#who knew my dad wouldn’t have to leave for me to be trapped here financially I’m so tired of this shit

[tiny-sassy-aggressive]

After watching We’re All Doomed, the comedy show by Daniel Howell, I need to take moment to write out how that show made me take a step back in my own life and evaluate progress and positive growth in my life as I realized that his timelines/feelings could be foiled in a meaningful way to my life. I was particularly inspired to write this while watching the scenes on the screen of the moments of joy people were experiencing. I swear I had chills and I started to tear up. As he spoke about not only embracing the void, but finding the courage to exist, but not just exist, but to live and find those moments of joy, I was reminded about how that moment in searching for why life was worth living was how I came (back) to Catholicism. I don’t intend this post to encourage others to or away from the Church. I simply was inspired by Dan to share how I got to a place of accepting that life is worth living and how I hope to move forward.

I want to first tw cancer, death, feelings of not wanting to exist, and mentions of suicide. Nothing is explicitly discussed in great detail but only mentioned. I have never written out my story before, barely talk about it even to this day. Tried therapy a few times but it wasn’t for me, but that’s neither here nor there. This is a safe space for me to share something I just wouldn’t with family and friends. Though, I must apologize in advance, like Dan, I talk/write way too much so this will be a very long post.

Thank you to all those who take the time to read my random story and I hope to hear from others how Dan’s story and/or show have affected you so we can share in those feelings as a community.

I am chronically depressed and anxious. Always have been as it runs in the family. However, the problem was my parents, or really, I should just say my mom because my dad was never around in an emotional capacity that mattered, didn’t necessarily believe in mental health. Sure they knew depression and anxiety were real, but those were just emotions people felt and there wasn’t anything to do but continue on and try your best to keep going no matter what. It’ll be fine, just keep moving and working, right? Well when I was 12/13 I was getting bullied really badly. It got to the point where I was having panic attacks before going to school, crying at night, constantly feeling nauseous, and worst of all, I would refuse to leave my moms side, so school got to be pretty difficult. My mom was fully aware of what was going on so she went in immediately and got the bullying handled (as much as she could, middle schoolers are brutal. It never really went away but it was less of a nuisance) but she did not understand why I still felt ill and didn’t want to leave her side. She found me a therapist and I went twice. I knew we had financial struggles and I started to feel better so I stopped going. I was still sad and scared but those were normal feelings, right? I could go to school and play my flute, talk to friends, and sure I was writing songs about being trapped in a cage and having no one hear my screams but I was just an edgy teen, I wasn’t depressed. That’s just me being me. No mental illness here! I’m fine. Spoiler alert- I was not fine and it was only going to get worse.

When I was 14 I found Dan and Phil! I was a huge o2l fan so I followed Connor Franta and he posted Internet Trivia with Dan and Phil and I absolutely fell in love with them and fell down the rabbit hole of their channels and the gaming channel. I loved them both but I definitely had a bias towards Dan because he wore all black and was edgy. Watching Existential Crisis for the first time gave me a phrase to the weird feelings I had. Both affirmed and disproved the fact I was mentally ill but I still didn’t have the words for it so I just thought I was mentally different from other people. Watching that video back with all the context of 2024 and 2024 Dan, that video covered an extraordinarily heavy topic but he never mentioned the word depression or mentally ill because, at that point, why would he? Since he was the only person who voiced those feelings that I also shared, I took them to heart, but I could only take those words to heart as I had no reference to infer what else all that meant. So I kept all my feelings to myself. After all, this guy said he had all these big feelings but was fine. Call me naïve, I was 14, so I believed I could be okay and still feel existential. It was normalized, plus nothing else in my life was being affected, I was doing well in school, I had friends, I had hobbies, I was fine. How could I complain?

A few months after the start my freshmen year of high school, my older brother was diagnosed with leukemia and everything changed. He was sick and had to stay in the hospital for months, one of my parents would always be at the hospital, and me and my little brother would visit on the weekends when we could. My mom really stressed the importance of keeping a normal schedule so we did. School, extracurriculars, piano, just keep moving and everything will be alright. I didn’t cry, I couldn’t cry. I had to remain okay, fine, an unbreakable force because I couldn’t have anyone worrying about me because we all had to worry about my brother. Which we did! I never wanted to be a burden or not okay because I wanted all attention and time focused on his wellbeing. I don’t remember talking to anyone about anything emotional. Sure as hell not my parents. Not my brothers. Not even my friends. So I watched videos and removed myself and all emotions from my being so I didn’t have to think or be.

When he was first diagnosed I felt lost and confused. So I did the one thing my private, catholic school taught me to do. I found God and prayed. Except, I can say certainly looking back, it was not a meaningful relationship I created. It was one forged in fear, confusion, and a misunderstanding of how to pray. Ironically, for a catholic school, they didn’t know how to teach someone to come to God, they just expected you to understand, but that’s beside the point and a different conversation. But that’s what I did! I prayed, every morning and night, Lord, Please heal my brother. Please. Tried devotionals I didn’t get, muttered words I didnt understand, and played the part. I watched everyone else around me do it so I did it too, to the point where I believed I needed to be perfect or else my prayers would fail, which, I cannot express enough, was not the appropriate mentality, but that’s what I thought was necessary.

About 7 months later, my brother was in remission and he came home! He was okay! We got through the summer, he came back to school, we were in band and choir together again. It was fun!! We were all okay again. The dark spots in my head were still there but they were probably just left over from how scary last year was. How could I not be happy with my brother back home and alright again. At this point, my prayers were answered so I slowed down my prayers. I was okay so I felt as if I did not need my relationship with God as intensely anymore because I felt fine. Plus, when I was sad or scared those were just normal reactions that were not taking over my life so why dwell on them.

In 2017, Dan released Daniel and Depression. And I don’t exactly remember my reaction. But at that point in my life, I remember coming around to the idea that maybe I was not as mentally sound as I thought. But even listening to what he had to say, I was still convinced I was not depressed, I was just traumatized from what had happened to my brother and to my family. I had spent that time living through hell and I never stopped, I did not lay in bed wallowing, I didn’t not brush my teeth or not take care of myself. I was a high functioning nearly straight a student through and through. I was not depressed.

