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its-julia-in-outer-space · 11 months

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Our Love Eternal - Part 1

Prompt: Harry is a Viking, and invades Y/N's land.

The Demon was taller than Y/N had expected him to be. Dressed in fighting leathers and a heavy fur coat, he stood alone before her father’s throne with both hands on the pommel of his greatsword. He had no beard, no visible ink staining his fair skin and his thick dark curls were free from any braid or decorative bead.

Had she not known any better, Y/N might have thought him an English mercenary, come to offer his services to the kingdom. But she did know better. The stories of the northern invaders had reached her ears long before they came knocking on Castle Branagh’s doors.

A furious storm was raging that night, said the stories, when three ships emerged from the mist. Twenty men on each ship, rowing to the shore to the relentless sound of drums. One man did not row, people said. He stood still as stone, at the bow of the foremost ship, staring ahead. Jarl Harald, his countrymen were said to call him. Demon, did the people of Lothian.

The invaders did not know hunger, thirst or weariness. They marched on, day and night, taking all the riches and valuables they could get their hands on. An unstoppable wave, heading straight for the castle, the heart of the kingdom.

Neighbouring lands had faced the northern invaders before, and fallen before them. But this group seemed different. They took no lives, so long as people did not resist. Women were left unabused, homes unburnt. From the monasteries, they seized the gold, but left the monks alone. From the fields, they took what food they needed, and cared not to ruin the rest.

Men had been sent to stop them, of course. The strongest warriors in Lothian had been torn from their homes, lifted onto brave steeds and sent off to lay down their lives for the kingdom. And lay down their lives, they had, cut down like children by the northern beasts.

Y/N had seen them appear over the horizon one morning, a shifting mass darkening the path to Castle Branagh. Standing on the battlements, she had watched them approach as the castle erupted in pointless chaos. There was, after all, nowhere to run.

Nowhere to run, she thought again as she stood behind her father’s throne, the Demon before them.

“Ask him what he wants,” said the king to the translator. Her father wore his best finery, the Antler Crown placed proudly on his balding head. Slightly crooked, as always. Y/N could see beads of sweat running down his neck, and hoped that the invaders could not. For dignity’s sake.

The translator, a short and plump spice merchant who had apparently done frequent business in the invaders’ northern lands, spoke then in a strange, rhythmic, melodic prose. The Demon tilted his head to the side, bright green eyes on the Antler Crown, as he replied in that same strange language.

“He asks if you are the one called the Stag King,” the translator said.

“I am King Roderic of Lothian. Like my father before me, and his father before him, I am called the Stag King by the people of my lands.”

An old title, its meaning forgotten. Undeserved.

The translator translated. The Demon’s eyes narrowed, his gaze leaving the crown to travel the crowd of stoic soldiers and cowering nobles. He spoke then, his tone sharper.

“He asks if you have a child,” the merchant said. “No - a daughter.”

Y/N froze as, one by one, each member of the royal court looked at her. Following along, the Demon’s green eyes settled on her figure. She was covered from head to toe, gloves on her hands, cloak around her body, veil over her face. Yet she felt naked as he watched her, watched every tremor, every shiver that racked her.

The Demon spoke again, his chapped lips curving into a predatory smile. Spoke to her.

“He says hello,” the translator said. “He says not to be scared.”

“Scared!” her father scoffed. “The nerve! Has he come to mock us? Is this why he asked for an audience? To make fools out of this court before they slaughter us? We know his men stand ready! We know who waits in the darkness!”

The Demon’s eyes went cold, flickering to her father as he bit out two short sentences.

The translator hesitated. “He says - he says he was not speaking to you, Your Highness. He was speaking to Lady Y/N.”

Her father opened his mouth, fury reddening his skin. Before he could speak and possibly damn them all, Y/N took a step forward.

“Why?” she asked. She sounded frightened, and cursed her lack of control. It was impossible to ignore the smile that blossomed on the Demon’s face. “What does he want with me?”

Her heart pounded against her ribs as she listened to the translator’s wheezy voice, and the Demon’s deep one in return. Air turned scarce as she watched the merchant’s eyes widen, his shoulders tense as he turned to her.

“He’s offering a deal, my Lady. He says he and his men will depart Lothian at once, and not harm a single soul. He swears not to return in ill spirit, lest the deal is broken. He says he is ready to make a solemn oath to you, and to the gods of his faith.”

“What- what does he want in return?” Y/N asked.

Time seemed to stop, seconds stretching into centuries as she waited with bated breaths for the translator to speak. The Demon stood still, his green gaze boring into hers through her veil.

“He wants the Stag’s Daughter to come with him back to his land. To Kaldagr. My Lady, he wants you.”

-----

The northerners’ longships were called drakkars, Y/N learned. Their word for sword was sverð, the one for shield, skjold. Come was koma, and skynda was hurry. To her, they said nei most often. She needed no translation for that one.

