#violet beach podcast

[violettduchess]

Heya Violet! I'm going to request an ikevamp fic for the first time, so how about either of the Day 4 prompts for Leonardo? I'm excited to see what you come up with 👍

A/N: Hi @scorchieart 💜 Thank you for your request! This is for the Different Universe Same Love CCC hosted by @xxsycamore and @queengiuliettafirstlady

This combines scorchie's request with an anon request for Soulmates AU with Leonardo 💜

Leonardo x f reader

WC: 5254

"There is nothing more truly artistic than to love people." -Vincent Van Gogh 

“I hate this,” you grumble as you check your phone for the hundredth time. Where the hell is this place? It feels like it's been hours of California coastline rolling past your window. Beautiful, yes. But also so inconvenient. You lean forward towards the front of the town car.

“Abel, how much longer?”

Your driver glances at you in the rear-view mirror, smiling good-naturedly. 

“Another 15 minutes, chérie.”

You flop back into the cushioned leather, sighing. If you had known this would be a part of it, you would not have taken the role. 

Maybe. 

Ok, fine. You probably would have taken it anyway. 

The story of a woman who breaks all tradition to become a famous 19th century painter? You can practically hear Theo’s words in your ear all over again: “You want to be stuck in rom-coms forever or do you want to be taken seriously? Make art that matters?” The Dutchman is a tough agent, too direct for most actors’ fragile egos to handle but that’s why you like him. He is always honest with you.

Outside the town car window, the ocean continues to roll by, a blur of slate-gray and white. Picking up your phone for the hundredth time, you type in the name of the artist you’re on your way to see. 

Just like every time you’ve done it before, all you get is his Instagram page which is entirely too sparse and full of only half-finished paintings, close ups of brushes, a few small, charcoal sketches. Nothing about the man himself. 

You swipe Instagram away and tap on Spotify, closing your eyes and allowing a podcast about the Golden Age of Hollywood to help pass the remaining time.

“Love the vibe,” you murmur as you step out of the Mercedes, pushing up your tortoise-shell sunglasses in order to better take in the picturesque brown and white wooden house. It really does seem like something out of a Kinkade painting. It's perched on the edge of a plateau, facing a slope of green hillside that disappears into a smattering of gray rock. The rocks give way to a stretch of dark brown sand which leads you right to the blue-gray beauty of the Pacific Ocean. It's here the warm vibes end though. This beach is nothing like the sandy beaches of Southern California. This is something wilder, something sharper. There is no manicured, processed beach feeling here. This is nature allowing you into her world, the crashing of the waves onto the shore not an invitation but a reminder. You’re here with her permission.

Abel comes around, carrying your luggage and pauses, taking in the house. “It’s lovely,” he murmurs. 

You shoot him a Look. “It’s miles from just about anything. I hope Vlad knows what he’s doing.”

Vlad is the director of the film you are going to star in. The one who said you needed to spend some time with a real-life artist in order to understand the lifestyle, the thought process, the way of viewing the world. And he knew just the person. A friend of a friend, an artist of some small renown, who made money on the side by working as a consultant for various productions. He had invited you to stay with him for a few days, to teach you basic painting and drawing techniques so it would look realistic on film, and to answer any questions you had. Vlad vouched for him, claiming he was a good man, one he would trust his star with. 

You turn to Abel. “Only leave if I give you the sign.”

He smiles indulgently, placing a hand on your shoulder. “You’ll be fine. But I will wait until I see it.”

Steeling yourself, you gather your bags and make your way down the short driveway and up the dark wooden steps. There’s no doorbell so you knock loudly.

You aren’t sure what you expected. A man named Leonardo made you think he would be older with flowing white locks and a long wizard-like beard. What you did not expect was the door to be opened by a golden-eyed Adonis with ombre hair and one of the friendliest, most open smiles you’ve ever seen. 

“Benvenuta, cara mia. Welcome.”

That voice. Your heart is doing tiny backflips inside your chest as a horde of butterflies excitedly flutter their wings inside your stomach. It takes you a moment before you figure out the way words work again.

“Thank you.”

Behind your back, you wiggle two fingers at Abel furiously. 

The driver covers his grin with the back of his hand, nodding once to Leonardo in greeting before sliding back into the vehicle. He watches through the car window as Leo takes your bags and you follow him inside, the white wooden door closing behind you.

“Good luck, chérie,” he chuckles softly. Somehow, he is certain you will be just fine.

You are utterly charmed. The main house is small, and the guest house just behind it even smaller, but they are both unique, beautiful in their own ways. Everything is simple, clean. Wide windows keep the ocean in view at all times. In every room there is something to look at. A miniature painting of sunset over the water on the living room table. An antique nautical map hanging on the wall of the dining room. An oversized forest green couch that looks like it's just waiting for you to snuggle into it.

Leonardo has just brought your bags to the guest house, a one room structure with a brass bed, rustic homemade dresser, a small desk and a tiny en-suite bathroom.

“I know you are probably used to more luxurious accommodations.”

“No, this is lovely. Really.” You glance down at your phone, considering whether to post a picture to your socials and hear him laugh softly at the expression on your face. The sound settles itself into your bones, warm and welcoming.

“Reception is a bit shoddy out here. You have the best chance when you go to the living room.”

Tucking your phone into the back pocket of your jeans, you flash him a smile. “Thanks for the tip.”

He holds your gaze a moment and you feel like sand, being pulled towards an irresistible ocean. 

“You must be starving. Let’s eat before I show you my studio.”

With a pleasantly full stomach and a glass of red wine in hand, you step inside the studio and gasp. Gone are the clean lines, the simplistic beauty of the rest of the house. Here is a world of color and chaos, paint and pandemonium, art and anarchy. Canvases are everywhere, paint pots and brushes, charcoal and sketchbooks. And while it may look like mayhem, there is a truth about it that stirs something inside you. This is the man behind the easy-going smile. This is his heart and soul made tangible, made material. 

He notices the way you’re looking around, sees the look in your bright eyes and he knows that you see it, the love he has for his craft. You're not some Hollywood actress looking down her nose at a mess. You're one artist taking in another artist’s medium and appreciating it. His heart unexpectedly shifts, sliding closer to some unseen edge. 

“This is…incredible.” You walk slowly through the space, stopping in front of whatever catches your eye. A half-finished sketch of a whale breaching the surface of the water. An anatomically correct drawing of the underside of a starfish. A canvas of yellows and oranges and reds, a practice in blending.

“How come I’ve never seen you post a finished painting on your social media?” You stop when you come to a whole row of them, leaning casually against the back wall of his studio. Crouching down, you inspect a painting of a man from behind, his arms spread out wide towards a turbulent, white-capped ocean, daring it maybe. Or welcoming it.

He shrugs, running his hand through his hair, a tick you’ll come to recognize as something he does when he is uncomfortable.

“I sell a few here and there. Not enough to earn a living but that’s what jobs like this are for, yeah?”

You rise slowly back to full height, taking a sip of the rich wine.

“Have you ever showcased your work?”

He scoffs as he lifts a paint-stained rag from one corner of his supply table and toys with it before tossing it right back.

“To what end? I paint for me. That is enough.”

That sounds like someone who is too scared to try. But you keep the words locked in your mind, aware enough to know that might be reaching a bit too deeply into his psyche for comfort.

“So….when do we begin?”

He smiles slowly and it burns through your body, warming you more than the alcohol.

“Tomorrow. Sunrise.”

All those hours you could still be sleeping. Instead of being warm and snug in your very cozy guesthouse, you are shivering on a beach, sitting on a blanket next to Leonardo as he flips open the sketchbook in front of you. He’s in an oversized brown knit sweater and jeans, looking like a model for some outdoor clothing company whereas you, trying to pull your fitted sweater down over your exposed lower back, look like some Hollywood wanna-be who wasn’t prepared for the cold California morning.

He places several small gray pebbles in front of you on the blanket.

“Sketch these.”