I don’t know why that was such a dirty word for me. Or maybe it wasn’t a dirty word, but it was something I didn’t want associated with myself. My school didn’t believe in mental health because all you had to do was pray and “you can’t be depressed and be with God” - Which by the way is completely inaccurate and harmful for young people to grow up learning. On the other hand, my parents lived in a hospital with my sick brother for months, I shouldn’t be depressed or talk about the weird sadness I was experiencing after everything they went through. It’d be selfish of me to not be alright.

Two months after Dan posted his depression video, my brother got sick again, the cancer came back. I prayed fervently once again. Knowing it worked once it could work again. Every morning and every night in the depths of my dark room where no one could see or hear because everyone else in my family was not religious or was too angry at God to believe. I put it on myself to pray and to be good so he can be healed again. But I failed. He died 4 months later on my 17th birthday. Years later, a therapist would tell me that happened because he didn’t want me to forget about him, well jokes on the therapist I was never going to forget anyway. I failed, it was my fault he died. If I prayed more, if I was a better person, if I just focused I could have saved him. But I wasn’t enough, I was not good enough to save him. This wasn’t true, of course, nor how religion/prayer works. But I didn’t know what else to do or think. So I blamed myself. I wasn’t even there when he died. My parents told my little brother and I that he wasn’t ever coming home and a few days later, on my birthday, we went to school and when my dad picked us up from school he drove us home and my mom was sitting there and that’s when I knew. My little brother was so cute, he later admitted he just thought my mom had come home to see me for my birthday but I knew immediately. I still don’t know how my dad just picked us up that day and didn’t say anything.

A part of me died that day. How could it not have? It was a strange night. We cried. I ate a pre-bought cupcake. My brother went to lacrosse practice and the next day we both went to school. Because that’s just what we did. We just kept going. Let me tell you, you’ll get the strangest looks from people when they see you at school after they just heard over the loud speaker that your brother had died the previous day. Because really, what were we doing there? We were the highest functioning traumatized students you had ever seen. I was only 2 minutes late to my first class of the day, math. I went to the chapel in the school with my really close friend to cry and listen to adoration music and just wonder why, why, why? 2 minutes wasn’t too bad, the teacher was surprised to see me and I failed the math quiz we had. She was nice, she offered to not have me take it, but I was already there and it was math quiz time so I took the quiz. She let me redo it too. She was nice, I needed it. It felt normal so I felt fine.

And that was all the rest of the 2018 school year was. Fine. Went to class, studied, did my extracurriculars, performed in all the shows, hell, I even went to prom with said super close friend from earlier. It was obvious I was traumatized and sad but how could I not be? But I was doing everything a normal student would be doing so what was the problem?

The problem was I felt alone, hell, I was alone. My family was broken, shattered into a million a pieces. My dad was distant, my mom cried, my bothers and I weren’t talking in any meaningful way. I talked to one person, the guy who held me in the chapel the day after my brother died and who took me to prom. I loved him, we loved each other. He was the only person who I felt actually saw me. I always had some barriers up but I felt free with him and I know he just wanted me to be okay even in the midst of tragedy. We were friendly for 2 years but we got close right before my brother was diagnosed again. Those months meant so much to me and I thought we would always be close. But 1 month after my brother died. He told me he did not want to continue our relationship or friendship. He said I was too much to handle or had too much going on. In all honesty, I don’t remember his exact words because I most definitely mentally blacked out. And he broke what little part of me was left.

(About 2 1/2 years later he ended up calling me and after not really speaking to him at all since that moment, I picked up, more out of curiosity then trying to rekindle anything. He told me that, unbeknownst to me back in 2018, he went to our Moral Theology teacher (yes- private catholic school) to ask for advice because he saw how much pain I was in and he did not know how to help me. Instead of this teacher, a literal adult, going to our schools counselor, my mother, or even me and addressing this 17 year old boys concerns about ME, he told him that he should just give me space because of the mental weight of the tragedy I was living through. His advice to this boy was to essentially isolate me. Looking back, I do feel bad for this boy. He tried so hard to do the right thing for me but didn’t have the right directions. And on the other hand I am so mad at the teacher because that was the worst advice he could have ever given ever. Thanks! Real talk though, I loved that boy and he always meant the world to me. We didn’t keep in touch afterward that 2020 conversation but I kept tabs on him through mutual friends and he always listened to my music on Spotify. He went through a tough time and he committed suicide in 2022. I really do miss him and wish things were different for all aspects of his story, my story, and what might have been our story. It felt wrong to exclude his memory in this post because he truly played such a crucial role and he meant so much to me even years later)

Back to 2018, after he abandoned me. I was completely and utterly alone. And now, I feared opening up at all to anyone because I didn’t want to be perceived as the burden I truly was. So I swallowed every once of trauma, depression, and anxiety so I was perceived as a functioning, fine, human being who didn’t need anyone to worry about her. I didn’t want anyone to worry or care for me because they thought I was fragile or broken because I now had proof that I would become too much to handle and that anyone would just leave me just as he had. And that was it. I smiled, I laughed, I spent the next year completing every senior year milestone and graduated high school. And I didn’t feel one emotion. I was fine.

Summer 2019 was when things started to shift a bit and here’s where I think the foiling begins. For one, Dan had just released Basically, I’m Gay and he started to live his truth being out of the closet. I truly don’t want to nor feel like I can comment anymore on this topic because that was his own personal journey and I don’t want to speculate on anything he said. He did so quite clearly and explicitly. But the point I am making was that in the middle of 2019, he began living his truth. This one thing he didn’t talk about that is so quintessential to his character was now a public part of him and he got to experience that joy of being out. There was a shift in his character, anyone who watched his video could tell, he was happy, he seemed excited. He went to pride, did promotional videos, and he just seemed like he was living in a brighter light. It was beautiful to watch and I’m grateful he let us share in those moments of joy with him.

Before I get too deep into this section, I want to preface and state that I do not remember large chunks of time between 2018-2021. All the trauma and depression have made me forget nearly everything, and it’s a very weird sensation to have little to no memories of 3/4 years of time. I can recall general feelings and most memories I can see are from a third person pov so I can see what was happening, but I see it happening to me, not me actually experiencing the memory.