She was told the crossing would be dangerous. Depending on the winds, it would take them three to six days to reach their homeland. Three to six days of cold winds, harsh waves and unpredictable weather.

They asked her if she could swim, and laughed when she said no. They opened her sole bag of belongings and threw away all three of her dresses, and ordered her maid to pack men’s pants instead. They never left her alone. Never.

As if she could have run from them. As if she wanted to.

The Demon’s audience with the Stag King had ended ten days prior, with the signing of a treaty between the kingdom of Lothian and Kaldagr. The treaty was simple: there would be peace and friendship between both lands, so long as the Princess of Lothian remained in the great city of Kaldagr. It was not stated what she was expected to do, once in the north, and she did not dare to think about it for too long.

In the end, what did it matter? If it saved her people, she would endure.

“My Lady, you must drink.”

Robben, the merchant turned translator, was handing her his waterskin. They were sat pressed together from hip to shoulder, at the back of the longship. They had departed from the Lothian shores almost four days ago, and the open sea surrounded them on all horizons.

There had been rain, there had been wind, and waves so tall they seemed like mountains. Every now and then, weather permitting, the northerners would pack the oars and let down the sails.

“Thank you,” Y/N said as she took the waterskin from Robben. She lifted the bottom of her veil and drank a few mouthfuls.

As ordered, she had put on men’s clothing, the pants an unfamiliar feeling on her legs. She had too large hunting boots on her feet, kept in place by leather laces around her calves, thick socks underneath. Two cloaks had been placed around her shoulders, and still the cold wind passed through.

If the courtiers of Castle Branagh saw her, they surely wouldn’t recognize their princess. She looked like a vagrant, and smelled like one too after days at sea.

But still, she kept her veil over her hair and face. Not out of modesty, or out of respect for her father’s orders. She’d never cared much about those, even if she’d obeyed them for her entire life. But keeping her features hidden felt safer, the veil almost a shield against the northerners’ eyes. It was the last thing she owned, the last thing that was truly hers. She already dreaded the time when she would have to remove it.

She was still surprised she hadn’t been asked to take it off yet. Thought she would have to, that day on the beach.

On the morning of their departure, her father’s men accompanied her to the shore where the drakkars waited, already prepped for the journey home. A single row boat waited on the sand, two men sat inside with oars ready.

The Demon stood before it, his boots lapped by the waves, the rising sun over his left shoulder. The soldiers who brought her to him stayed back at the end of the dirt road, standing in a line as she walked alone towards the monster who now owned her.

As she approached, she noticed first that his arms were bare. Dark ink covered his fair skin, swirls and strange symbols running from his shoulders to his wrists. His dark curls were braided back, silver beads holding the ends together. The greatsword he’d carried at the audience was now accompanied with twin axes at his hips, a dagger at his belt and a bow across his back.

Now, he truly looked like a demon. Y/N’s heart faltered, an age-old instinct to run rising in her bones. She was smart enough to recognize that if he was the predator, she was the prey.

But she was the Princess of Lothian. She may have been going to her death, but she would go with pride and dignity. So she kept walking, stopping three steps before him. Even though he could not see her eyes, hidden behind the veil, she refused to look down.

A small, secretive smile on his lips, he bowed his head in a show of respect that made her want to spit in his face.

“Y/N,” he said. Her name did not sound the same coming from his mouth, his accent distorting every syllable. Then, he gestured at his own chest and said in broken, exaggerated English, “I am Harald. Harry.”

“You know my language?” she asked. He frowned, confusion in his eyes, and she took it as a no.

He spoke then rapidly in his own dialect, his hand pointing to the longship behind, then to her. He repeated the same words a second time, while she looked at him blankly.

“Kaldr,” he said. “Cold.”

Y/N looked down at herself, and the coat that had been given to her. It must have belonged to a hunter, stained with old blood and dirt, but she had no clothes of her own for extreme temperatures.

“This is all I have,” she told the Demon - Harry.

He clicked his tongue, muttering under his breath. Then, to her horror, he pushed back his cloak. Truthfully, calling it a cloak was doing it a disservice. Made of white, immaculate fur, it must have belonged to a wolf, but one larger than Y/N thought existed. It looked wonderfully warm and soft.

“No,” she protested as he took a step closer to her, the cloak in his hands. “I don’t want it.”

“Cold,” he said again. “Death.”

“I’ll be fine!”

He snarled, teeth bared at her. Such an animalistic behaviour, a savage show of dominance. But her protests died in her throat, her muscles locking up in fright.

His gaze turned softer at her reaction, and he looked almost regretful. But he said nothing, and stepped into her space. As he draped the heavy garment around her shoulders, his arms on both sides of her head, she kept her gaze on his chest.

“No cold,” he said, stepping back. “Varmr.”

“Warm,” she guessed. “I suppose I’m no good to you if I die from the cold before we even get there.”

