 

As I gently push the door of the bathroom open, I can see Tina standing nervously at an open stall door. Heather is ralphing like her life depends on it. The reptilian arch of Lacy Doevski is bent towards the mirror, touching up her lipstick. 

“Grow up, Heather,” Lacy says in this voice that could weirdly be misconstrued as concerned,  “Bulimia is so sophmoronic.” 

Tina grimaces. “Maybe you should see a doctor, Heather.”

From inside the stall, Heather’s voice echos. “Yeah, Heather– I mean, Tina. Maybe I should.” 

I’m about to open my mouth, say something about ginger ale or peppermint tea, but Mrs O’Donnell enters behind me. I dive into a nearby stall, pretty confident I haven’t been spotted. But, I leave just enough of a crack in the door to watch everything that unfolds out there.

“Ah, I should have known–”

Heather vomits again. Damn, how can she pull trig so much on so little?

“–the witches from Macbeth always travel in a trio.” Her heels click over the cracked, yellowing tile, but the way Lacy turns from the mirror gives even O’Donnell pause. “Perhaps you didn’t hear the bell over all the vomiting. You’re late for class.”

Hey. Idea. I dig around in my backpack and scribble on a piece of paper, leaning against the bathroom door.

“Heather wasn’t feeling well.” Lacy says. Again, confusing enough to sound kind! “We’re helping her.”

O’Donnell chuckles all airly. Like she’s any match for her. “Not without a hall pass, you’re not. Week’s detention.”

That’s my cue. I scurry out of the stall, presenting O’Donnell with–

“Um, actually, Mrs O’Donnell, all four of us are out on a hall pass.” I gulp and glance at Heather, who’s finally hauled herself off her knees. “Yearbook committee.”

It’s super hard to breathe as O’Donnell inspects my handiwork. It hits me that this could go horribly, horribly wrong, and I can feel Lacy’s eyes boring into a hot spot on the back of my head.

O’Donnell arches her eyebrow. “I see you’re all listed. Hurry up and get where you’re going.”

She goes to hand the note back to me, but Lacy intercepts. Once the coast is clear, she takes her time looking it over. 

“This is an excellent forgery,” she tells me. A drop of freezing sweat runs down my back. “Who are you?”

“Uh, Ronnie– Veronica Ecker,” I stumble. “We were lab partners last year?”

Lacy’s eyes narrow. She doesn’t remember taking the lead on coolly dissecting a frog in front of me, it seems.

“Doesn’t matter. I crave a boon.”

She holds her glare on me. Jesus, why do I feel like I’m about to have my throat slit? “What boon?”

“Um. Let me sit at your lunch table. Just once. No talking necessary. If people think that you guys tolerate me, then they’ll leave me alone…”

What? It worked for Nancy Wheeler. Even if she had to boink Steve Harrington to do it, but I can't quite stretch that far.

The girls all chorus in laughter at me. Oof. 

“Before you answer, I can also do report cards, permission slips and absence notes.” Dude, I cannot tell you where this boost of bravery (or foolhardiness) is coming from.

“How about prescriptions?” Heather asks.

“Shut up, Heather,” Lacy cuts. 

“Sorry, Lacy.”

Then, she zeroes in on me. Takes slow steps toward me, just like Tommy Hagan did. But her stare is tearing strips right through me. I even freaking hunch as she gets closer.

“For a greasy little nobody,” Lacy says, her voice dropping low so I have to strain to hear her, “you do have good bone structure.”

Tina and Heather must already be tuned into this Lacy-only frequency.

“And a proportional body,” Tina adds. “If someone didn’t catch you during a basket toss, you’d probably only kind of fracture your spine. That’s very important. 

“Of course, you could stand to de-hobo your wardrobe.” Heather goes so far as to flick the flappy pocket on the front of my overalls. “Salvation Army much?”

“And ya know, ya know, ya know…” the shiniest jewel in the crown hums, tapping her lipstick tube against her cheek, “This could be beautiful.” Her painted fingers pinch my chin and turn it down toward her–because I’m fucking tall. “Mascara, maybe some lipgloss and we’re on our way. Get this girl some blush– and Heather, I need your brush. Let’s make her beautiful.”

A manic looking Tina produces a vanity bag out of absolutely nowhere. “Let’s make her beautiful…”

“Let’s make her beautiful?” Heather snarks, but Lacy shoves a hand in her face. 