For me, summer 2019 meant leaving for college. Now, in hindsight, I made a major error. I was going to the same college my brother had been at before he died. I don’t know what I was thinking or why I thought it was a good idea but the school gave me money so I would have been a fool to take on more student loans than necessary, plus, I knew I wanted to transfer the next year and move half way across the country so I had an end goal in sight, just had to get through the year.

I also started to go to church again. There was a cute little church about a half mile down from my school so it was an easy walk. I don’t consider this change/new addition a mistake, but I do often wonder what was I thinking exactly. I don’t recall my exact process but remember two dueling trains of thought. For one, I still 100% felt weird about religion/God because I blamed myself for my brother dying because I wasn’t praying enough and wasn’t good enough to save him. But on the other hand, I did not feel right to never enter a church again and a part of me wanted to return because it felt like the right thing to do. I spent my entire formative years at a private catholic school. I knew all the prayers, scripture, the saints (I was confirmed taking St. Rose Philippine Duchesne), and my senior year religion class was dedicated to teaching us how to explain/teach the faith to non-believers. And I believed in all of it! I had faith, so how could I not be going to church. Call it guilt, or whatever you want to call it, but I couldn’t turn my back on the church after everything I had learned so I went back. It was the truth I believed in and the truth I wanted to live by. I told myself that eventually I would just feel better, I’d continue to pray to heal and keep going through the motions until it stuck. At this point, I had fully embraced the void I was living in. I accepted that I was depressed, I accepted that I was depressed long before the trauma began so I was battling undiagnosed depression alongside the after effects of the trauma, and I accepted that I am an incredibly anxious person. That was alot for an 18 year old to take in but I finally accepted what my truth was. I admit it and that’s the first step right? I know I am mentally ill so I started some therapy, and I continued going to church and praying because every thing I read and was told said those were the best things I could do to help myself. So things could only get better from here, right?

Not necessarily. The end of 2019 flew by and before we knew it we were in the throes of a global pandemic. Within 3 months in 2020, my parents divorced (finally), my grandmother died from the same cancer that my brother had which was sick was twisted if you ask me, and my mom, little brother, and I moved half way across the country. Oh and I transferred colleges in all that too. Besides every single bad thing we experienced, moving was supposed to be our new start. A new place, new schools, new adventures. No longer living in the state with every bad memory we had or the house we essentially grew up in. It was new and fresh, almost the perfect situation to start a mental health journey in, besides the recent trauma I still don’t think I have processed fully and a global pandemic. I just thought I would be getting better.

I remember the part of We’re All Doomed when Dan mentioned 2019 being so important because he started to live his truth and I felt so similarly. I thought once I accepted what was going on in my head I’d feel better. But then 2019-2021 for both of us seemed to be one of our worse times mentally, which is oddly terrifying because of the emphasis that was present on wanting to feel improved.

Between 2019-2021, I struggled with the concept of existing. I did not understand why I was here and others weren’t, what I was meant to do, and why I was meant to do it. I didn’t want to exist. I simply didn’t have the energy. I couldn’t conjure up emotions, nothing real anyway. I just felt nothing. I never felt suicidal, never did anything to harm myself, never wanted to. I knew and continue to know that I never wanted to die. I really just wanted to feel quiet, numb, not of the earth and those are very scary feelings. I could barely put them into words for when I talked to my therapist but I tried, but all she could tell me was to find distractions for myself. Distract, distract, distract, well that’s all I’ve been doing and I don’t feel better. I listened to music, wrote music, talked to my mom, pray, do my class work, scroll through social media, but what then? When alls said and done, the music is off, the conversation is over, the work done, the phone turned off, I was left with myself and I didn’t even recognize her. My mom said she saw a light in my eyes she hasn’t seen in a while but I had no idea what she was talking about. Whatever was on the outside wasn’t being transferred to the inside because I didn’t even know who was staring back at me in the mirror. I just knew she didn’t want to be here anymore. So what now?

When Dan showed us the calendar with the little emoji emotions over the days of the month, I swear my heart stopped for a moment because it reminded me of what I started doing for myself during that same time period, that very same year he was referring to in the show. I had downloaded this app, Hallow, it’s a catholic prayer app. Scripture, guided prayers, saints stories, the whole nine yards. I liked the little guided prayers. Helped me focus I guess. And every night I’d ask for the same thing. To feel better. To be healed. It also had a little section where you could track your mood for the day so I started doing that everyday. I wasn’t thinking too hard about it I just hit the emoji I felt and moved on. Until I started noticing a pattern of hitting, sad, anxious, worried, or unsure. Soon enough I had months upon months, just days filled with those same emojis. When I actually took a step back, just like Dan did, to stare at how my months were covered in little sad emojis it broke me more than I thought it ever could. Was this all that was left for me? Days that left me feeling dejected and dark? Why wasn’t anything I was doing enough to make me feel better, to make me feel something for my life, for this world around me. Every night pleading the same questions to God, why, why, why? Just begging to be healed.

One day in 2021, I felt hopeless, I was tired, drained, and I truly did not know what to do. I just wanted to feel. So I stopped begging God to fix me and I started talking instead. And I talked and talked about everything and nothing all at once. I told Him about my day and what had happened. I told Him about the little anecdotes, my classes, the walk I went on. I told Him what I felt during the day, the big feelings and the little feelings. As I recounted my day and all the little details, I know it sounds ridiculous, but I felt lighter. For the first time in a long time, I was not focused on the big scary black hole of my mind, the void, I spent time talking about what my day had looked like and what I knew was on my schedule for tomorrow. It grounded me. And it was just that. I wasn’t focused on the void, I was focused on the living I was doing despite the void and there was something beautiful about that realization I have never been able to put into words until I watched Dan’s show. God was not not healing me because I did not deserve it or because I was so helpless, for it was only when I was at my lowest that I let myself let go and speak freely outside the confines of asking for the same thing over and over again without changing my mindset. It was only through those open ended conversations that I found and was confronted with the events of my life, no matter how big or small. The void, my depression, my traumas, whatever I want to call them, they are always going to exist, they are a part of my and I can’t change anything about that. But my life, my 24 hours a day, that time will pass regardless of if I choose to dwell on the darkness or not, so might as well spend my time enjoying the light that clearly exists as well. So that is what I started to do.