You tilt your head. “They’re rocks.”

“There is challenge in even the simplest of forms. Please try.”

You’re skeptical as you yank down once more on your sweater, sitting cross-legged and staring down at the pebbles. It can’t be that hard. Picking up the pencil, you begin trying to capture their form. 

It proves to be much harder than it looks. 

Your brow furrows as you look from your sketch, which is doing a fantastic job of being horrible, to the smooth stones in front of you.

“You must relax,” he murmurs as he scoots closer. “You’re gripping that poor pencil like you wish to strangle it.” He reaches over, covering your hand with his. You’re immediately hit with the faint smell of tobacco. Does he smoke? And something else….something earthy and rich and entirely too appealing for this early in the morning. His fingers, graceful and strong, carefully manipulate yours, sliding over your skin and leaving small ripples of heat in their wake. He touches your wrist, over the place where your heart is beating so quickly, tilting it just so. 

He holds you there, moving your hand like a puppeteer might the wooden cross of marionette. You watch as the pebbles slowly come to life, flowing from the tip of your pencil.

“Let go,” his voice, gentle as the morning breeze, deep as the sea, whispers in your ear. “You must let go and allow the pencil to do its job.”

Slowly he removes his hand and the sudden lack of contact spurs a tiny whimper from your throat. Luckily, he mistakes it for dismay at his lack of coaching and chuckles.

“You continue on your own, cara mia.”

You’ve been called many things: The Girl Next Door, America’s Sweetheart but somehow, that nickname rolling so casually off his tongue suddenly means more than any of that. You’re smiling despite the cold, despite the wind, despite your stupid, impractical sweater.

Inhaling, you try again, the pencil less a tool in your hand as an extension of it. And while your pebbles don’t look amazing, they do look much closer to what you are trying to accomplish. 

“Well done,” he says, looking over your shoulder. “You're a quick learner.”

You smile at him, his words washing over you, warm as sunshine.

“Can I try something else? Maybe try the sand and the ocean?”

He nods, reaching for the hem of his sweater. The next thing you know he’s removed it and wrapped it around your shoulders, leaving you surrounded by soft wool that smells like Leonardo. Your heart stumbles.

“Si. Let’s try.”

My life has never been this disconnected from work and yet, so full, you think as you wrap the beige blanket tighter around your body, watching Leonardo paint. You’re sitting outside on the large porch, the breathtaking view of the sand dunes, the boulders, the sand and the endless sea stretched out before you like a slice of paradise.

You’ve been here almost a week and the world has changed. The bright lights of Hollywood seem so far away. Now you’re concerned with daylight and sunrises, the way light falls across an object or a person, how to capture its essence with charcoal and acrylics, watercolor and wax. You haven't even touched your phone other than to reassure Theo you are fine, doing well and learning a lot, soaking in the experience of being an artist so that you can find it again when the cameras are on you. You’ve abandoned your socials, only leaving a message saying something about the life of an actor and secret prep work that you can’t talk about. It’s technically not a lie.

You watch as Leonardo dips his brush into a red that looks far too bright and finds a way to make it exactly the right shade of sunset, adding an element to his painted sky that you didn’t even know was missing until he put it there. He’s relaxed, his body loose, movements like flowing water as he almost lovingly drags the brush along the canvas. He showed you how, a few mornings ago. You’ve been haunted ever since by the feel of his larger body behind you, the way he reached around, gently taking hold of your wrist, and showed you how to hold yourself, teaching your body the dance of a painter. He is patient, always answering any question of yours the best he can. And so intelligent. The other night you curled up on his overstuffed green couch to look through several of his notebooks, filled with sketches and half-finished designs for contraptions that looked more sci-fi than present day. One entire page was devoted entirely to drawing various animal wings. The next was an excruciatingly detailed drawing of his own hand.

He talks about art the way you talk about acting: a way to conduct emotion, to spark a connection between people. You feel like he understands when you explain how acting is a form of devotion to humanity, an expression of love. Most people roll their eyes when an actor begins talking about their craft. His smile tells you all you need to know about how well he truly does understand. 

He shakes you from your reverie when he joins you on the bench, wiping his hands on a towel and reaching for his glass of wine.

“And? What do you think?”

You tilt your head, pretending to study the easel with its beautiful interpretation of the actual sunset that is happening behind it. He has not replicated it exactly, but captured the symphony of colors, the dramatic brass of the oranges and romantic woodwinds of the pinks, the clouds with their warmly colored underbellies and of course, the ever present sea, gilded in gold.

“It’s beautiful, Leo.” 

“You like it, which means I’m pleased.” He takes another sip. “Consider it a gift, yeah?. It is, after all, our last weekend together.”

Those words carve themself into the moment, slicing away the peace you’ve been feeling. Dismay bleeds from your heart. You were going to have to face it, the fact that your time with him, magical as it has been, is coming to an end. But you had hoped, irrationally, that maybe if no one said it, you could just stay here, in this beautiful house with this beautiful man as long as you wanted.

Your face, the tool of your trade that you can usually control so well, betrays your thoughts.

“Cara mia.” He reaches out, his fingers curling inwards for a moment, hesitant. The man who never has a problem touching you when correcting your hand or positioning your arm now needs a moment of courage. Because this isn’t a teaching moment. Maybe none of them ever really were. He only knows that from the second he opened the front door and you were there, with your smile like sunshine and eyes bright with intelligence and excitement, he felt drawn to you like he's never been toward anyone before.

You turn your face into his touch, reaching up to cup your hand over his. You press a kiss into his palm. The lull of the waves is drowned out by the roaring of your heartbeat. And then he leans towards you, taking your face in his beautiful hands, and he kisses you. 

Your heart cracks open and oceans of desire and want and something else, something nameless underneath those wild waves of emotion flood you. He feels so good. This feels so right.

You kiss with the exhilaration of new lovers, wildly and without a care for anything else in the world. The sunset and her majestic colors be damned. There is nothing as beautiful as the wildfire of gold in his eyes, the melody of his breathing. You’re on his lap, arms wrapped tightly around his neck, pressed as closely as you can be and it isn’t enough. He slides his hands under your blouse, pressing the palms of his hands to your bare back. It isn’t enough.

You manage to tear your mouth away from him long enough to get out one word: “Inside.”

He stands up and you wrap your legs around him, his strong arms supporting your weight as he carries you inside the wooden house on the plateau, impatiently stealing every kiss he can before laying you down on the oversized green couch, covering your body with his. He softly growls your name in a way that sends fire cascading through your veins.

The sky outside darkens as the last rays of sunset disappear. Her show is over. You both belong now to the night.

Heart, say good-bye because you are no longer mine. You lay on your side, facing the open window of Leonardo’s bedroom. The ocean breeze, cool with night’s kiss, waves the pale curtains and skims over your skin, raising goosebumps along your bare arm and shoulder. 

You close your eyes, reveling in the heavy feeling of your body, tempest-tossed and satisfied, peppered with the light marks of your lovemaking. You're a goner. You’ve fallen overboard, heading further and further down into the churning depths of your feelings for Leonardo. And you’re not sinking. Not at all. You’re kicking your legs and diving, excited to explore the deep and all its mysteries.

He stirs in his sleep and you roll back to face him, watching as he slowly surfaces from whatever dream he was lost in. His warm eyes, framed by such dark lashes, flutter open. When he sees you, laying on your side, facing him, he smiles slowly and reaches out a hand.

“Come here, cara mia.”

The thought of resisting doesn’t even cross your mind. You slide over into his arms, marveling at the feel of his body against yours, strong muscles, long legs. He presses a kiss to your temple, then nuzzles your neck affectionately.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

You smile, tipping your head up to meet his gaze. Now may not be the right time to tell him everything you’re thinking. You don’t want to scare him away.

“No thoughts. Just....” You slide your hand over his chest, over the lean muscles of his abdomen, and then lower. His golden eyes flare bright with immediate hunger. His lips part as he exhales.