Her eyes turn on me again. Dark and sparkly and… and… smiling. At me. “Okay?”

“Okay!”

Then, whaddaya know, smash cut, it’s the next freaking day. I don’t know how that works, but I don’t see another goddamn narrator so pipe down. 

The halls are their usual shitshow– Billy Hargrove shoves the new Hellfire freshman, Gareth, into a locker. Eddie hauls him up by the collar and they run headlong into a gaggle of girls, who all scream because every nerd that plays a fantasy game is contagious. 

“Don’t you dare touch me!”

“Get away, pervert!”

“What did I ever do to them?” Gareth yelps, exasperated. Hard not to feel bad for the kid.

But Eddie’s sage about it, even though he knows it’s as unfair as I do. “You’ll get used to it, freshman.”

“No, dude!” Gareth pushes back, verging on a panic attack, “Who could survive this! I can’t escape this–I think I’m dying!”

O’Donnell, hot on the tardy check, appears behind the both of ‘em. “Who’s that with Lacy?”

“Damn. Someone got a welfare increase,” Nicole Summers hatefully snarls.

“Who’s the babe?” says Andy Sweeney.

But Eddie Munson, oh-ho, Eddie Munson settles his eyes into slits. Anytime, any place, he’d know–

“Veronica?!”

“Veronica?” Cass and Carol caw.

“Veronica?” Steve and Tommy mimic. 

And Lacy Doevski… she looks to her dutiful right, and smirks. “Veronica?”

And you know, you know, you know, life can be beautiful! 

My whole life, I haven’t had a choice but to be one of the boys. My best friend’s a boy. I’m in a band with all boys. I’m surrounded by boys all the time who make gross boy jokes and do stupid boy shit. Nobody, not even my Granny, even though she fucking rules, ever asked me if… if I wanted to put on a skirt and get my goddamned nails painted. And it’s not as if I mind being on the more masculine side of things but, shit, is it so wrong to want something? Even if I believed what I was pretty much dragged up to believe, by all my friends and the world at large around me–that being a chick was totally dumb. Couldn’t I try it on?

You hope, you dream, you pray, and you get your way! 

Lacy beckoned me into her walk-in closet, which was about as big as my bedroom and smelled of gardenia, and put me in a pleated skirt set that she said didn’t fit her temperament anymore. ‘But it’d work for a novice.’

Ask me how it feels, lookin’ like hell on wheels–

“You gotta be fucking kidding me,” Eddie seethes as I pass, carried on the cloud of Lacy’s perfume.

‘My god, it’s beautiful!’ I’d said, spinning around in the stupid, flippy skirt. 

“Those bobbleheads totally morphed her!”

‘I might be beautiful!’ I mumbled, fingering the diamond studs she put in my ears that she made Heather pierce.

“She looks like–like–” Gareth chokes.

And when you’re beautiful…

“A girl!”

… it’s a beautiful fuckin’ day!

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

Now, at first, I think I’m fucking flatlining, expecting to wake up with goddamn tubes down my throat and shit– but I’m not. I’m in my regular old bed, with my regular old alarm clock screaming at me. I smash my hand down on it and jerk up, out of the covers.

First place I go is my wardrobe. 

I feel the physical sensation of my heart dropping like a lead kite when I flick through my old thrift store samesies and Granny Ecker hand-me-downs to find no such minty plaid skirt set. 

Just a dream. 

Which is such a bullshit conceit. Sorry to break it to you. 

I admit defeat and pull on my overalls, scrunching my ballcap over my head and muscle out the door. I’m already late, for me. 

But–then, there’s an apparition hovering at my mailbox. 

Someone who excitedly takes notice and waves when she catches me staring, arm stretching out of her fur-trimmed peacoat–which is looking a tiny touch shabbier than it used to these days. 

“Happy early acceptance day, asshole!” Lacy Doevski sing-songs. Sing-songs. Which is… something I have to readjust to, given the liminal version of her I just experienced.

“Oh.. jeez,” I mutter, feeling dazed still, “I forgot that was today.”

Lacy’s brow gets all pinchy. “You okay? You look like steamed dogshit.”

“Thank you so much,” I drawl sarcastically, “It’s nothing, I slept funky. Where’s Eddie?”