It is a choice that I have to make each day when I wake up. To decide to be an active participant in my life rather than a passive bystander. But like all things, it’s an attitude that can be learned, adapted, and over time it did not feel like a chore to make that choice, but a pleasure. For once, I started to look forward to the future and excited for what I could do. I found a church where I could attend mass so I would stop sitting in my room and watching online, I started to push myself to make plans outside my comfort zone and learned to not just like my own company, but enjoy the silence of being alone. The one project I am particularly proud of is my second Instagram account dedicated to romanticizing my life. Everyday, for now nearly 2 1/2 years, I have posted a photo on that account of the places I’ve been, clothes I’ve worn, and experiences I have been on. It’s my own personal photo diary proving that I have been living and that I will be continuing to live.

Photos and daily reflection have been the cornerstone of my improvement which was why that segment of Dan’s show impacted me so greatly. Each small clip he shared was probably only a second or so long but each moment held such great joy and emotions that could not be contained. It was and will continue to be a reminder that there will always be moments of joy and moments of happiness that will exist even in the face of adversity, we just have to work to see them, and choose to accept them as our own. Some days can certainly be harder than others, but after years of feeling nothing but the heavy weight of despair, even just the memories of joy are enough to encourage me to move forward. I’m alive for a reason and I believe and trust in God’s plan for me, so I choose and, now, feel empowered to continue on.

Dan was right when he said that we are all doomed. And there is this void in my life that I have learned to embrace and not just ignore. But this life was not meant to be survived, but to be lived. And I, now, have the courage to choose to live everyday.

Thank you to @danielhowell for sharing a part of yourself with the world. For creating a show that encourages us to acknowledge every part of our lives, the good, the bad, the ugly, and to show the importance of embracing every aspect of our lives while we continue our journey. Thank you for encouraging me to share my story and my journey through mental health. I have never shared my story like this before and it has been an unbelievably cathartic experience and I feel renewed in my promise to continue to choose to live.

Thank you🖤

[quadraphonictypewriter]

Jon Lord, Deep Purple

Original article by Lee Marlow which was first printed in the Leicester Mercury in July, 2000.

-

You join us in the hallway of Jon Lord's sprawling Henley-on-Thames home.

Him, Leicester born, millionaire keyboard maestro with rock legends Deep Purple and Whitesnake; me, Leicester-born over-eager hack with a headful of daft questions he's answered a thousand times before.

Holding out a hand, Mr Lord, the David Niven of rock 'n' roll, greets me like a long-lost friend.

Grey stubble frames his face and a head full of slate grey hair is tied neatly in a pony tail.

"Good to see you... find it all right?... blah... terrible weather again isn't it... blah... Yes, it is nice round here isn't it... George Harrison lives just down the road... blah... we're touring in August... blah... on the road in South America..."

He hardly stops to draw breath as we settle in the cream lounge.

I can't help but notice the luxurious off-white carpet is so plush that I can trace my footsteps from the oak door to the immense sofa and, in the corner, a small cinema screen masquerades as a TV.

Life has been kind to Jon Lord.

He's sold millions of records and, erm, "rocked" the biggest audiences the world over – from the 200,000 fans at the California Jam in the mid-1970s to last year's hybrid Royal Albert Hall gig featuring Deep Purple and the London Symphony Orchestra.

Purple, his mainstay band of the past four decades, are about to hit the road again.

Lord admits that after all this time it's hard to resist.

"I don't need to do this anymore," he says, "but it is immense fun.

''I do see a time when we'll have to call it a day, of course, but when? I know I can't do it when I'm 90, but..."

It's all a long way from life at 120 Averill Road, where Mr Lord senior packed socks by day and played sax by night and where the young Lord enjoyed "a perfect childhood," roaming through the nearby countryside with his grubby-faced pals.

An after-school diet of piano lessons, homework and bike riding, however, left a teenage Lord facing an extra year at Wyggeston School.

"I just wanted to play with my friends," he says. "But it was always homework and piano lessons. Something had to give – and it was usually homework."

After being sacked from his first two jobs in Leicester, Lord left for London to study acting and played roll-out-the-barrel-style standards in smoky pubs to pay his rent.

Despite his best intentions, Lord's hopes of becoming an actor were overtaken by his desire to play rock 'n' roll and by the mid-60s, he'd been roped in to play keyboards on The Kinks' You Really Got Me.

"All I did was plink, plink, plink," he laughs. "It wasn't hard."

But from there, Lord and his trusty Hammond organ didn't look back.

He had a top 10 hit with Let's Go To San Francisco with The Flowerpot Men and was pocketing the princely sum of £60 a week.

Lord's future was bright. In fact, his future was Purple.

The group formed in 1968 and had a smash hit in the US with Hush at the end of the year. Three decades later, Kula Shaker took the same song to No 1 in the UK charts. ("Good version as well," says Jon, "if a bit too fast.'')

Purple opened for Eric Clapton's Cream in the States, but after five storming gigs they were taken off the tour as the energised Purple boys blew Slowhand's shambolic drug-addled trio off stage.

"We got on well with them. They had no idea we were to be taken off the tour – they were too stoned!" recalls Jon.

Back home, Purple instigated the first of many line-up changes, welcoming new singer Ian Gillan and bass player Roger Glover – a switch which heralded a new era for Purple and, with it, British rock.

"We knew we had something. It was just so exciting. We used to practice every afternoon and then gig every night."

Gillan brought more than great vocals to the band – his jet-black long hair and charisma attracted the ladies as well.

"There were plenty of groupies at that stage," smiles Lord.

And?

"Well, let's just say if you give a young lad a bit of money and untroubled access to nubile young women – it's not a bad life is it?"

Even at the wrong side of 50, Gillan, it appears, still has a certain charm with the opposite sex. Lord and Gillan were recently interviewed by former Watchdog beauty Alice Beer for the BBC1 religious show H&E.