“Warm,” he repeated, struggling on the w. “Já.”

Then, his hand lifted towards her face. As the tip of his fingers brushed her veil, Y/N startled backwards.

“Don’t,” she hissed. “Nei.”

He inclined his head in surrender, and sighed. Then, without stepping closer, he gestured towards the row boat.

For a moment, Y/N debated staying put. Digging her feet in the sand, the soil of her homeland. Would Lothian hold her, she wondered? Would her kingdom grip her ankles, her thighs, her waist, keep her with it no matter how hard the northerners pulled at her?

She entertained the fantasy for a few seconds. Breathed in. And walked to the row boat.

“We will reach Kaldagr before nightfall, I believe,” said Robben, his wheezy voice startling Y/N out of her memories. “Only a few more hours to go.”

“And then what? Will I be locked up? Beaten and raped? Made a slave to my enemies?”

Robben sighed.

“I don’t know what will happen to you, my Lady. But I do not believe you will be harmed.”

“Why not? Isn’t that the Viking way?”

“If they wanted to hurt you, they would have done so in Lothian.”

Y/N scoffed.

“That’s assuming there’s any kind of logic to their actions. Do you know them so well, sir, that you can assure me of my safety?”

To his credit, Robben seemed to take no offence to her sharp tone and biting words.

“I am not so arrogant. But I have spent time with the northerners, and with Jarl Harald himself.”

“Harald,” she repeated. “Or Harry?”

“Harry is a nickname of sorts, one he uses with foreigners. Perhaps because it is more familiar to them, less…”

“Northern?”

“Less threatening. Many in the world believe the Vikings to be savages, conquerors, people with little thought who steal, and rape, and kill. We imagine they live depraved lives, uneducated and beastly.”

“Do they not? They certainly behave like animals.”

“No. They are warriors, certainly. But you will see in Kaldagr that there is tradition, art, laws, commerce, and all the same complexities that you have in Lothian. The culture is different, yes. Very much so. But I would say the same of Francia, of the Byzantine Empire or Flanders.”

“You are a well-travelled man.”

Robben nodded, looking at the horizon with a distant smile on his face.

“I thank you, my Lady, for what I believe is a compliment. But do not mistake me for a learned man. I am no wiser than a child.”

“Do you truly not know, then?” Y/N asked, fear slipping into her tone. “What he wants with me?”

“The Jarl? No. But he is a private man. I do not believe even those closest to him know why he took you from Lothian.”

“Well,” Y/N said, hugging the white fur coat closer to her body. “I suppose I’ll find out soon enough.”

-----

As Robben had said, land appeared on the horizon hours later. Cliffs that seemed to reach the clouds rose before Y/N’s eyes, grey rocks topped by emerald green grass. Forests of spruce stretched on and on, dark and imposing.

The longships sailed to a narrow opening in the cliffs, which Robben said was called a fjord. They followed the river for some time. The further they travelled, the more the northerners smiled. The men had been quiet, focused and sullen during the crossing, but now, they laughed and joked, sang songs. Ale was distributed, caskets passed from one ship to another.

Even Harry, who had not said a single word the entire journey, now sang with his men from his place at the bow of the ship. He looked younger somehow, his green eyes lit up with barely restrained glee. Happy to be home, Y/N supposed, while she felt she was getting closer to her grave with each passing minute.

As dark as her mood was, she could not hold back her gasp when Kaldagr came to view at last.

It was the largest city she had ever seen. It stretched from the end of the fjord to the top of the hills beyond, an army of timber houses with thatched roofs pressed close together. No walls surrounded the city, but the forest around was so dense that Y/N realised they did not need one.

All of the homesteads were low to the ground, made of one story. They looked barely discernible from one another, an extra window here, slightly wider walls there.

There was one building, however, that contrasted with the rest. It was built from the same timber and thatch, but its length and width far surpassed that of any other building. It was also much higher, towering above the city.

“That’s the longhouse,” said Robben. “It’s where the Jarl lives, and where the northerners hold their meetings and gatherings.”

“Like a castle?”

“Not exactly. Castles, like the one you grew up in, are meant for the nobility. Longhouses welcome everyone.”

“Are there no upper classes here?”

“No, there are. But the gentry is not so separated from the rest of the people, like you might see in Lothian.”

“How strange,” Y/N said, looking at the longhouse. Her father would have never allowed the lower class to step foot in Castle Branagh. When he spoke of the common people, it was always with disdain and mockery. As if the very bread he ate hadn’t been made from their hands.

But then, her father had always been a selfish, greedy man. The veil Y/N had borne her entire life was yet another example: how much he’d loved that only he knew what she looked like, how he’d basked in the curiosity of the other nobles, of the neighbouring royalty. She’d been yet another jewel in his coffers, to be kept hidden, under lock and key.

“Ah,” said Robben. “The welcoming party has arrived.”