Lacy shifts in herself a little, tucking hair behind her ears and avoiding my eyes. “How should I know?” Right. That. The daylight version of this little tryst they pretend they’re not having. Honestly, if the two of them would just bang it out– well, maybe things might be worse off and this weird little platonic ménage à trois of ours would be totally ruined forever, but at least I’d have to stop tiptoeing around them. “Come on, are you gonna open it or what?”

Oh, right. There’s a whole gravity of a situation supposed to be happening here.

I kind of feel the saliva gathering at the hinges in my jaw, you know the way you do when you’re about to puke your guts up? But then, I remember. Bulimia is so sophmoronic. 

I yank open that rusty mailbox and a thick, thick envelope with a New York University imprint sits inside. I yank it out.

Lacy stares at me like I’m the dude holding the thing the Ten Commandments were written on. 

I’m not drawing this shit out. I am not teasing myself, dude, you couldn’t pay me to–savagely, I rip the envelope open, which makes Lacy cringe. She probably has a little knife for these sorts of things, knowing her. 

Dear Veronica,

Congratulations! I am delighted to inform you…

“Holy fucking shit.”

“Well…?”

I thrust that hot, heavy paper right into that pretty girl’s face. “Full. Goddamned. Ride.” 

Lacy gasps, grasping the letter so hard it leaves claw marks. Her eyes shake back and forth, reading and re-reading the whole acceptance ream. It’s weird, and I know it’s weird, but I’m standing there, looking at her and trying to make her make sense with the Lacy that showed up in my dream. That girl existed, and she was mystifying, in a horrifying way. A total reign of ice cold terror. But now, I’m staring at Lacy, who’s all short, weird angles and specific enthusiasm and… it’s hard to see how those two girls ever lived in the same body. 

She’s a little Whitman. She’s got those multitudes. And, actually, so do I.

“I knew it!” Lacy hisses, “And I want you to know that I’m not at all bitter. While I should be celebrating early acceptance with you, I’m glad–”

I grin at her. “You’re a little bitter.”

“Fine, I’m a little bitter, but I’m mostly excited. New York City, Ron! That’s transformative!”

“Yeah… speaking of. Lacy?”

“Yes?”

Dreams are meant to be prophetic and shit, right?

“Doyouwannagivemeamakeover?”

She cocks her head at me. She still hasn’t let go of that acceptance letter yet. “What?”

“Do you.” I take the envelope from her hands. I know she’s capable of identity theft. “Want to give me. A makeover.”

“Huh?” Her fingers stay curled around imaginary paper. Oh, my god.

“You heard me! And I hate repeating myself!” I flail a little. I get like that, quick to bug sometimes. “Look, you said it, New York is gonna be… transformative. I’m going to be a freaking lawyer, dude, fingers crossed, all going well.”

Lacy nods, not a hair out of place, with perfect confidence,“You are.”

“And when was the last time you saw a lawyer wearing fuckin’ overalls?! Huh? The people vs Howdy Doody?”

“I like your overalls.” I know she’s saying this because it’s the right thing to say, and she’s been practicing doing that really hard. She also might like them now, after repeated exposure, in a Stockholm syndrome sort of way. 

“But they don’t scream esquire,” I impress upon her. And it’s true. I truly do believe that I can’t set foot in New York fucking City looking like I just fell off the back of a turnip truck–nor do I want to. 

It takes a big fat beat, but her face changes. Lacy looks almost dastardly–dark, sparkling eyes like Lacy from the dream. She looks me right over, making the calculations of how to reupholster tragically unfashionable me in her mind. And then she arches her eyebrow.

“Well, remember… you asked, Veronica.”

[elicathebunny]

HOW TO REDUCE MALADAPTIVE DREAMING.

(suggestion post)

I have actually experienced this since the age of around 9 or 10 years and only managed to reduce and basically almost get rid of it after 5 or 6 years. I am no doctor or professional, so all of this is just by experience mixed with online research.

WHAT IS MALADAPTIVE DAYDREAMING?

Maladaptive daydreaming is a mental health issue that causes a person to lose themselves in complex daydreams. These daydreams are usually a coping mechanism for other mental health conditions or circumstances. It's common — but not required — for people who have this to have a history of childhood trauma or abuse.

SYMPTOMS:

Extensive, sometimes compulsive, absorption in fantasy for several hours a day

Inability to stop daydreaming

Having very detailed fantasies, including plot lines and characters

Having real-life reactions to fantasies, like facial expressions, body movements, or verbalizations

Difficulty concentrating or focusing on other things

Sleep problems (especially falling asleep)

Replacing human interaction

The urge to continue fantasizing when interrupted

In some cases, maladaptive daydreaming can also be characterized by the need for additional stimulation, which can be expressed through extensive book-reading, watching films, or gaming.