"I might as well not have been there," smiles Lord. "She was completely taken by Gillan. And after the show they left together and went for a drink. No, I don't know what happened!"

The first five years of the 1970s saw Deep Purple trapped in a perpetual album-tour-album loop. The shows were sold out and the albums – In Rock, Fireball, Machine Head, Made In Japan, Who Do We Think We Are? – all went platinum.

They made a wodge of money, concedes Jon, but their managers made more.

Yet despite the excess (they also had their own plane, naturally), Lord steered clear of drugs.

"I can say hand-on-heart we were never really a drug band. My Dad bought me my first pint and I was still very much a lad from Leicester, you know.

"I experimented with drugs, of course I did. I smoked grass, but it left me sitting in a corner, introspective and giggling to myself.

"I had a brief flirtation with cocaine in the late 1970s but, to be honest, I don't really like being out of control."

The drugs came later. American Tommy Bolin, drafted in to replace the increasingly moody and erratic guitarist Ritchie Blackmore, succumbed to a long-term heroin habit in 1976 and Lord still recalls the time a cocaine dealer chased bassist Glenn Hughes on to the band's private plane, demanding $3,000.

By 1976, the writing was on the wall for Purple and its elaborate brand of rock music. Punk was the new king.

Lord retreated to the States for two years. But former Purple leader David Coverdale was looking for someone to become the new ivory tinkler in his new outfit, Whitesnake, and Lord fitted the bill.

"He wouldn't take no for an answer. I harboured no ambition to be Whitesnake's keyboard player, but he was very, very insistent."

Persuasive Coverdale might have been, but financially generous he certainly wasn't.

"I was in Whitesnake from 1978 to 1983 and he paid me abysmally! I complained regularly and he'd say 'Ok, leave it with me', but it never changed.

"It was a good laugh – that was the main reason I stayed in the band. It was ironic that in the middle of this punk revolution we were playing white R&B and selling out tours."

Strangely, considering the times, Whitesnake's brand of sexist crab-paced rock was a hit.

They were the biggest-grossing tour band in Europe by 1981. But Coverdale – secretly nicknamed Elsie by the band because of his louche on-stage antics and some of his cheesy lyrics – wanted success in America. At all costs.

"It was all style over substance towards the end," sighs Lord. "The band lost its heart. It was just about posing."

The music might have lost its soul, but Whitesnake – complete with a new band of poodle-permed hired hands in black spandex and glitter jackets – went on to sell 17 million albums in 1987.

Lord, meanwhile, had answered the call to reform Deep Purple.

"The critics said Purple getting back together was about money. It was never about money," says Lord. "It was exciting for us and the fans when we got back together."

And that's where he's been ever since. In truth, the reformed band never quite graced the same artistic heights they reached in their heyday, but on the concert circuit they're still capable of selling out a Wembley Arena or NEC.

"I don't enjoy touring in the way I used to, but those two hours on stage make up for it.

''The day I can't open that door and look forward to it is the day I say, 'Thank you very much and goodnight'."

And that's about it. Interview over. I've got more daft questions but, crikey, I've been here for more than three hours and he needs to finish a musical extravaganza he's writing for the local church. Phew, rock 'n'roll.

"Take care driving back," he says, "and give my love to Leicester."

[myexgirlfriendisthemoon]

It Feels Better Biting Down — Ch. 1: First Impressions are Lasting Impressions

Set in a modern bending AU, Roku High and Kyoshi High are rival schools in every sense. When financial troubles cause Sokka and Katara to go to separate schools, their bond and new friendships test the civil and social boundaries that lie behind school lines and familial ties. With new friends Aang, Toph, and Suki, will Sokka and Katara be able to hold their Gaang together, or will they let the fire nation clique's drama split them up for good?

“So are you sure you can get me to class on time? I mean, if I ran, I’m sure I could catch up to the bus.”

Sokka shook his head, clicking his tongue in a ‘tsk, tsk’ sound. “Katara, sister o’ mine,” he said, grabbing his keys from beside the front door. He held it open for his younger sister and locked it behind her. “Remember that one time you were sick and forgot your science project? And I-”

“-stopped for a milkshake on the way to school, spilled it on my lab report, and got it to me twenty minutes after it was due?” she retorted with a smirk, crossing her arms over her chest. 

Sokka waved his hand, dismissing his sister’s comeback. “Meaningless details, really. Anyways,” he said, walking over to the driveway. “Do you want a ride or not?”

“I do,” Katara said, following behind him, “but do you honestly think your car wants to get us there in one piece today?” 

Sokka gasped and put his arms over his car. The thing he called his baby was a navy hunk of metal that at some point resembled an ‘81 Honda, with scratched up rims, too many dents to count, and a few knicks in the windshield (Katara liked to play a game called “How fast can Sokka drive over speed bumps before his windshield shatters.” So far, she’s seen him take the thing a surprising 45 mph over a bump without damage. She swore it was only a matter of time though.). 

He turned his head towards his sister with a pout. “Don’t talk about Tun Tun like that, Katara; it’s rude.” Sokka looked back at his car with a strange sort of fondness that Katara knew only Sokka was capable of displaying. “Don’t listen to her Tun Tun,” he cooed. “You’re beautiful just the way you are.” The meticulously taped up side view mirror slipped from it’s rearranged spot, hanging on only by a fraying electrical wire. 

Katara couldn’t help the snicker that escaped her.

“See what you did?!” Sokka said, exasperated. “Now Tun Tun is upset, great.” He opened up the backseat and grabbed his spare roll of duct tape. “Absolutely fantastic,” he muttered, beginning to patch up his beloved jalopy. 

Katara walked around to the passenger side, and slid in, placing her bookbag down at her feet. “Can you fix Tun Tun any faster?” she called out.

“While I do appreciate you calling her by her name,” Sokka replied, “Car maintenance on a budget is a careful art that takes time and precision.”

Katara groaned and sunk deeper into the worn fabric seat. She could already feel the embarrassment of being late on her first day. This definitely wasn’t the impression she was looking to give her new teachers, especially coming in on a partial scholarship. “Sokka, I’m going to be late.”