With a groan he pulls you to him and you close your eyes, letting his greedy mouth and wandering hands take you away.

This is only the beginning after all. You have plenty of time to figure out what's next. 

A Year Later

“Now that’s just one review! The rest are all like it!”

You listen to Theo’s exuberant voice as he names all the various publications that are writing rave reviews about the film. Funny, everything you thought you ever wanted is coming true. You made a movie that is earning positive reviews across the board, with your performance hailed as a stand out, a tour de force unlike anything you’ve ever done. There’s already talk about awards and other dramatic parts and are you interested in endorsements?

And yet, you’re miserable.

Leaning back into the plush seat of the town car, you stop Theo’s voice message and tap on Instagram and, like a lemming drawn to a cliff, go to his page.

All comments are turned off and there is only one picture posted: a short message thanking people for their interest but he is on hiatus.

The post is six months old.

How did it all go so wrong? You had been so happy.

Your eyes fall closed and memories play themselves out in front of you, like a flickering movie reel from yesteryear.

You and Leonardo on his porch, cuddled together under a blanket as you watch the sunrise. He can’t stop touching you and you him.

Driving with him back to Southern California, his eyes widening when you pull into the driveway of your home, modest by Hollywood standards, a palace compared to his small wooden dwelling.

Your pool. Cold water. Hot mouths. His hand pressed against your lips, stifling your sounds even as he continues moving.

The paparazzi finding you after a few days of blissful privacy, snapping a shot of you two leaving Starbucks, his hand casually resting on your hip, thumb stroking the stripe of bare skin between your jeans and the hem of your shirt.

Your names splashed across gossip sites and social media. He gains thousands of followers in a matter of hours, people hoping he’ll post an image of the two of you together. An older picture of him from several years ago at an art gallery opening in SoHo is all they have and it is everywhere. And it is not enough. They want more.

They follow you home. They follow you to work. They follow you when you go out to eat. They follow you to appointments, to meetings, across town and back. They yell your name, they ask about him. They are relentless.

And then they start to follow him. To your home. To the restaurant where you’re meeting. To his home. They wait by the wooden house on the plateau, hoping to catch a glimpse of you and him. They yell your name, they ask about rumors, they demand to know when the wedding is.

They swarm you both like locusts blocking out the sun, sucking up all your air.

And then his paintings begin to sell. Never has there been such a demand. He can’t keep up. And he isn’t happy.

Because he says he did nothing to deserve it aside from being with you. No one cared before. He has not earned this success. It’s the side-effect of loving you. Side-effect, you repeat one night, staring at him across your marble kitchen island, that makes it sound like loving me is some kind of disease.

He cures himself by leaving. You wake up one morning and all his things are gone. He is a ghost who has vanished back into the nether of sea-spray and morning fog from whence he came.

All he leaves you with is a note, the paper torn from one of his notepads, in his messy, slanted writing: “I’m sorry.”

A note, and all the splinters of your broken heart.

And now you’re almost at your destination. The tiny bed-and-breakfast tucked away in a remote corner of the California coast. Your refuge from the rest of the world. The place you come to heal.

You’ve been here a few times since he left. The owners, Wolf and Jean, are like family. They took care of you before you became successful, when you were a starving artist looking for your big break, and have continued to do so even now, when you could easily stay at any five-star hotel across the globe but always come back here, to warmth and comfort.

The first time you came here after he left, they filled your room with macaroons, your favorite dessert. They must have heard the news from some entertainment program or maybe some celebrity news ticker. You could have killed the Starbucks barista who spoke to the press, saying how you suddenly were coming alone to pick up your coffee and how pale you were, your eyes red from crying.

Another time they subtly laid a newspaper on your bed. At first you weren’t sure why but then you saw the tiny article about Leonardo having a small but successful showing in Denmark, worlds away from the bright lights of Hollywood. Like a 1950’s schoolgirl, you had cut out the small black and white picture of him and folded it, hiding it in your wallet. Doing so felt both pathetic and comforting at the same time.

Another winding road, dipping between tree and rocky coast and then one final turn. The familiar blue and white building comes into sight and you can feel yourself breathing easier already.  The car slows to a stop and a moment later, Abel opens the door for you.

“We’re here, chérie.” His champagne-colored eyes have a twinkle to them which leaves you wondering if he knows something you don't.

Forever ago, this place used to scare you with its pointed roof and close proximity to the edge of a very steep cliff. But it’s become your home away from home and you’re soothed by the sight of it.

“I’ll just get my—” Your weekend bag is already on the ground next to you and the town car is halfway down the drive. You frown slightly before hoisting up your bag. Well, he was sure in a hurry.

You bound up the familiar steps, opening the friendly blue door and step into the foyer.

“Jean? Wolf?”

Odd, they would normally be here to meet you, food and drink in hand.

You glance around, taking out your phone to make sure that you had sent them the correct date and time when you spot something hanging on the wall. Your fingers go numb and your phone falls, landing with a harmless thud on the thick carpeting.

Hanging on the wall is a new painting. It’s a woman, sitting on a beach at sunrise, wrapped up in an oversized, cozy brown sweater. Her head is tipped back, eyes closed, a serene expression on her face. It’s soft and romantic. Not a brushstroke wasted nor a color excessive. 

The sea is a deep gray-blue. 

The sky is a garden of pinks and lavenders and orange. 

The woman is you.

You open your mouth to say something but nothing comes out. 

How....

“Cara mia.”

Like an apparition he is suddenly standing there, in the doorway. Not some memory or picture or dream, but Leonardo, flesh and blood, right there in the same room as you. The sight of him hits you like the full force of a typhoon, draining all the color from your face and sending you back a step.

As you recover from your shock, you notice now how nervous he is. His hands, normally so strong and steady, whether creating art or touching you, are shaking. He has dark circles under his golden eyes, shadows of what has been haunting him.

“Leonardo.” His name is twisted upon itself, hollow and aching when it passes your lips. 

“May I speak? I have something to say to you. Please."

You nod, your breath held prisoner in your lungs, your wounded heart limps in circles in your chest, aching at the sight of him.

He draws a deep breath.

“I was a fool. I pushed you away because I was afraid. Your world is so much bigger than mine and instead of joining you, proud to be by your side, learning how to navigate new waters, I ran.” He pushes a hand through his hair, an inhale needed to steady his nerves. “That was wrong. I hurt you. I’m so sorry, cara mia. So deeply sorry for how stupid I was. I…I regretted it immediately but it was too late...Dio, sono un idiota.” 

He shakes his head, defeated. The failure of words in the face of what he did is stark and he finds himself unable to go on. Nothing can begin to explain the festering regret he's lived with from the moment he walked out your door. He isn't good enough with words to explain how the minute he was heading away from you all he wanted to do was to turn back. How without you the world was drained of its vivacity, its color. He trapped himself in a gray existence of his own making and now his escape lies solely in your hands.

You breathe in and out, taking a moment before you respond.

"You did hurt me. Badly. But…." You take a second, searching for the right words. "I could have helped prepare you for what it means to be with someone like me. It was so much to ask of you to just be ok with your life suddenly being turned upside down. For that, I'm sorry."

Silence grows between you, thick as brambles and just as thorny.  Neither of you can meet the other's gaze. It hurts, every second that ticks by without a word. Neither of you knows what to say, neither wants to leave. It is Leonardo who finally clears his throat, a throat where so many words are bottlenecking in their fury to get out.

"I'll leave you in peace then." 

The words are clipped, his accent thick as emotion chokes him. The final, tenuous connection between you is close to crumbling. He's about to turn away when one word shoots straight from your heart like a rocket.

"Wait!!"

He freezes, his sunrise gaze locking with yours. Dare he have hope…..

The minute you start towards him he rushes to meet you.

And then you're in his arms and your cheeks are wet and he's holding you so tightly your ribs feel crushed but it doesn't matter because he's turning and turning, the world is spinning, your heart is rising light as a feather, and then your feet touch the ground again and he's showering your face with kisses, painting you in his love, holding the back of your head, whispering your name breathlessly over and over and over, a song, a declaration, a prayer.