TRIGGERS:

some of the triggers may include listening to music on headphones, watching movies, and hearing specific conversation topics.

In addition to processing trauma, other causes of maladaptive daydreaming include:

Wish fulfillment

Entertainment (regulating boredom or isolation)

Regulating distress

MY EXPERIENCE: I would spend hours upon hours with storylines that I have had for years. Those stories gave me comfort and I would get lost in the experience of daydreaming. I would even put on music to put myself deeper in my thoughts and would get irritated if someone ruined my thought process by speaking to me. I realised it was a problem when I began to randomly fall into my daydreams without much control. Simple thinking turned into detailed storylines and I would constantly seem lost in thought and lose track of time. This obviously isn't helpful when you have important things to do when you need to focus. I would try to stop daydreaming but would always catch myself doing it because it become normal to me. All the characters and scenarios in my head represented me parts of me that I wish I was in real life, or even things I wanted to happen in my life. Sometimes the dreams happened so frequently that I couldn't differentiate between my memories and dreams. Before I acknowledged it as a problem I never actually wanted to get rid of it, such a big part of me would be lost. I had been daydreaming for such a long time that I became emotionally attached to the characters I had made.

WHAT HELPED ME:

Doing things that take up a lot of brain power and time: e.g. Doing a workout, Dancing, or Solving a difficult equation.

This gives you 0 time to even think about anything, let alone daydream. Go out with your friends, and force yourself into situations that require you to use your full attention. Because I never really went out much or did anything frequent enough to take up my day, I had too much time to myself and became stuck in my own head. Doing things and picking up extracurriculars, ANYTHING will help.

Because I am no longer at home as much as I used to and interact/learn new skills much more than I did before. I simply do not have time to be in my own head, I forced myself to learn to get out of my head and achieve the things I would daydream about.

I am now engaging in improving myself instead of dreaming about the version of myself/life I wanted so badly. Those dreams and characters were just glamorised versions of deep-rooted emotions I had left without facing them. Uncovering the true meaning of why I daydream and the details of the things I was daydreaming about will help you get out of the daze.

NOTES I'VE FOUND ON QUORA:

ONE:

Open up. Speak about it to others. Express yourself. There is nothing to be ashamed of. You need not share your daydreams, just share that you daydream. It's okay.

Write your daydreams down, or type them out… whatever. Get them out of you to have a better look. They are trying to tell you something about yourself. Have you ever noticed that you can't completely control your daydreams? And when you do try to change something critical in your plot it just doesn't “feel right”?

Boil them down to mere feelings. Strip away all the illusory layers of good looks, grand mansions, heroic acts and so on. The truth lies in key moments where the characters feel something deeply for each other. Find those feelings, and question the difference between you and your characters. Ask what is blocking you from experiencing them for yourself.

Realize that you are the reality, not your characters. If you imagine a nobleman or a beautiful girl, it is your nobility and beauty that you impart to those. All your characters are merely objects animated by the light of your imagination and feelings.

Understand that all your daydreams have nothing to do with others, and everything to do with you, and your relationship with yourself. When you realize this, you stop comparing them with your real-world relationships and start relating them to various aspects of yourself.

Know that when you successfully come out of this, you will actually not lose the ability to daydream or run out of feelings to pour into your imagination. It is just that their purpose will have been served, and you will not resort to daydreaming again out of lack or compulsion. You may at any point daydream again and even use it as a tool to know what your Soul is trying to tell you. Yet, you will realize that a moment of self-awareness is more rewarding than a lifetime of daydreams.

TWO:

Here are some serious tips to avoid them:

First of all, make sure you really want to get rid of this, because a lot of MDers get emotionally attached to their imaginary characters.

Disable /avoid the triggers. Block YouTube if you have to. Those websites you visit. The images saved on your computer - delete them. Plenty of apps for that.

This might be rude, but start avoiding the topics or the friends who keep discussing these topics.

Get busy doing something else - take up a hobby, meet new people. Try to stay in public places or with other people. Plenty to do in life other than dreaming.

Avoid that one music/ song that acts as a trigger.

DO I STILL MD? Yea sometimes, but now It is an okay amount. It doesn't consume my life anymore.