Y/N looked to the docks. A crowd had gathered, men and women of all ages cheering and waving at the approaching ships. At the end of the longest dock, three women stood.

Two of them had dark hair, and wore long, thick dresses of the same burgundy colour. Golden jewellery adorned their necks and wrists, their hair pinned up. They could have been twins, had one not been considerably older than the other.

“The Jarl’s mother and sister,” Robben explained. “Hedda and Astrid.”

The resemblance to Harry was more evident the closer they got, from the shape of the mouth to the colour of the hair. But Y/N’s eyes were drawn to the woman in between them. She was as tall as a man, her figure toned. Blonde hair fell from her scalp in wild curls, the wind blowing them in front of her icy blue eyes. Freckles decorated her skin, like stars in the night sky.

She was not wearing a dress, but fighting leathers. A large axe hung from her waist, the woman’s hand resting on the handle as if she might draw it at any moment.

She was beautiful, stunning even, in the way that a snake is before it strikes.

“What about her?” Y/N asked.

“Ah,” answered Robben. “That would be the Lady Saga. Eldest daughter of Jarl Thorvald of Skolstrond, to the north of here.”

“The Lady Saga has quite the weapon.”

“Yes, she does, and she knows how to use it. Does that surprise you? A woman fighting?”

“No,” she said, and shrugged at Robben’s doubting look. “Why would a woman be incapable of fighting? We have arms, don’t we?”

“Do you not believe females are weaker?” asked Robben, throwing up his hands with a smile at the sudden tension in her body. “For the sake of argument only, my Lady.”

“No,” she replied. “Not when I look at the Lady Saga.”

At last, the longships reached the docks. Ropes were thrown to secure them and a human chain was formed to unload the many bags and crates, filled with the northerner’s plunder.

Y/N’s name was called, and she looked up to see Harry before her, his hand stretched out. There was a wild smile on his face, victorious. A man who’d gotten what he wanted, although she still wasn’t sure what exactly that was.

She looked at his outstretched hand, those long, calloused fingers. The hand of the enemy. The joy in Harry’s eyes faded, replaced by apprehension. He spoke softly.

“He says not to worry,” said Robben. “He only means to help you off the ship.”

Y/N took a shallow breath in and placed her hand in Harry’s. He gently closed it around hers, pulling her up to her feet and guiding her to the edge of the longship. Stepping off first, he grasped her elbow and supported her as she stepped onto the dock.

“Thank you,” she said, her words barely audible.

“Þökk,” Harry smiled. A translation, offered like a gift.

He did not let go of her hand as he accompanied her down the dock, as if she was an honoured guest and not a prisoner of war. As they reached the trio of women, his mother and sister kissed his cheeks and forehead, tears pearling at the corner of their eyes.

The sister, Astrid, couldn’t have been older than fifteen. She was bouncing on the heel of her feet, wide brown eyes flitting between Harry and Y/N. The mother, Hedda, had a bit more composure and only snuck glances here and there.

“Saga,” said Harry, drawing Y/N’s attention. The warrior had approached, bowing her head respectfully. Harry clasped her forearm, as one would a fellow warrior.

They exchanged a few words, before Saga’s cold blue eyes settled on Y/N.

“Y/N,” she said. “Welcome to Kaldagr.”

Her voice was melodic, surprisingly high. Most surprisingly was how seamless her English was, her accent nearly indiscernible.

“Thank you,” Y/N said tentatively. Robben hadn’t said who Saga was to the northerners, and she was unsure of the level of deference that was expected. “I didn’t think many would know my language.”

“Most do not,” the warrior replied. “But I had a good teacher.”

Saga said nothing more, and Harry took this opportunity to softly pull at Y/N’s hand. He led her down the docks to the city itself, his mother and sister falling in step behind them. Robben had joined them, and as Harry gestured at some buildings here and there, he translated.

They passed the armoury, the butcher’s shop, the sick house, the forge. There was a school, training grounds and a tailor. They walked through two different markets, both overwhelming from sights, scents and sounds.

Men and women hurried down the busy, narrow streets, many clasping Harry’s free hand with sincere joy in their eyes. He knew most of their names, and always introduced them to Y/N, though she understood very little of what was said.

At last, they reached the longhouse. While not as tall as the smallest tower of Castle Branagh, the longhouse was daunting in its sheer length and width. The large doors were thrown open, and through them, Y/N could see a large room filled with tables and benches. At the centre was a firepit, and against the room’s back wall were two thrones perched on a dais. The floor was covered with thick furs and carpets, the walls decorated with tapestries.

Harry walked straight through, pulling Y/N along. They passed the tables, the firepit, the dais, and walked through an opening to the side. She saw the kitchen to her right, many closed doors to the left. At last, they reached another door, more ornate than the rest. Harry opened it and guided Y/N through.