You hold on to his neck, your laughter as bright as sunlight across the waves, returning his kisses with ones of your own, all over his beautiful face, kisses pulsing with hope, with desire, with promise.

He leans back, lowering his mouth to your ear and whispers. His words engrave themselves onto your heart and you pull away to answer him the only way you can answer something like that: with a kiss deep as the sea, tender as the night.

You've found each other again. And you'll never again be parted.

(What did he whisper? This fic is acrostic so check out the first bold word of every section) 💜

Tagging: @aquagirl1978 @alixennial @alexxavicry @queengiuliettafirstlady @rhodolitesrose @ikemen-writer @bellerose-arcana @thewitchofbooks @redheadkittys @dear-mrs-otome @firestar-otomeobsessed @curious-skybunny @kpop-and-otome @writingwhimsey @mxrmaid-poet @silver-dahlia @wendolrea @otomefoxystar @tele86 @nightfoxqueen @myonlyjknight

[haveyouheardthispodcast]

[gunpowder-tim]

so. podcast reccomendations

putting this under a read more it got l o n g

Ones i have listened to -

*Inkwyrm - COMPLETE, My ultimate fav podcast ever -id listen to the original first ep before the first ep redo cause i think it kinda makes more sense idk, Putting up with her boss is hard enough, but with the cutthroat fashion industry, and whatever is trying to kill everyone today, Mella and the gang have their hands full. One part sit-com, one part space opera.

*Kaleidotrope - COMPLETE, the cutest fucking shit ever filled with tropes and gayass idiots, The plot centers around Drew and Harrison, two reluctant college radio co-hosts-turned-accidental-advice-givers who find themselves in the middle of the campus’s oldest mystery: Do happy endings really happen at Sidlesmith? Can you really find your trope?

*Hell or High Rollers - 11 eps so far! dnd podcast but very rp based much less mechanic based /pos,  A table top role play podcast following the adventures of 4 Villains and their attempt to escape eternal damnation. theyre trying to escape hell and they have to get through all nine layers before they can!!

The Beacon - season 3 coming, After surviving a dangerous encounter with a monster, Bee discovers she has the magical ability to control fire. Confused and with no heroic aspirations, she reaches out online to try and find others with impossible powers like hers - but finding them is only half the battle. only listened to a few eps of this but its v enjoyable

Girl in Space - season 2 coming, Nothing fancy here -- just the simple audio diary of a girl in space. Also, there’s this weird and potentially ominous light in the distance that seems to be growing steadily closer. fun space stuff!

Violet Beach - COMPLETE, On New Year's Day, 2018, the lives of seven friends in the town of Violet Beach, Maryland, change forever. As weird sci-fi happenings become less "fi" and more reality every day, they begin keeping record of their experiences. These are those records. dont remember much abt the content (listened to it a long time ago lmao) but i remember enjoying it v much

Overkill - COMPLETE(?), After 19-year-old Aya Velasquez died mysteriously in Harding Park, no one seemed to care. At least not until a preteen medium accidentally summoned Aya herself to solve the mystery. With no memory of her death and no shortage of questions, Aya must make friends with her fellow ghosts and discover the truth behind the nation's most haunted park. v cool ghost shit but not horrory and also gay

Midnight Radio - COMPLETE, Drawing inspiration from 1950s radio serials and ghost stories, Midnight Radio follows two women finding love through an unlikely correspondence about community, leaving your small hometown, our relationship to the past, what it means to be haunted, and what we leave behind when we die. Remember: all ghost stories are love stories.

Death by Dying - season 2 in progress(?) The Obituary Writer of Crestfall, Idaho finds himself deeply in over his head as he investigates a series of strange and mysterious deaths… when he is supposed to simply be writing obituaries. Along the way he encounters murderous farmers, man-eating cats, haunted bicycles, and a healthy dose of ominous shadows. nightvale esque with a weird lil town, fun concept cool characters, the obituary writer is on the podcast tumblr like all the time and is v nice sauifgdsukf

36 Questions - COMPLETE, musical podcast! bit :/ cause its like got real celebs n shit in it but its good!!!!, In a last-ditch attempt to salvage their crumbling marriage, a couple uses the 36 questions—an experiment known for making strangers fall in love—to save their own relationship.

Directive - 2 seasons, when this came out the tumblr for the podcast messaged people to ask them to listen to it skjdfgdsk, listen to all of part 1 all at once, i didnt know there was a season two so idk abt that but this is sad so just bear that in mind , A Sci Fi series about a man stuck alone for 20 years, taking care of sleeping passengers on a ship to colonize a new planet.

*Love and Luck - hiatus since 2020 possibly finished, Love and Luck is a fictional radio play podcast, told via voicemails.  It’s a slice of life queer romance story with a touch of magic. very cute and nice and lighthearted

Dining in The Void - season 3 coming, When six alien celebrities are trapped onboard a space station, they will have to work together to survive--or die at the hands of an unknown monster. pretty sure i was/am mutuals (or sth) w someone who voice acts in this which i didnt know when i started listening, heavy themes i think kinda

Raising the Dead Again - indefinate hiatus, Raising the Dead Again is a triweekly podcast that follows a young, modern-day necromancer - a young man by the name of Quincy Bejanaro - before, during, and after making the biggest mistake of his life: resurrecting long-dead adventurers. really really loved this one sad theres only 9 eps :( and the story is unfinished

some of these do not have great input from me bc i listened to them years ago n my memory is garbage - starred ones are my favourites, pink is my opinion, italics are official descriptions

other ones i love but Do Not Reccomend are king falls am and eos 10 bc the creators r stupid ass losers and also the last season of eos 10 is so fucking stupid lmao

[kalospiaalmana]

Introduction

Welcome, strangers over the Internet. This is the Sāwol Quietus podcast that is designed to help you all today get better and make the world stronger every day. It's your host, Orphic Dern, the 14-year-old writer. Remember strangers over the Internet? It's never too late to help. Today's date is 2/16/2024. Every day is a new day to make the world a better place. That makes today's topic about introduction and confidence. 

Have you ever met someone new and you don’t know anything about them, but you still want to introduce yourself without making yourself look like a deer in headlights? This podcast is perfect for you without wasting your time by getting straight to the point. So, let’s begin, shall we? 

To make the perfect introduction, you must fit the setting you are in. You want to make sure your clothing is appropriate for the setting. For example, you are at a party, and the theme is Halloween. You can’t be too basic or too extreme. The best way to fix this problem is to wear clothes you are most comfortable in and that reflect your personality the best. Clothing has the biggest impact on the people you see every day. 

The color of clothing affects people's emotions. Red is seen as sexy and angry. While green is known as peace and greed, Let’s say that this random stranger is wearing a red shirt, and their expression is brighter than the sun outside. People can assume many things about this person based on the color of their clothing. They can assume that they are prideful. While others think that they are too loud, disturbing the peace of the public outside, Colors like red, orange, and yellow are bright and represent a large amount of energy. While blues, greens, and purples are soothing and calming for relaxation, If you like the color pink, you might actually be a very excited person ready to have some fun at parties or just want to have fun in general.

You want to match with everyone and don’t want to look like a clown. In the party, instead of being that one person that everyone wants to be, But they can’t because no one beats the original. Let’s say you are going somewhere. This place has the biggest impact on your life, and you look like a failed lab experiment from 1887 created by a 1-year-old child walking around like a stray animal in the tropical rainforest. Your clothes look like those of a 2nd grade child in art class. People will talk the worst of you, and they always start with your outfit. Society will always adore those who wear expensive jackets like leather, denim, trenches, puffers, etc.; hoodies like sleeveless, cropped, oversized, etc.; shirts like crop tops, V-necks, tank tops, sleeveless, turtlenecks, long sleeves, short sleeves, etc. Pants like jeans, leather pants, shorts, leggings, skinny, etc. Shoes like boots, heels, sneakers, etc. Jewelry like necklaces, rings, earrings, pearls, chains, etc. Society falls in love with those who love to spend money and spoils them hard.