He placed one last piece of tape and sighed. “Alright, alright. Quit your whining. I’m finished.” He hopped in the driver’s seat and threw his tape towards the backseat. Sticking the key in the ignition, he gave Tun Tun one, two, three good cranks before she finally sputtered to life. Katara let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding.

 Katara fiddled with the hem of her uniform, a red wrap-around blouse with ornate gold trim. Her other hand unconsciously rested on her mother’s necklace. 

Sokka glanced back and forth between the road and his younger sister. It wasn’t unusual for her to lose herself in her thoughts for a moment or two, but under normal circumstances, she would probably be bickering with him over something stupid or giving him some long-winded speech about how he needs to take better care of himself and start thinking about the future or something else dumb and hope inspired and just very Katara.

But today wasn’t very normal.

He didn’t blame Katara for being a bit on edge. Hell, he was, two years ago when he was in her shoes. After Mom had died, Gran Gran and Dad had decided it would be wise for them to hone in on the Southern Water Tribe’s future, specifically Katara and Sokka. No pressure, though.

“So,” Sokka said, clearing his throat and interrupting both of their thoughts. “Are you excited to be going to Roku High?”

Katara shrugged. “I guess.”

Sokka knew better than to let Katara slip back into her own thoughts. “C’mon, Katara. This is your chance to actually get to bend with other water benders, let alone benders in general. You can’t tell me you aren’t at least a little bit excited.”

She sighed. “I mean, I know I’ve been practicing and all. I know that I know my stuff. It’s just,” she got quiet for a moment, searching for the right words. “What if I’m not as good as Dad and Gran Gran say I am?”

“Oh, shut up!” Sokka laughed. “Katara, you know damn well you’re the best water bender in the whole Southern Water Tribe.”

“I’m also the only water bender in our tribe-”

“Besides the point. Look,” Sokka said, pulling up to the sprawling private academy’s campus. “Dad and Gran Gran wouldn’t have given up so much if they didn’t believe in you. I wouldn’t have given up so much if I didn’t believe in you.”

Katara smiled softly at her brother and trapped him in a bone-crushing hug. “You know, when you aren’t being so sarcastic, you’re actually pretty ni-”

“Okay, okay, I get it. Stop being an annoying little sister and go kick some fire bender ass,” Sokka said, prying her off of him. “Go before you’re actually late, you nerd.”

Katara laughed and opened the door, swinging her bag over her shoulder. “Love you,” she called over her shoulder, closing the door behind her.

“Yeah, yeah, love you, too,” Sokka chuckled, putting his car in gear and slowly driving away. 

Katara closed her eyes, lifting her shoulders back. She raised her chin, trying to ignore the slight sting of homesickness in her chest as little beads of sweat gathered above her brow. Opening her eyes, she touched her mother’s necklace as she walked up the white stone steps to her new school. 

“Nothing will ruin this for me,” she whispered as she entered the building. “I promise, mom.”

__________

 “You fucking scream water tribe, you know that?”

A hand slams onto the locker opposite Katara, jolting her out of her thoughts. She pulled her eyes away from her schedule and scoffed. “Excuse me?”

The black-haired teen cornering Katara rolled her eyes. Her silk hair was pulled back into a perfect bun, with two choppy side bangs framing her face. Her eyes and facial features were sharp enough to cut someone. She was a cunning viper, and her lips dripped poison.

“You know, if you’re going to go to a Fire Nation school, you should at least try to blend in, or at the very least, not be so… offensive to our traditions.”

Katara grabbed her books from her locker and shut it harder than she had intended to. “Look, I don’t care who you are and how old of a Fire Nation family you come from, but water benders and earth benders go here too, so lay off.”

“You should watch who you’re talking to,” the viper hissed. 

A brunette, petite girl behind her frowned and opened her mouth to say something, but a girl next to her with two buns, bangs, and long black hair held up a hand to stop her before she could get a word in.

“And while other benders do attend Roku,” the girl with two buns said, “Azula is right, it has always been a traditional Fire Nation school. Hence the name Roku.”

“Thank you, Mai,” the viper, apparently named Azula, said. Katara couldn’t tell if she was actually thanking Mai for her input or if Azula was staking her claim to this battle. “You’re wearing Fire Nation colors for a reason, water girl. Take our advice, it’s best if you don’t stand out.” She sized Katara up and down. “Which tribe are you from anyways?”

“Southern,” Katara answered proudly with a smirk, leaning against her locker. 

The three girls sneered at Katara. 

“How the hell does a peasant from the Southern Water Tribe like you afford to come to Roku anyways?” Azula remarked. “No offense, of course.”

“Azula,” the brunette with the braid interjected, “maybe you should-“

“Shut up, Ty Lee!” Azula snapped at her.

The brunette sunk back in defeat.

A crowd started forming around the four of them, but Katara didn’t pay them any mind. She had a battle to win.

Katara glared at Azula and took a step forward. She picked up her shoulders, staring the viper straight in her eyes. “I don’t know who you think you’re talking to, but this ‘peasant,’” she barked, “is the daughter of Chief Hakoda and the last water bender of the Southern Water Tribe. So I suggest you watch who you talk-“

Azula let out an outraged gasp and blue sparks danced at her fingertips as she raised her hand and mentally cursing her bravery, Katara closed her eyes and said goodbye to this cruel word and-

The impact never came.

Katara opened her eyes and looked up to see a young man with his hand around Azula’s wrist.

“Enough, Azula,” he said quietly, barely above a whisper. “You know combat is forbidden outside of class.”

“I don’t care,” she hissed back, her eyes shooting daggers at him. If looks could kill, it would have been a blood bath.

“Really?” He raises an eyebrow. “Unless you want a demerit and father to find out.”

Azula’s face went ghostly pale and she got quiet. When her palm stopped crackling with electricity, he released it. He locked his golden eyes with Katara’s ocean ones for a moment. While he was probably only a year or two older than Katara, maybe around Sokka’s age, the bags under his eye and the permanent looking scowl on his face aged him further. 

“Okay ZuZu,” she snapped. His emotional disarmament seemed to be only of temporary effect. “We’re done here. You can leave us to our girl talk now.” 

He rolled his eyes and sighed, turning on his heel. Briefly, he nodded to one of Azula’s friends.