At once, she saw the bed. She whirled around as the door closed behind her, realising with dread that she was alone with Harry. His mother and sister, the Lady Saga, Robben, were all gone.

Instinct took over. Harry blocked the path to the door, so she bolted to the other side of the room. Her eyes passed quickly over the desk, the chests and wardrobes, the bed, and widened as she saw the weapon rack. She grabbed the handle of a sword and pulled. But she hadn’t realised how heavy it was, and her grip loosened as the sword fell with a great clatter to the floor.

She cursed under her breath, and strained, lifting the sword off the wooden planks. Her arms ached, muscles screaming in pain.

“Stay back!” she ordered, air coming out of her lungs in panicked wheezes.

Harry hadn’t moved from the door. He stared at her, eyebrows raised high, his mouth slightly open.

“I will kill you if you touch me,” Y/N hissed. “I will cut your head off, I’ll split you open, I will - I will rip out your lungs!”

Gone were her promises to her people, the treaty, her father’s orders. If this demon put a hand on her, she would bite it off. Or, at the very least, she would try.

Harry laughed.

“What?” she asked, baring her teeth. “I will!”

With an amused smile, he shook his head. He spoke, but she understood none of the words he said.

“What is that supposed to mean?” she said, her tone rising.

His brows furrowed in concentration.

“No hurt,” he said. He was looking at his hands, like a boy trying to remember his lessons. She realised then that this was exactly what was happening, as he continued in English. “You - are safe. No danger.”

“But - why,” she stammered. “Why did you bring me here?”

She gestured to the bed, and his eyes widened.

“Nei!” he said. He spoke in his language, and his face twisted in frustration as he struggled to find words. He pointed at her, twice, then at the floor.

“Are you…,” she began, looking around the room. “Are you saying this is my room? Just mine?”

He nodded, pointed to the closed door and the hallway beyond. “Mine,” he repeated.

His, over there. Hers, here. Separate bedrooms, because he was not going to touch her. Y/N deflated, the sword sliding a second time from her grip and falling to the floor. She ignored the wince on Harry’s face and leaned against the wall, her legs shaking.

“Safe,” he said again. “Safe.”

There was honesty in his eyes, his features devoid of any sign that he might be lying, trying to trick her. How stupid could she be, to want to trust him? He had taken her from her land, her people, her family. He had forcefully brought her to this city full of strangers, to his home, and she was supposed to believe he meant her no harm? What else could he want?

But there was something, in the bottomless green of his eyes. In the tilt of his full lips, in the shyness in his gestures.

“Okay,” she said. “Safe.”

With shaking limbs, she lifted her hands towards her veil. Part of her was screaming not to do this, not to let go of her last defence. But it felt like a show of trust, a step in his direction. She would see what he’d do with it.

She pulled at the clasp that held the veil in place, and felt it fall from her hair and face with a whisper. It pooled at her feet, the heavy lace stained from the days of travel.

Harry did not blink. His eyes pored over her face, the shape of her jaw, the tilt of her eyes, the colour of her hair. It seemed as if he looked at her for centuries. She dared not move, dared not breathe. She was afraid, but did not know of what. His judgement?

“Þökk,” he said, his words soft as a morning breeze. Thank you.

Then, he bowed his head and stepped back to the door, leaving the room. As soon as the door was closed, Y/N’s legs faltered and she slid down the wall until she was sat on the floor, the fallen sword next to her feet.

She looked at the room properly, at the rich furniture, the open wardrobe in which many dresses were hung, the finely woven tapestries and the bed fit for an empress. She may have been a prisoner, but it seemed she would be a comfortable one. The luxuries she’d been awarded at Castle Branagh paled in comparison.

So many questions filled her head. But the fatigue of the past days caught up to her at last and she dragged herself to the bed, falling down on the furs without bothering to undress herself.

The moment her head hit the feather pillow, the world turned dark.

-----

Thanks for reading the first part, let me know what you think!

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#harry styles x you #harry styles x reader #harry styles x y/n #viking!harry #its-julia-in-outer-space writings

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karrenseely · 7 months

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Emotional Regulation

So I have CPTSD. Everything I've read mostly points to this being a lifelong condition (yay :P) that is incredibly difficult for all of us whom suffer from it. I know it has been for me. I honestly don't know if I'd have developed it if my parents had been loving, supportive, and understanding like they should have. Because, even if they had been, I would still have likely had many many years of gas lighting from society, them, and my extended family to be a gender other than what I was. And that takes its toll on anyone's psyche.

But who knows, maybe if they'd been really supportive, then I wouldn't have had years of thinking I was crazy or shameful, maybe I would have transitioned really young as soon as I could tell them they were wrong. Then all I'd have to deal with is some body dysphoria. But then even that can take its toll as well. So I really couldn't say if I was destined to have this incredibly difficult mental health condition or not.