But, back on topic on colors of outfits. I got a couple of good color combinations. You got to believe me on this and let the colors do their thing. Jamming with creamy honey peanut butter with a side of dill pickles. What do you think? Oh. Oh! Isn’t that a weird snack combo that I enjoy? Does anyone find eating eggplant with waffles covered in maple syrup wonderful? It’s just me, right? Y-yeah, it’s just me. Permit's pass decreases once more to the difficulty all yet again.

Back to where we last left off before I begin rambling about my interesting choice of food. One, two, three. Red talks with the green, sitting on a grassy hill while the sun rises. Red-Orange goes on a date with Blue-Green every day at a fancy restaurant. Orange relaxes with blue on a sunny day at the beach. Yellow Orange goes donating and does community service with Blue Violet. Violet dances with yellow in the forest while the stars above them shine brightly.  Red violet parties with yellow-green, with the loud music blasting and spreading positivity about the world. 

Any color is good with each other if they work together as a team. The designs of the clothing have to give each other compliments. The outfit has to be clean and free of winkles. If someone spots a stain on your attire, they will take note of that stain, bark about it, use it as blackmail, or, the most common of them all, talk behind your back to others. There are people out in the wild that are barking at those who don't fit their standards; they pick on those who are not beautiful in their eyes. Society favotize those who are beautiful in their eyes. They don’t care if that person's IQ is low. All they care about is those who are willing to obey their demands. 

Don’t let those mirror-obsessed pick me—pick one, pick two—but pick me instead and bring you down. Never ever let society bring you down and force you to be someone you are not because they don’t see you as beautiful in their eyes. All bodies are beautiful, and that is not what society understands. Everyone's bodies are beautiful, and no one is perfect. No man or woman is born perfect. No one is raised perfectly. No one lives perfectly. No one is perfect.

Everyone has to face the truth about the world. How are we, as a world, expected to adapt and live peacefully? If there are people out there who can’t accept the fact that there are people with different body shapes, hair styles, hair colors, eye shapes, nose shapes, lip shapes, ear shapes, face shapes, skin colors, beliefs, opinions, personality traits, raison d'être, IQ levels that are low or high, nationality, tone of voice, how they speak, age, etc. They will find a way to hate on someone for the smallest things alive. The world will be a better place if all criminals get executed with hard-core proof of why they deserve to be executed. It's giving those who the criminal did wrong solace that Mumpsimus will never hurt another soul and suffer death. Violence is what causes the world to face our backs to one another. All of us are blinded by red and let anger control us like puppets, controlling our actions and making us think, “If I beat up this person, they will like me. I’ll be respected, and people will love me.”. 

No, just no. Respect is earned because of hard work, not because of your status.Everybody is a human being. Why are we fighting against our own kind? What will it take for you people if you guys can’t live with each other? All of you are blinded by red, anger, orange, superficiality, yellow, betrayal, green, envy, blue, sadness, purple,pomposity, and pink, nativity.

I, Orphic Dern, will speak the truth and learn the truth of the world, no matter how badly it hurts me. I can’t accept something that’s not true. My raison d'être is to make the world a paradise for those who want to change.

[henrikgarbo]

Last year, when I wrote you my last letter

The beginning of my future poetry

I acknowledged who you really were for the first time

I didn’t call you by any other name

I let you know that I knew the true nature of your heart

That it was evil, and that it convinced me that darkness was real

That the devil is a real devil

And that monsters don’t always know that they’re monsters

But projection is an amazing thing

After you left and burnt the house down

You tried to convince me that it was I who was holding the matches

You told me that I didn’t know who I was, but I do

I love rose gardens

I plant violets every time someone leaves me

I love the great sequoias of yosemite

And if you asked my sister to describe

The first thing she thinks of when she thinks of me

She would say camp fire smoke

I’m gentle

I’m funny when I’m drunk

But I haven’t been drunk for 14 years

I go on trips with my friends to the beach who don’t know that I’m crazy

I can do that

I can do anything

Even leave you

Because my bedroom is a sacred place now

That there are children at the end of my bed

Telling me stories about the friends that they pretend to hate

That they will make up with later

And there are fresh cut flowers that I grew myself in vases

From the yard on nightstands, hand carved by old pals from big sur

And the longer I stay here

The more I am sure

But the more I step into becoming a poet

The less I will fall into being with you

The more I step into my poetry

The less I will fall into being with you

The more I step into my poetry

The less I will fall into bed with you

(My bedroom is a sacred place now, by lana del rey)

[gardenofhera]

'A ROCK THE SIZE OF MY FIST' BY JENNIFER DOWN

September 11, 2017 | The Lifted Brow

Photo by Alexina McDougall. Supplied with permission.

1.

There are so many things in the world that I love. Dozing in the sun at the beach after swimming, limbs exhausted, salt drying stiff in my hair. Cutting up vegetables into neat, symmetrical pieces. Any food preparation, really, particularly if I’m listening to a good podcast. The way my dog presses his warm flank against my leg. Fragrant flowers: daphne, freesias, gardenias, violets, jasmine. Dramatic flowers: peonies, magnolias, proteas, foxgloves, hydrangeas, pansies. The strange sick swelling in my chest evoked by certain moments in particular songs, even happy ones, as though my body is unable to metabolise so much emotion. Flying into a city at night and seeing the lit gauze of its streets from the air. The scrunch of a stranger’s fingers at my scalp when the hairdresser gives me a perfunctory shampoo head massage. Cycling on a balmy night when the streets are quiet. Taking a bath when I’m a little drunk. Most things when I’m a little drunk, when my body loosens and the world softens at its edges. The quickening I get when I think of an idea for a story, or a solution to a problem of plot, or when a knot of words unravels in a clean sentence unexpectedly. Stretching out my muscles, sitting on the floor with my nose to my knees. The pearly pink light of a winter dusk.

So many happy memories. My grandfather pricking our names into the skin of green tomatoes in his garden so that when they ripened fat and full, the size of my fist, they were tattooed for us. He told me and my sister the fairies did it. Or him seated at the old player piano with its yellowed keys, badly in need of tuning. He’d never had lessons, and could not read music, but he had a wonderful ear, and turned out credible show tunes and ragtime numbers. He had a non-Parkinsonian tremor in his hands, which more or less disappeared when he played; or, at any rate, did not interfere with his playing. I remember the thud of the sustain pedal beneath his foot, the warped, tinny tone of the notes.

I remember the thud of the sustain pedal beneath his foot

The rare bioluminescent algae I once saw at night down in far-east Gippsland, at a friend’s parents’ house, sparkling in the black salt lake water. My friends and I lay on our bellies on the wooden jetty, transfixed by it. Phosphorescence as bright as the constellations in that country sky. Starlight prickled all around us.

Mountain hiking alone, very happy, a thirty-three-degree afternoon; lactic acid burning in my calves, hot air burning in my lungs; body feeling strong and capable.

Dancing with a friend at a Lee Fields show on a hot summer night in Berlin, moving in helpless ecstasy as he sings La-a-a-a-dies, right at the front of the stage, ahead of all the sober Germans; Fields reaching out to shake our hands at the end of his set, the three of us laughing and spangled with sweat.

Last week I cut through the Fitzroy Gardens at nightfall, walking home from work, and saw the jonquils with their tender faces turned to the sky. The Gardens smelled earthy. It was the last week of winter. The air was blue. The streetlights shone in that way that always makes me think of the line in the Sara Teasdale poem – all the lights are dim and pearled – and overhead, the leaves were sibilant. I watched a man throwing a ball for his dog again and again using one of those moulded plastic scoops, and it pleased me in a gentle way because I could see the dog was having a really good time, and it made me think of my own dog, who is not so interested in chasing balls as being as he is in being touched.