[goldenkamuyhunting]

(Part 1) Thank you for keeping this blog going. There are few in the fandom who gives as much attention to detail as you do, and I always look forward to reading you blog. Long ask below, which had to be split into 4 parts.

Thank you for enjoying my blog!

I’m always happy to know there’s people who enjoy it!

Now, for your questions:

1) Yuusaku is basically cannon fodder. Even if Ogata didn't shoot him, he was unlikely to live through the war. Russo-Japanese War was the first to witness the carnage rapid firing lines could do to an infantry charge; standard bearers in those days were basically on suicide missions. This was why it was mostly phased out by WWI. I'm surprised Yuusaku even lived through more than one charge. Was Hanazawa senior aware that grooming his favorite son to be the standard bearer, while glamorous, was going to get him killed?

1) As sad as it is, back then ALL THE INFANTRY was sadly cannon fodder, a beaviour that will continue even during WWs.

Yuusaku, being at the head of the charge each time, had more chances to get killed than the others but it’s actually a matter of luck as, not only the others were close by, but soldiers didn’t really take aim when shooting (except for snipers), they just aimed their weapons in the enemy’s general direction and fired.

Still, it was all a matter of luck.

Sugimoto (who’s ironically based on a real soldier) managed to survive to plenty of charges, others didn’t manage to survive to their first charge.

Yuusaku didn’t have to die just because he was a flag bearer... but surely the odds were against him.

As for Hanazawa in truth the situation is much more complicate.

I’m pretty sure Hanazawa wasn’t happy Yuusaku HAD TO BE the flagbearer. As far as he was involved he had only one son and that one was Yuusaku and back then heirs were important and if he were to die Hanazawa would remain without one since it’s clear he never planned to acknowledge Ogata.

The problem isn’t so much that he wanted Yuusaku to be the flagbearer, is that he couldn’t avoid Yuusaku being the flagbearer.

Out of bad luck Yuusaku was a second lieutenant back then and unmarried, therefore virgin (because they had already moved in a time in which having a lover wasn’t respectable). And, of course, being the son of Hanazawa Yuusaku was expected to check all the other requisites a flag bearer had to have, being handsome, high achiever and a paragon of moral virtue.

In short he was perfect for the job.

Beign the flag bearer was a honour and refusing it was a sign of cowardice that would have tossed shame on the whole family.

If Hanazawa had stopped Yuusaku from being a flag bearer, Yuusaku would have lost face and Hanazawa with him and since Hanazawa was a big shoot in the army during the war this would have turned into a huge problem.

And then there’s also what Koito senior said.

Someone had to be the flag bearer. Stopping his son from doing so to protect him and therefore sacrifice someone else son would be viewed as inexcusable.

As much as I hate Hanazawa I recognize he couldn’t keep Yuusaku out of the position.

For me his sin, in regard to Yuusaku, is more that he had told him not to kill. While a sword can’t really stop a Maxim gun, during the charge they would get in close contact with other soldiers, soldiers who could kill him. Using his sword to defend himself would increase his odds to survive.

Hanazawa instead, realizing the chances for Yuusaku to survive were dim, likely preferred to use him till the end as some sort of pure idol to fulfil a theory of his own at whom the soldiers might not even believe that, if Yuusaku weren’t to kill, soldiers would remain pure as well and wouldn’t feel guilty.

Of course it can be that Yuusaku actually wasn’t so good with the sword. Maybe if he were to try to defend himself not only he would fail but this would lower the troops’ morale. As an idol instead Yuusaku is protected by the soldiers who see him as their personal amulet of good luck.

In this case in a way Hanazawa took the best decision both for him and the troops. We know too little to tell... but I’m pretty sure Hanazawa knew there were few chances Yuusaku would survive.

In his position he couldn’t possibly not know.

Sure is Yuusaku seems to believe everything his father says without thinking at it too much.

When he explains his reasons to Ogata... well, they aren’t really his reasons but what his father told him. He didn’t rielaborate, didn’t internalize, didn’t think it over.

It’s just ‘daddy told me so therefore I do it in this way’.

2) I wonder what was going through Ogata’s mind, watching Yuusaku run into the meat grinder. At that moment maybe it occurred to him that being Hanazawa’s favorite son came with a heavy price tag.