Either way, I really wish I'd had the loving supportive family every child deserves. I really wish I didn't find my psyche shattering as I grew up, getting stuck repeatedly at every traumatic event that I can remember, and actively forgetting everything I couldn't along with most of my other memories. Such that now, my memories consist of shattered disorganized shards scattered over the floor, most of those shards long since missing. It's really difficult to live when all you really have is now.

People talk about their childhoods like there's this linear well established timeline in their memories. It was a long time before I realized this was the typical way people remember their past. That for most people, they can remember approximately when such a memory occurred, in sequence with another. Even now, this is so foreign to me. I remember things in disjointed pieces, any one memory is not connected to any other. And few, if any, are connected to a specific time that I can locate.

Then there is the ability to remember what you did yesterday, or last week, or even last month in day to day life. That it's hard to know what's happened and what's been done recently. This was particularly bad when I was dissociating all the time, fortunately, therapy has helped with that part, and I don't do it as much and I can remember more of my day to day life. But even now, there are still significant holes in my memories of adult life. And admittedly as I struggle through my current flare of CPTSD symptoms, I sometimes wish I could dissociate like I used to so that I don't have to feel all of this horrible stuff. It hurts like hell.

If someone created the universe, they must be one of the most sadistic assholes to have ever existed, making it so healing is so effing painful, much less making thinking feeling beings feed off of one another.

In this journey of trying to heal, I've encountered many people talking about how, when we were abused as children we didn't develop our emotional regulation skills like normal loved, unabused kids do. I always found these comments or suppositions confusing. In large part due to the fact that I don't really understand what emotional regulation means. As a child, trying to survive, the only thing that worked, that made things even remotely bearable was dampening down on emotions until I didn't feel hardly anything at all. I wasn't particularly good at this, I still had feelings but they were distorted hazy half hearted things that would escape out, usually as anger, irritability, sadness, often fear, sometimes even joy would get out. But none were fully formed, or fully embraced, because if I did, then the pain would be in full force, the shame, the horror I constantly felt at what I was going through. So I did my best to damp down my emotions to almost nothing, and dissociate as much as I could so that I didn't have to feel or atleast remember feeling all those horrible things I felt. And the plus side to dissociation is that you truly only live in the moment. You can forget so much that way. You can ride the bus to school, but not remember any of it, just one moment you're at home and the next, poof, you're at school, and the next, poof, it's time to go home again and get on the bus, and poof the next you're at home again... you get the idea.

Emotions when all of the above were unsuccessful and I felt them anyway, usually it was the really really bad ones. And they were felt at 120% full blast. It was either 10 mph, or 120 mph. No inbetween. But people who talk about the ability to regulate emotions describe it as having inbetweens. Not having to feel the full blast, but not suppressing it completely either.

For the longest time when I encountered that phrase around emotional regulation, my mind just skittered past it, as it didn't make any sense to me. But I found myself thinking about it a couple months ago. And some kind fellow people with CPTSD pointed me to links that helped to explain the concept... except, those links were mostly just confusing. And unfortunately, my brain interpreted them as, "you are deficient, you're inability to regulate is your fault." Which didn't help. I honestly don't know if those explanations actually implied that, but it's what it felt like. Maybe because I didn't understand what they were saying.

Then... recently I returned to work, full time. And an interesting, if sucky, thing happened. I was fine at work, I could joke, I could laugh and have fun with coworkers and feel empathy for my patients and basically function somewhat like a typical human being in what I imagine is a healthy fashion. But as soon as I left work and went home, I had no energy left to keep the intrusive memories and emotions in check. And I would immediately start to crash. Spiraling down the rabbit hole of all those horrible memories. Nothing had specifically triggered them, it's just I ran out of spoons and they took over. I'd used up all my spoons at work.

Obviously, I'd overestimated my ability to return to full time work, but also it felt like there was an insight here. And it came down to my emotional bandwidth. If I had enough emotional energy, enough spoons, then minor triggers that normally would have lead me back down that lovely negative spiral, wouldn't actually set me off, and I could continue to function. And this was the neat part, I could continue to function without having all my walls slam down and turn everything numb. But, if I run out of that energy, if I run out of those spoons, then any little thing can set me down that self destructive spiral.

And the more I've thought about this, the more I think this is what people mean when they talk about emotional regulation. That most people have a large fount of this emotional energy to buffer against the extremes. And thus can handle day to day joys, stresses and hurtful things without completely falling apart. If this is the case then I guess I've developed some emotional regulation after all, though it's limited.

But why is it so limited? Why didn't I have any before? And the more I look at it. I see it in terms of bandwidth, energy, and/or spoons. Before, when I was having to live in survival mode, all of my emotional energy was being used to just survive. I was constantly in fight or flight. There was no energy to spare for nuance. My bandwidth was incredibly limited because so much of it was taken up with just surviving from one day to the next, with constant vigilance. But when we are no longer in those situations, and just as importantly, when we are not constantly flashing back to those situations, we start to have that bandwidth become available for the nuance. We can start feeling things in between because we have the energy to do so. It's no longer entirely about survive or die.