But when I’m depressed, all of it ceases to matter

Pretty light, cold air, turned soil, a quiet walk, a stranger’s kelpie: these things mollify me at my normal, baseline level of mental health. They are enough to constitute a pleasant walk home. But when I’m depressed, all of it ceases to matter. The world is still there, but it’s ugly and futile. My brain attaches semantic attributes to the shapes of things so that I recognise them as ‘a dog’ or ‘some jonquils’, but these stir in me no feeling, no mild joy.

In a dissociative episode, I might doubt that I am, in fact, seeing a dog chasing a ball, and become momentarily convinced that rather than crossing through the Gardens, I was obliterated by a car as I crossed Victoria Parade.

This was not, by the way, leading to a metaphor about the old black dog – which I’ve always found an idiotically benign metaphor for a debilitating and endemic illness with a high mortality rate. Sometimes a dog is just a dog.

In Teasdale’s Spring Night she laments a loss:

'Oh, is it not enough to be Here with this beauty over me? My throat should ache with praise, and I Should kneel in joy beneath the sky. O, Beauty are you not enough? Why am I crying after love?’

So many things in the world that I love, so many happy memories. But, as Teasdale wrote, there are times when none of it is enough.

2.

To frame depression as beautiful is to imagine it, falsely, as John Everett Millais’ Ophelia: an alabaster body wreathed in wildflowers, drowning prettily.

3.

Driving in his old Holden Commodore, my dad played his favourite rock and roll tapes and told me stories about the songs. Jimi Hendrix’s ‘The Stars that Play with Laughing Sam’s Dice’ was said to be a code for LSD, the name of which I also recognised from another of dad’s tales about ‘Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds’; ‘Tears in Heaven’ was written for Eric Clapton’s son, who’d fallen from a 53rd-floor balcony and died; ‘Wish You Were Here’ was about Syd Barrett, whose breakdown led to his eventual departure from Pink Floyd. My parents always talked to me as though I were an adult, so even at five or six, I had developed a strange collection of stories, many of them tragic, about these fantastically gifted but ill-fated stars. They were friendly ghosts to me, those dead rock stars in swimming pools. Poor Jimi. Poor Karen Carpenter, poor Janis Joplin, poor Buddy Holly. Poor Jim Morrison, Robert Johnson, Mama Cass, Marc Bolan, Sid Vicious, Muddy Waters. Many of them hadn’t died from anything related to mental illness at all, but their stories swam together in my head. Car accident, heart attack, heroin. Some drug overdoses were dubiously accidental.

As a child I was mesmerised by Don McLean’s ‘Vincent’, which imagines the life of the gifted but blighted Dutch painter in bittersweet, folky tones. You took your life, as lovers often do, he sings, but I could’ve told you, Vincent / this world was never meant for / one as beautiful as you. The ‘tortured artist’ trope appears again and again in Western art, history and fiction. Woolf and Plath and Eliot and Cobain, and others too many to name. Of course, there have been thousands more institutionalised, medicated, subjected to experimental therapeutic practices, who suffered terribly from mental illness, but who history has forgotten. They were not known for their art, or for anything much, by the general public; they were washerwomen and abattoir workers and railway workers and accountants and schoolteachers and store clerks, and no one documented their lives. Their illness was ugly and shameful instead of something wretchedly exquisite that could be mined for their work. It cost them jobs and houses and marriages and children, and no one remarked, in rose-tinted recollection, on what poisonous genius it all might be ascribed to.

Some research suggests that that high levels of schizotypy...are positively associated with creativity

Some research suggests that that high levels of schizotypy – a cluster of personality traits which are evident, in varying degrees, in us all – are positively associated with creativity. Moreover, self-reported symptoms of depression and anxiety have been shown to be positively associated with psychometric ratings of schizotypy. But while a variety of studies have demonstrated a correlation between creativity and psychopathology, this link is not necessarily causative, if, in fact, it exists at all. Much of this research has been criticised for the way it defines and measures both creativity and mental illness. Much of it has been undertaken in the United States and in Europe. And much of it is conflicting: American clinical psychologist Kay Redfield Jamison notes that while individuals with bipolar disorder are overrepresented in creative professions, “[the] lack of association between unipolar depression and creative occupation is seemingly inconsistent with studies that have found an elevated rate of depression in artists, writers and composers.” How can we possibly find the answers when we’re effectively asking questions in one language, and answering in another? How can we know so much, and so little? And what role do situational or environmental factors play in depression?

A 2015 report by Victoria University and Entertainment Assist surveyed a cross-section of almost three thousand people who worked in entertainment industries across Australia, from performers to technicians. It found that Australian entertainment industry workers experienced symptoms of depression at a rate five times higher than in the general population, and attempted suicide more than double as often as members of the general population. They experienced ‘moderate to severe’ symptoms of anxiety at a rate ten times higher than in the general population. But the report concluded that rather than being linked to an inherent susceptibility toward mental illness, these statistics were attributable to a range of factors associated with working in the industry – financial instability and poor wages, irregular work hours and sleep disturbances, and rampant bullying, racism, sexism and sexual assault. The report recommended the development of industry-specific early intervention programs. Anecdotally and through personal experience, I know many of these problems are present in the literary industry, too. And I can posit half-baked theories about my own anxiety, for example, in relation to my writing: most writers I know are hyper-sensitive people, and most good writers are finely attuned to others and to their environments. This sensitivity is often a positive trait in terms of their work; in day-to-day life it can be terrifying, smothering and exhausting.

For centuries, people have made art despite their depression, not because of it

It is indubitably critical that we better support people dealing with mental illness, irrespective of their occupation. But we must, too, dispel the idea that anguish breeds art; that depression is somehow fecund.

The painter Edvard Munch was famously fearful that, cured of his illness, he would no longer be an artist: “[Treatment] would destroy my art. I want to keep those sufferings.” But a century on, we know more about mental illness, though there is undoubtedly much more research to be done. For centuries, people have made art despite their depression, not because of it.

Photo by Justin Wolfers. Supplied with permission.

4.

The sound of depression, for me, is The Drones’ ‘Shark Fin Blues’, or Harmony’s ‘Cacophonous Vibes’, songs which move me enormously, but to which I can only bear to listen when I’m well. Both songs that build slowly, with restrained guitar and drums giving way to frenzied, distorted noise, both songs that feature swelling female backing vocals as the male singer’s voice cracks and shreds with emotion. Both songs whose berserk grief is most keenly felt when they’re played at great volume.

5.

My GP, a fiercely intelligent, emotionally astute physician who has treated me since I was a child, retires. At some point in the months that follow, the efficacy of the anti-depressant I have taken on and off for three years begins to wane, and I decide to consult a new doctor. I find a general practice near my house, and make an early-morning appointment. The doctor is in his early fifties, perhaps, and he’s handsome in a TV doctor way – crinkly eyes and wavy grey hair. The bio on the practice website informs me he is also interested in music. I sit in his cold room with its leadlight window and explain that for some time now, I have been feeling progressively more and more depressed. I am articulate, I am lucid, I am stolid. Perhaps too stolid. Perhaps one should not be able to discuss their despair with relative equanimity.

The handsome doctor sighs. The way I like to approach mental health is to treat it holistically, he says. Then something about being reluctant to prescribe medication to every sad person who walks into his office. He asks if I’m familiar with the therapeutic pie. I am not. From his desk drawer he extracts a photocopied, hand-drawn pie chart, which he places on the table between us. Medication, he tells me, is just one part of the therapeutic pie. On the chart, this is marked as ‘DRUGS’, and represents 15 per cent. Another segment the same size is labelled ‘PLACEBO’. The next segment is ‘DOCTORS COUNSELLORS’; 30 per cent. The largest segment, the remaining 40 per cent of the pie, is made up of the following:

1. HEALTH – OUTDOORS

2. WORK – FEELING USEFUL HELPING OTHERS

3. LOVE – CREATIVITY

Supplied by the author.