“Mai,” he greeted.

“Zuko,” she nodded back, cracking what could have been, had you squint really hard and looked closely, could possibly be the hint of a smile.

Zuko walked down the hall and the four girls watched him go. As he exited, so did a majority of the crowd, save for a few curious eavesdroppers.

“Now that my brother is done flirting with my friends and playing hero,” Azula said with a sigh, turning her attention back to Katara. “What was I saying before I was so rudely interrupted? Oh, right. Look, water girl, or whatever your name-“

“Katara.”

“Katara.” Azula drew out her name, testing the way it felt on her tongue. “Listen. I don’t know the way it worked in igloo village, but here, things are different. You don’t want to listen, fine by me. But my dad is someone really important, too, so I wouldn’t start swimming in water that’s too deep if you catch my drift.” Azula flicked Katara’s necklace with her finger, smirking at her. “I think we’re done here, ladies.” 

Azula pushed herself off of the lockers and the others followed suit. 

“Welcome to Roku High, Katara,” Azula called over her shoulder. 

_______________

Sokka perked up when his sister opened the door, jumping over the couch to greet her.

“There’s my favorite bender!” He said with a huge smile, walking up to her with open arms. “How was your first day of-“

Katara slammed the door shut behind her and shot him a glare. 

“... school?” Sokka whispered. 

“I don’t want to talk about it,” she mumbled, pushing past him and heading straight for her room, slamming that door behind her, too. 

Sokka walked over to Gran Gran in the kitchen. “Ah, teenagers. You think she liked her school?”

[afinepricklypear]

Mother’s Day and Mental Health Awareness Month

**Warning - This post talks about depression, mental disorder, and an attempted suicide. Please do not read if you are sensitive to these topics. The events described here are real and true to the best of my memory.**

I went to make a post May 1st and Tumblr was kind enough to inform me that May is Mental Health Awareness month. It isn’t without irony for me that Mental Health Awareness month occurs the same month as Mother’s Day.

My relationship with my mother is a difficult topic, it’s usually only one I can talk about with my sisters, but it’s this time of year that people most want to talk about moms. When I was younger, I didn’t know what to say when people brought up their moms and mom-like behavior in general, mostly foreign concepts to me. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve learned I don’t have to say anything at all, like in my work meeting this morning when our supervisor reminded us all to call our mom’s this weekend, you know, “if they’re still alive”, since most of our department are near retiring age, but I don’t always know how to feel. Here comes the guilt: do I call, do I text, do I take the risk that she’ll be in a good mood or will she turn it around, again, like the year I sent her a gift and she used my gesture as ammo to attack my “ungrateful” older sister that’s still trying to untangle her own complicated relationship with our mother. I’m ten again, twelve again, sixteen again, walking on eggshells around a house where the air is so thick with the constant fog of her misery, I can’t see farther than a minute into my future.

There were good moments, of course, like any home. She was always the more encouraging parent when it came to my writing, my father would pick it all apart – in the long run, both approaches helped me become a better writer. There was the time she was given two tickets to see Mama Mia at the casino where she dealt, and she chose to take me. We got dressed up, she leant me this white faux fur jacket and some of her jewelry, curled my hair and did my make-up, she was riding high on her emotions. She took me to a fancy dinner at the Hard Rock Café before the show. We didn’t get spoiled often, and to this day, Mama Mia and ABBA hold a special place in my heart. I always think of her singing along to the radio in the car, she has a nice voice, and maybe in another life, she could’ve been a singer.

There were moments when she was trying to be sweet and it still leaves me with conflicted emotions. Like the time the German shepherd she took off the hands of a coworker who was afraid of him violently attacked me. She bandaged me up, laid in bed with me and comforted me, it’s the most motherly I ever remember her being. She kept the dog for a while after that, I still have scars on both my arms from the attack, I’ll have them the rest of my life, just like my little sister will still have her scars from when it attacked her, and my friend who came to visit will still have the scar it gave her…my older sister was only lucky that it was muzzled when it went for her face. My mother was convinced she had a special connection with this dog, that in his heart of hearts he believed he was protecting her, so I get it, she didn’t want to get rid of something that she felt loved her unconditionally.

Sometimes it’s hard to conjure these kinder memories, they become overwhelmed with the harder, darker ones that feel infinitely more numerous. There are the moments that seem innocuous, when you could say I was acting a spoiled child, like the time I was in middle school and I wanted to keep my hair long, but my mother decided I needed bangs. My dad tried to stop it, but she had made up her mind. I cried and pleaded with her but she commanded the reluctant stylist to chop the hair off. Armed with a brush and blow-dryer, she attempted to show me “it was cute” that night and things escalated to the point my dad and older sister were stepping in, arguing with my mom to let me be. I went back to that same hair stylist with my friend who was getting her hair cut the next day, and the stylist apologized, confessed that she didn’t want to cut my hair, told me it was so healthy and beautiful too, and she felt terrible doing it. Years later, when I was an adult and decided to cut my hair short with sideswept bangs, my mother would throw this memory back in my face, “sure, now you want bangs”, still incapable of understanding that it wasn’t about her, but about me wanting to define my own body and style. She did the same to my older sister in high school, dyed her hair blonde – it took so much bleach to lighten her naturally dark hair color that the hair looked fried afterwards and we were all amazed it didn’t fall out. Never mind that my older sister never wanted blonde hair to begin with, it was antithetical to her personality, and she won’t even go near the hair dye aisle now.

There are the moments where my mom was so unreasonable that everyone felt helpless, like the day I was alone in my room, my sisters in the living room talking and watching television – doing I don’t know what – and my mom was sleeping in her room because she worked graveyard shift at this time. Suddenly, inexplicably, my mom came into my room in a rage, “how dare you call your little sister stupid,” she scolded me, she continued to berate me for being cruel and mean, even as I told her, baffled, I didn’t know what she was talking about, even as my sisters argued with her, “no one called anyone stupid. She wasn’t even in the room with us.” My mother wouldn’t listen, she knew what she heard, she grounded me and, matter settled, left back to bed. My dad got home from work not long after, and I was in my room still bawling, inconsolable and unable to work out what I’d done wrong. He asked my sisters why I was crying and they explained, and, again, my mom comes storming in my room yelling, “how dare you tattle on me to your dad!” I don’t remember much of what happened from there, my dad stepped in, they argued the rest of the night, and he would later assure me I wasn’t grounded. It was the only thing he could undo from that day.