And that's the worst part about flashbacks. Even though I'm no longer in that constant life or death situation, those flashbacks have me believing I am. And contrary to popular media's depiction of flashbacks, most of the time it's not getting stuck in a living visual memory of an event. No, the vast majority of those flashbacks are emotional flashbacks. Getting stuck in the feelings of the event, the feelings I couldn't suppress anymore, the constant feeling of being in danger, of having my life, my very existence threatened, which brings on the constant sense of danger, of fight or flight. Which means, no emotional energy for anything else, except the extremes. Everything in my life currently can be perfectly fine, safe, wonderful even. But if I'm stuck in an emotional flashback, none of the current circumstances matter, because I'm emotionally back in survival mode, feeling constantly threatened, trying to survive, trying to decide if I need to fight or run. And if I'm stuck there... then there isn't any emotional energy left for anything else.

The really effing sucky part, is that often I don't know I'm in an emotional flashback until after it's gone away, and I can see looking back that how I was feeling didn't fit at all with what was actually happening at the time. I reacted to an outside observer in a rather extreme, or worse in a completely irrational manner. But then when I'm in the middle of it, I guess it's understandable that I have a hard time recognizing it, as all my energy is directed towards surviving, towards keeping the pain and my fears at bay.

So maybe emotional regulation is just having enough emotional energy to filter the experiences you're having into a much more nuanced pattern, rather than having to sort things into binary extremes of bad, not bad. And if that's the case, then maybe, just maybe, I am healing, because I'm starting to free up some of my bandwidth to start sorting out the nuances... even if I can't quite identify what those nuances are yet.

#trans #transgender #lgbt+#lgbtqia #lgbt #trans kids #childhood trauma #complex ptsd #trauma #family #Emotional regulation #mental health #coping #emotional flashbacks #flashbacks #emotional energy #emotional bandwidth #lgbtqia+#queer

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hoshikwonkisser · 4 months

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I NEED MARAUDERS FRIENDS CAUSE I NEED TO TALK ABT THIS FIC ESP ABT EVAN MY BELOVED.

#im going crazy #i want to eat evan hes so ☹️☹️#my poor baby #jegulus #i feel so bad for all of them #THEO TOO! HES SO!!!#slytherin trio is fire yall #regulus my love such a good dad #james also an amazing dad #teacher evan. just what i needed.

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pynkhues · 1 year

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how do you think the roy kids were in college? shiv’s dancing in 3x07, connor not seeing logan for multiple years, kendall the “king” of the lampoon, and roman being sent to military school all give such bizarre setups for their college years

I mean, y’know. Messy, on all fronts, hahaha.

Interestingly, Kendall’s the only one we actually know for a fact went to college at all (and did postgrad at that), but I do suspect all four of them went with varying degrees of success and levels of study. In a lot of ways, I feel like it probably contributed to the divide between them that’s being emphasised this season – the one that positions Kendall and Shiv as the unabused overachievers, and Roman and Connor as the abused and neglected underachievers – it’s a bullshit perception obviously, and one that only really seems to be felt fully by Kendall and Shiv.

After all, Roman and Connor aren’t underachievers, at least no more than the rest of them, and Kendall and Shiv aren’t unabused, but I do think this divide has contributed to the ways that they likely navigated the college experience.

Kendall & Shiv

With the way Kendall and Shiv seem to view each other as intellectual equals (I always find it kind of fascinating that their attacks of each other usually boil down to Kendall’s addiction and mental health and Shiv’s gender and inexperience in business as opposed to attacks on intelligence, which they both level at Roman and Connor), I do feel they probably have similar degrees of education, which makes me think that Shiv did postgrad too. I think she would’ve deliberately not gone to Harvard, since Kendall went there, but I do think she would’ve gone to an on-par Ivy League school, and I do think it’s pretty likely that she did political science given her career trajectory at the start of the show and her academic political knowledge in 3.06.

In a lot of ways, I do think Kendall and Shiv are mirrors of each other, so I do think they probably engaged similarly at school. I think they both probably partied harder than they should’ve, that they coasted on their assumed intelligence as the ‘smart’ siblings until they fucked something up and the shame of that likely had them either working hard or cheating, and I think they both did a lot of extra curriculars to pad their resume. I don’t think either of them would know what to do in a team sport, but we know Kendall worked in distribution for the Lampoon (one of my favourite jokes on this show will always be him equating working operationally for it as meaning he was default funny), and I imagine Shiv would’ve scoffed at that and differentiated herself by working like - - editorial at Yale Daily News or something. Something she thought their dad would respect (which I actually do think he would’ve liked, but I don’t think he would’ve respected, because at the end of the day, he’s never respected any of his children, but especially not Shiv).