The good doctor sighs almost imperceptibly. His demeanour changes; he becomes abrupt. He prescribes a different variety of SSRI. The dosage on the new script appears radically different from my current drug. When I query this, he tells me the chemical composition is different. I ask whether I should taper off the current drug. The doctor says no; I should not take it anymore. I should have three days ‘clean’, with no medication, then start the new drug the following day. He barely looks at me as I scuttle from the room, still wearing my winter coat.

SSRI discontinuation syndrome is, in fact, well-documented, a fact I’m aware of from previous medical advice; when withdrawing in the past, I’ve been told to gradually lower my dosage. But my depressed brain is passive; no longer able to argue; no longer trusts its knowledge, so I don’t mention it.

My depressed brain is passive; no longer able to argue; no longer trusts its knowledge

For a week, I walk around in a daze. I am forgetful. I am unable to concentrate long enough to finish typing an email. My fingers neglect to hold objects; my coffee cup slips to the floor. When I blink, my vision shudders. The world seems vertiginous. These are common withdrawal symptoms. Months later, this episode will enrage me. But for now, I start the new medication. I wait for it to take effect. The days are so long.

6.

Depression is different things to different people. For some, it’s sleeping all the time to escape consciousness. For others, it’s being kept awake all night by bleak insomnia. It might involve overeating, or disordered eating, or not eating at all; it might be able to be disguised in front of family or colleagues, or it might be readily apparent; it might manifest in physical symptoms, like fatigue, headaches and muscular pain, or in behavioural symptoms, like withdrawing from loved ones, difficulty performing personal hygiene tasks, and substance abuse. It might be several of these things or none of them. Symptoms might change, or disappear and reappear with different episodes.

I am descended from worriers on both sides of my family tree. My grandparents were of an era and class that rarely treated, if acknowledged, illnesses like depression, bipolar disorder and clinical anxiety. My maternal grandmother was raised by her father and her grandmother after her mother left, or was told to leave – I’ve heard several versions of the story – following what would likely today be diagnosed as postpartum psychosis. My maternal grandfather learned yoga and meditation, in the community hall classes where his florist wife, the same woman abandoned by her mother as a baby, taught flower-arranging techniques on a different weeknight. He used to practice daily, after arriving home from work, to alleviate his anxiety. My mother recalls sneaking into her parents’ bedroom as a child to peek in on him where he sat at the foot of his bed, concentrating on his breath, and tickle his feet.

After the handsome doctor and the therapeutic pie, it takes me two months to conjure the velleity, energy and confidence to seek out another GP. In this time, my depression worsens so that I begin to fantasise about stepping out in front of the trucks that hurtle past on the major arterial I cross walking to work. As it happens, the new physician is thorough, sympathetic and practical. She takes copious notes, then gives me the K10 to fill out. The Kessler Psychological Distress Scale is a simple checklist-style test that asks the patient to self-report the frequency of a range of symptoms associated with clinical depression and/or anxiety. It is not infallible, but it is a quick, simple and cost-effective starting point for assessing the mental health of someone you’ve just met, and how to best proceed with treatment. Based on my score, the doctor decides to increase my dosage, with a view to switching medication if it remains ineffective. She will consider psychologists she believes to be a ‘good fit’ for me, and give me a referral. She will get the ball rolling with a psychiatrist in case I require one at a later date, to avoid waiting lists should things become critical. She draws my blood and tells me I need more iron, more vitamin D, and so on; that these dietary factors won’t cure depression, but have been linked to it. She makes a plan with small steps, achievable by even someone paralysed by depression.

She makes a plan with small steps, achievable by even someone paralysed by depression

It takes many months and yet another change in medication, but slowly, things begin to change, and I begin to feel human once more. It is not lost on me how fortunate I am to have found this doctor. And I’m acutely aware, even as I write this, of the privilege I hold, and the ways in which it enables me to seek medical advice and receive treatment, even when the process is fraught with difficulty. I’m a white, cisgender, able-bodied woman; a tertiary-educated native English speaker with higher-than-average medical literacy.

I’m aware of my brothers and sisters incarcerated in detention centres, who, having already suffered traumas greater than I can imagine, and fled their homes, are subjected to further human rights abuses sanctified by the government whose protection they sought.

I’m aware of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people who experience, daily, the ongoing violence of colonialism, and whose health outcomes – already poorer than those of non-indigenous Australians – are at the mercy of a largely white-centric healthcare model.

I’m aware of people of colour and people who experience quotidian discrimination on the basis of their ethnicity or religion. There’s a wealth of medical literature identifying racism as a pathogen of depression and anxiety.

I’m aware of the LGBTQI+ community, who face a variety of barriers in accessing medical care, such as homophobia, transphobia and heterosexism, as well as unique risk factors for psychological distress associated with their sexuality and/or gender identity; indeed, LGBTQI+ people have the highest suicide rates of any population in Australia.

I’m aware of people whose physical disabilities present a challenge in accessing certain services and buildings, and those whose hearing impairments or intellectual disabilities, for example, can render communication difficult.

I’m aware of migrants and non-native English speakers who may experience complex linguistic and cultural barriers to accessing healthcare – and the native English speakers whose literacy skills make it arduous or daunting to navigate the system.

If it’s this hard for someone like me to get the help I need, there are many, many others for whom it’s nigh on impossible

I’m aware of children in out-of-home care, exposed to far greater rates of physical, psychological and sexual abuse than any of us would like to imagine possible – often at the hands of the very figures supposed to protect them.

I’m aware of people who can’t afford the price of getting to a clinic, or the prescription, or the psychologist, or the outpatient care.

Photo by the author.

7.

Once I stood with some friends at the top of a colossal waterfall. We were humbled by its size and splendour, and kept discovering in it new wonder as we examined it from different vantage points. A stranger took a picture of the four of us standing in front of it in our spray jackets. In the photo, the waterfall’s scale is not readily apparent, but our faces are full of joy. Before we turned to go, one friend joked that we each pick up a rock from the ground and hurl it into the water while naming something we wanted to let go of. She cried Manipulative people! and we all applauded and laughed. The second friend yelled her ex’s name as she flung a sizeable rock into the rushing water. The third hollered Workplace sexism! as her stone sailed toward the falls. I was self-conscious, torn between a pisstake and sincerity. It was the daggy, theatrical kind of faux-symbolic act my friends dream up all the time. Sometimes when we eat dinner as a group, we go around the table and say our favourite thing about the day. We clap for one another’s potluck dishes, or driving stints on long car trips. At last I tossed my rock and yelled Bad mental health! The other three whooped and cheered. It felt like a naff team-building exercise, but it was oddly cathartic. That’s it, said a friend as we walked back to the carpark. You’re cured. We laughed and laughed. This was in 2015, before last year’s episode; at the time, I was perfectly healthy. But I was under no illusion, as I hurled a rock the size of my fist into the white-rushing water, that I was divesting myself of the complex bundle of neurological, genetic, environmental and personality factors that, every so often, causes me to unravel.

To conceive of depression as Ophelia is a delusion borne of privilege

When I read an article in a major daily newspaper suggesting depression is “less a treatable pathology than a spur to spiritual discovery,” I’m struck by the recklessly out-of-touch attitude and dismissiveness of literal decades’ worth of research. How one treats their mental illness is a highly personal decision, but one best informed by medical advice and the patient’s individual needs in relation to their diagnosis. To conceive of depression as Ophelia is a delusion borne of privilege, and only an affluent white woman could describe therapy as the “best fun ever […] Enjoyable, satisfying.” Romanticising it risks discouraging people from seeking the treatment they need, or from continuing their existing treatment. It undermines the severity and the danger of the illness. “Sorrow, at least the knowledge of it, adds depth. And of course beauty […] We know that huge proportions of poets and thinkers suffer depression. Perhaps they're the chosen – prescients, warning us that life is too short, too precious to tie to the treadmill.” What utter codswallop, I think. What irresponsible bullshit.