Everything comes with a price tag... but objectively both Ogata and Yuusaku were risking to die in that war and if Ogata was left more often in the trenches, where it was slightly safer, shooting at enemies, it was merely because he was lucky he was gifted at shooting otherwise he could have been right next to Yuusaku running, charge after charge... only he never enjoied an ounce of Yuusaku’s benefits.

The truth is that people who come from a privileged situation like Yuusaku, Koito, Tomoharu, Ueji or Chiyotarou, aren’t insured to have a happy life free of danger. They can be as miserable as the next guy and can end up in troubles way bigger (Ueji even went insane after all, Yuusaku died, Tomoharu wasn’t up to fulfil his family expectations, Chiyotarou get bullied, Koito had no support when he lost his brother...).

But they will also be sheltered by way too many things that make life miserable and will be given chances that others can only dream.

So yes, being Hanazawa’s legittimate son came with a heavy price tag but being Hanazawa’s illegittimate son not only also came with a heavy price tag but was bereft of the benefits being Hanazawa’s legittimate son could offer.

3) He must also know that Yuusaku getting KIA is a matter of (very short) time. Tsurumi must know that too, so he called off the kill.

Honestly I believe the only reason Tsurumi called off the kill was because he wanted to push Ogata to kill Yuusaku on his own. Ogata showed a softer side with Koito when he kidnapped him, giving him a sweet and conforting him...

...but that’s not all. When he carried Yuusaku in a brothel and Yuusaku turned down his idea to have fun with the girls he could have gotten Yuusaku drunk or forced him in another way. He didn’t. He let him go and made sure he wasn’t seen as he left, when he could have let Yuusaku’s reputation being tarnished just by letting him being seen.

Tsurumi mentions noble blood deliberately, sure this would be a jab at Ogata.

He pinned the two brothers one against the other trying to recreate the situation that pushed Usami to kill Tomoharu and it worked. Only Ogata wasn’t enamoured of Tsurumi as Usami was.

4) Yet Ogata killed him anyways. Maybe he thought since Yuusaku was going to die anyways, why not use him as an experimental guild-trip?

I’ll say it’s more than experimentation. In addition to Tsurumi subtly pinning him against Yuusaku there’s to say all Ogata wanted was his father’s love and attention, and he had seen Koito getting it after his brother died.

Plus Yuusaku made the mistake of stepping in a minefield.

Ogata is a man who represses his guilt, who has learnt to do it as a child when he killed his mother, whom he loved. For Ogata is a cornerstone in his own development he doesn’t feel guilty because ‘he had a reason for his mother’s murder’.

And Yuusaku then goes and tell him this is impossible, that he has to feel guilt.

...and Ogata, who’s stuck between his own maladaptive copying mechanism, his wish to be normal, and his deep desire to be loved by his father, kills him, again telling himself since he has a reason, he wont’ feel guilty.

Only he will feel guilty despite being in deep denial over it but that’s a talk for another post.

5) Now I have a feeling that deliberately killing Yuusaku is just another lie he tells himself. Maybe it wasn’t deliberate, but the most egregious failure he made as a sniper for which he spun a whole narrative for: he kill Yuusaku by friendly fire.

I think Ogata genuinely believed he had shoot to Yuusaku and killed him. In short, I believe he aimed and shoot. Of course it’s possible he missed, subconsciously or by coincidence and, ironically, Yuusaku was killed by someone else, either by incident or deliberately so as to delude Ogata into thinking he had killed him.

Plot wise though I don’t see the point of having Yuusaku die due to an accident because, if this were to be the case, it would never be possible to discover it... unless Ogata were to remember his bullet actually hit another target... or it were to turn out the bullet in Yuusaku’s head wasn’t the one of a type 30.

It might be different if it was someone else who had shoot him, making Ogata believe it had been him, like how ‘by a coincidence’ Tsukishima had learnt of the whole Igogusa’s story about how her corpse was dug up.

However, as Usami pointed out, Yuusaku was shot perfectly in the center of the back of his head... and Usami knows no one else in the 7th who could do it.

So unless Tsurumi has an extra sniper we’re unaware of, it would be hard for him to stage Yuusaku’s death so that Ogata would believe he were the killer.

So I don’t know.

But I think the real key in the whole thing isn’t if Ogata has killed his brother or not, but that he believes he has done it and, contrary to what he thought, he feels guilty as hell for having done it to the point he hallucinates Yuusaku each time he’s not in his best shape or even when he is and he’s about to do something he feels he might regret afterward.

But of course this is just me.

Thank you for your ask!