I think they both probably had messy college hook ups and experimented more than they’d ever actually admit, and I think they’d both absolutely feel they were the little prince and little princess of their respective campuses. Something to front annoyance at, but secretly relish in the security and familiarity of, and - - yeah. I think college probably felt safe for both of them. Far enough away from their father to feel like they had freedom, while still close enough to feel protected (and leashed), and I think they both probably did well enough to enjoy coming home for their gold stars and their pats on the head, just as I think they both probably spun out when they realised Logan was never going to be the father who gave gold stars or pats on the head (if they just do better though, y’know, maybe - - )

Connor

I’ve looong had the headcanon that Connor went but never graduated.

I kinda feel like he would’ve bounced around a bit? If he was 15 when Kendall was born, and if Logan had snatched him back up at that point (which I do kinda suspect he would have), he was likely in college when Roman and Shiv were born. I can see him potentially trying to stay closer to the family as a result of that, especially if he had already bonded with Kendall who would’ve been, what? Three? When he went to college? So he might’ve started off at a university in England, or been content to be away in the States during the semesters (especially if his mother was still alive), but spent holidays home with the Roy side of the family.

In that sense, I could see him at somewhere like UCLA? Connor would’ve been in college in the early 1980s, and I think he would’ve been into the college lifestyle of chill parties and a bit of activism here and there, depending on who he liked, and following bands around, but I also think he was a traumatised young man who was torn between feeling like an usurped heir to an empire and a boy forcibly separated from both parents desperately trying to establish himself in an expanding family back home. The fact of that alone I think means his perspective was off, and without the family unit the golden trio find in each other and him, he would’ve been an 18, 19, 20-year-old man trying to figure himself out with siblings so young strangers likely mistook them for his children.

I don’t know how likely it actually would be, but I will say that I kind of like the idea that Connor’s the only one of the four of them who’s kind of good at team sport? He canonically horse rides, so maybe he does polo, haha, but I also kind of like this idea that maybe for a hot minute he was good at football? I like the idea that maybe he briefly was good enough at something Logan valued to form a bond over, and that it maybe fell apart as he was never quite good enough, because god, isn’t that just Connor’s life story?

Roman

In terms of college, I actually find Roman the hardest to pin down? I do think he graduated, just because I don’t think he could’ve handled that level of disappointment from his dad if he hadn’t, but I don’t think he did postgrad. I think he probably went to an Ivy still though? Insider and Wall Street Journal tell me that Brown and Dartmouth are usually ranked lowest of the Ivy’s, so I kinda think he probably went to one of those.

I actually think he probably worked harder than Kendall and Shiv did, at least in his first year there, and maybe even performed better in some classes, but that it wasn’t treated as such because the school ‘wasn’t as good’ and because he was already relegated to the fuck up son slot with Connor, so he just thought fuck it and coasted enough to graduate. I think he probably experimented with the idea of experimenting – that he flirted with people across spectrums and got close to having sex with a few of them (maybe even did with one or two), but that the experiences were uncomfortable enough for him that he never really lost himself to them like Kendall and Shiv did.

I think he made fast friendships that didn’t last, and that was probably because he was torn between his dad and school and I imagine he at this point was also starting to really face the realities of having a brother who was an addict (everything about 1.07 makes me think Roman’s experienced a Kendall overdose before, and timeline-wise, I imagine that would’ve been likely around his college days), his dad and Kendall being two factors he’s canonically protective of when it comes to outsiders, so likely impacted his ability to form friendships and relationships with others.

Yeah, he probably had a token girlfriend or two to save face, but I think in many ways, college probably felt like being sent away again for him as a result of military school (or, well, not military school, given St. Andrews had stopped being one and was instead just an outdoorsy boarding school by the time Roman would’ve gone, and the show’s attention to detail feels too specific for that to not be relevant) in a way that it didn’t for Kendall and Shiv. I don’t think he felt like the prince of his campus, I think he probably tried to get through and do well long enough to get home and give his father something that would make him happy. When he experienced the same dismissal Kendall and Shiv did though, I don’t think he spun out, I just think he probably expected it.

I don’t know though! What do you guys think?

#i do think roman's older than shiv (although i love the twin theory SO MUCH too)#so i do think that factors into roman's insecurity too #because i think shiv being so laser focused on kendall as her actual competition #probably made roman feel Some Sort of Way growing up #i highkey love the juxtaposition between kendall and shiv vs roman and connor tbh #i've been thinking about it a lot this week #especially because of that sense of all of them not really being what they should be?#like obviously connor only child / eldest son #kendall eldest son / middle child #roman middle child / youngest son #shiv youngest child / only daughter #like NONE of them get to be any one thing #even in their own family unit #it's SUCH good character set up #anyway #haha #kendall roy #shiv roy #roman roy #connor roy #hbo succession #succession meta #welcome to my ama

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