It must be nice to have the luxury of conceptualising clinical depression as a “melancholy hinterland” instead of a cognitive and emotional wasteland. To divide a circle into segments and pass it across a desk as a remedy for “spiritual malaise”. Must be nice to think of a sweet-faced, chlorotic woman slipping silently below the river’s surface.

[thetravellingvagrant]

Day 3 - In Which I Have a Nice Time

It was safe to say that yesterday's exploits had left me more fucked than France on a penalty shoot-out (Topical humour. Wayy. Lads.).  I less awoke and more chundered horribly back into existence this morning; my neck, back, legs and head all thumping from the previous day's piss poor choices and even piss poorer service from Flixbus. Peeling myself off of the - admittedly quite comfy - mattress didn't help matters. I could barely move my arms and turning my head to the side, even slightly, seemed like an impossibility on par with France winning the world cup for the second time, back to back (Weyyyy. Lads on tour.)

"I might take it easy today" I thought, like a coward. A handsome coward.

After a breakfast of a selection of those Kinder things you have to keep in the fridge - I'm not a proud man - and my second big sleep of the day, however, the crunchy haze of nebulous joint pain had subsided enough for me to renege on my earlier cravenness and, bravely, like the battle hardened, war scarred soldier I am, I bundled up nice and warm and went for a short walk in pleasant weather.

As it turned out, bundling up nice and warm was a foolish move. So used to the blistering cold of Sweden and the sopping wet mist of Northern Italy was I, that I hadn't considered that I may be stepping out of the door, today, into honest to god, genuine sunshine.

This is 25 degrees hotter than I was four days ago. Help. I am not built for this.

Embarrassingly over-insulated, I removed my scarf, shoved it into one of the woefully inadequate pockets on offer from my big winter coat - designed for mountain-wear, no less - and resigned myself to being a bit sweaty today. It would be a novelty after the last week, at the very least.

I had decided to follow Violet's recommendations and have a little wander around old town, before meandering home through a nice park. (Though if I’m being totally honest, these are exactly the things I would have done if left to my own devices, too, so…thanks for nothing, I guess, Violet?)

The walk to Old Town was a bit of a trek, but not an unpleasant one. Nice, begrudgingly lives up to it's name and is undeniably quite a pleasant place to exist, boasting, as it does, that sorta of lovely, laid back feeling of most Mediterranean seaside towns with almost none of the animal corpses or head-hight piles of garbage littering every street corner that it's counterparts always seem to possess. I’m looking at you, Palermo. Or I would be, if I could see through the mountain of refuse that has become your city wall.

Old town was comparably pleasant, despite the lovely looking gardenny bit I wanted to visit being transformed for the festive season into a shitty looking funfair with an extortionately high entrance fee and *armed policemen* guarding it's gates. 

I just want to see some fucking flowers...

Normally, it must be said, being around men with assault rifles, especially the police, would make me quite nervous, despite my obvious whiteness. In this instance, however, I was placated in the knowledge that even if they were to take aim at me, being French, they would almost certainly miss, if their accuracy during penalty shootouts were anything to go by. (Bam. Three times the Lad. In football, I'm reliably informed this is called a hat trick)

I ambled further towards the seafront, stopping in a souvenir shop and startling myself by managing to pull off the entire transaction with the cashier en français. Apparently my subconscious had absorbed more of the language than I had realised, during my high school days. Ms. Tully would be proud - if she hadn't gone mental and just walked into the sea and never come back, all those years ago.

I pushed on to the seafront proper, which was - I'll be honest - pretty lovely. 

That that, Scottish people.

I decided to enjoy the novelty of being on a warm beach in the middle of December for a while and thus, had a nice sit down and listened to a good podcast. I am aware this doesn't translate well to scintillating prose, but my body was fucked and it was very relaxing, so you can eff off, quite frankly.

After my very lovely sit down which I enjoyed more than the company of most people in my life, I moved on the the park, as recommended by Violet, as it wasn't far from the beach. It was, however, up a massive big fucking hill and somewhere close - I estimated - to probably like…a million steps or something. Give or take a few hundred thousand.

Groaning, and being unsure if the noise was coming from my mouth or my joints, I relented - taking it easy, after all, is for big ugly pussies and I was nothing if not brave and handsome - and began to climb.

It was a difficult ascent, given that I was, at this point, a mangled, pulped mess of sinew and disdain, though I was rewarded at the summit by some really quite remarkable views

I mean I guess it's okay.

I farted around at the top of the park taking photos and having a ruddy nice time for a good while, before the sun began to dip and my stomach began to rumble. Not quite done, but factors, both external and internal forcing my hand, I begrudgingly descended - in much the same was France presumably have in the Fifa Men's World Rankings. (Honestly, I think I might give up my career as a foreshadowist and take up being a Lad-Smith instead. Easy money, innit.)

I trudged back to my apartment, my feet and shoulders beginning to creak and scream again, stopping briefly at a big supermarket which annoyingly, while an intensely unpleasant experience, wasn't so much so as to be blogworthy. There's nothing worse than having a shit time that's also boring. Think that's a Churchill quote. Back home, I created with my hands and demolished with my mouth, far too much food for the second day in a row - this time with a slight shred of shame - and resigned myself to spending the rest of the evening working on Christmas presents and eating a big lemon pie. Admittedly I did miss this bit a little.

[acenerdsbian]

So I just finished @violetbeachpod in two days (I drive a lot for work) and I will have more to say later but right now I just have to say that I love it and highly recommend it,

[violetbeachpod]

hey, so here’s the season three premiere of violet beach

Teresa really just wants somebody to talk to.

Teresa is voiced by the totally tubular Theresa Carr.

Remy is voiced by the bangin' V.A.

This episode features music by the super rad Zoe Crawley.

Edited by the super gnarly Ollie Jones.

Check us out on tumblr and twitter! Please donate on Patreon or Ko-fi! Buy our merch! Spread the word about the show with the hashtag #violetbeach! H.A.G.S! Or have an okay summer, actually, I'm not gonna demand a great one from you! And hey, that bad boy's almost done anyway.

[poorlydescribedpodcasts]

Violet Beach

College student tries desperately to keep herself from watching Fraiser

[crowary]

Violet Beach is really good I highly recommend it

[oots-digitalmedia]

Queer Rep in Violet Beach

Title: Violet Beach

Status: Three complete seasons / indefinite hiatus

Writer: Bee Hyland

Cast: Amelia Bisaccia, Theresa Carr, Emma Chan, Ajey Pandey, Katie Waddel, Elliot Midyett, Pika N.

Queer Creators: Yes

Accessibility: No content warnings, transcripts available on their website here.

Summary: violet beach is an audio drama about communication.

(or, more specifically, it's an experimental soft-horror dramadey ya slice-of-life series told through short monologues. but, look, that's a a mouthful and a half, so let's stick to that first sentence.)

it's about seven young people who connect at a new year's party when they see the sky in the maryland town they call home turn bright purple. sending each other audio updates on the strangeness around them, they end up revealing their vulnerabilities, their fears, and their joys in ways they typically cannot.

it's about youth and love and life. it's about meeting people who understand you. it's about the ways we identify. and, hey, it's also about ghosts, kind of. that's cool.

Tags: bisexual character, multiple wlw and lesbian characters, mlm character, trans boy character

More details about identites and relationships under the break.

Check out our other queer podcast recommendations here.

ID tags: Teresa: bisexual, Charlotte: wlw, Sky: wlw, Benji: mlm, AJ: trans boy, Robin: lesbian, Elain: lesbian

Details and/or Spoilers: Charlotte and Sky are dating, Robin and Elain are dating

[riskystandard]

so i definitely listened to all of violet beach this morning.

maybe i listened to it twice.

[connormckinley]

violet beach..ya i hearda it 

[raimijenner]

Char and AJ's friendship is lesbian/gay solidarity

[arrangedaccident]

i just got into violet beach and uhhhhhhhhh what the fuck is going on