There are other, harder to define moments. The nights my mom would argue with my dad, we’d be in bed, school in the morning, and she’d turn on all our bedroom lights, rip the covers off our beds, and scream at us to get out of her house, that she was putting us all out on the streets and it was our father’s fault. I remember vividly the fight between my parents that happened in the day, everyone awake in the house, I collapsed in the kitchen as my mother ranted that we all hated her so she should leave and we won’t have to deal with her anymore, and I cried and trembled, overwhelmed with the thought, I don’t want anyone to leave, I don’t want to lose my family. I had to get out, so I did, walked right out of the house, not sure where I’d go, and my mother panicked and raced after me, put an arm over my shoulders, coaxed me back to the house. The moment the door closed; she was yelling at us again for not loving her enough and I realized I couldn’t leave, I was trapped. There was the gambling addiction, every Christmas we would be prepared, “mom lost a lot of money at the casino last night, we might not have a Christmas this year” – we had learned not to expect anything anyways and that every gift came with a quid pro quo and years of ‘remember I did this for you’. My older sister and her then-boyfriend, now-husband, watched my mom gamble away more than a month’s mortgage and spend the entire night chasing it back.

I’m thinking about all of this more recently, I think, since I started writing some fanfics for the Bungou Stray Dogs community. One of the main characters of the show is named after and inspired by author, Dazai Osamu, a man that died prematurely from a double suicide. This is treated tongue-and-cheek by the anime and its original manga through Dazai’s many failed suicide attempts and his odd flirtation strategy of asking ladies to commit double suicide with him. I kind of like this approach to the topic, it might on the surface seem insensitive to make a joke of something so serious as depression, but humor can be therapeutic and give us an easier way to broach otherwise difficult subjects.

I was in high school when my older sister and I were allowed to be in on the conversations about my mother’s mental disorder, both undiagnosed and untreated. We’d all speculate, my father and his sister, my mother’s sister, my sisters and I, the favorite theory was bipolar disorder, but we may never know. My mom refused then and refuses to this day to seek help. There were little things about her past before marrying my dad that we were allowed to know as we got older, too. Like, how she’d been put in a hospital that wanted to keep her there for further treatment – they knew something was wrong but didn’t know what, this was during a time when bipolar disorder was unheard of and they called similar diagnoses ‘manic depression’ – and she had to threaten legal action to get released. When she was eighteen, she had married a man knowing he had a terminal illness in order to help him get his green card, he died two years later, and she still considers him the great love of her life. We’re told by the media, movies like A Walk to Remember, that this is romantic, but in reality, it’s an unhealthy fixation on a relationship that was doomed from the start. She idolizes the memory of it, puts it on a pedestal as the standard for all of her other relationships to compare to, but it isn’t realistic. It was a relationship with a known expiration date, it wasn’t a real commitment, nothing had to matter because it would all come to an end soon, and they never reached the hard parts of a marriage – children, growing old, changing bodies, financial struggles, loss and disagreement. She went through a deep depression after he died and it reached a point that her sister had her placed on a suicide watch and thus began her long and sordid history of depression.

There are a lot of fanfics in the BSD community that explore a darker tone to Dazai’s depression, to varying degrees of accuracy. I mostly steer clear of them. There is one writer in the community that I won’t name, they’re an amazing writer with beautiful technical skill, and they do an impeccable job of showing depression exactly as it is for those who live it and those who live with a person that suffers from it. I left a one-word comment on one of their stories, the only positive thing I could say, and I couldn’t write anymore without the comment turning into an emotional lecture, I don’t know that author’s personal emotional state, but I also won’t read any more from them. It wasn’t the accurate depiction of depression that turned me off from the story, but the depiction of Dazai’s depression being known by all the characters in the story, including himself, but he won’t seek treatment for it, and all of the characters are shown to enable his depression and put up with his abuses that stem from his disorder. In the story he was placed in an intimate relationship with the character, Chuuya, and Chuuya is painted as the patron saint of boyfriends, willing to overlook Dazai’s every episode, draw him back from the ledge and bandage up his scars with an endless patience and gentleness. I couldn’t move passed the romanticizing of this relationship dynamic. Chuuya is shown to be noble and celebrated for his self-sacrifice and unconditional love that compels him to stay beside Dazai despite everything Dazai inflicts upon himself and Chuuya, and more importantly, despite Dazai’s refusal to get treatment.  

My mother’s emotional state was constantly our responsibility growing up. She was sad because we didn’t love her. She was angry because we were ungrateful. She was miserable because we couldn’t see all that she did for us. If she hurt us with her words, if she lashed out at us irrationally, it was our fault, because we didn’t do everything right. Never mind that what was right could change within a minute in a day. Too often when someone in your life is suffering from a mental disorder, you’re made to shoulder the blame, either unintentionally by them as they suffer from their illness or intentionally by well-meaning individuals outside of the situation that don’t know better: you just need to give them love. If they take their own life, it’s your fault, you didn’t love them enough.

It was the Friday before Mother’s Day, I was in my early twenties, finishing up my degree in Anthropology (after changing my major, I don’t know how many times). My parents were long since divorced and my mom lived alone in the house where I grew up, still shrouded in all of those dark memories. My mother’s sister had recently left town after a short visit, she had called me a few days earlier to let me know my mother lost her job  that week and was struggling to get out of the depression. In retrospect, she’d been sinking for a while now, after the violent dog and so many other incidents like it left us all with too many scars to overlook and we didn’t know how to walk back into that house, how to feel safe there. She’d covered herself in tattoos, cut her hair short, wore different wigs to work every day, she’d gained a lot of weight and was chain smoking so much there was a permanent haze in the house. None of these things should be thought of as red flags for everyone, it should be taken on an individual basis, but for my mother they were all signs that she was spiraling. She didn’t like who she saw in the mirror and was desperately trying to cover it up, find someone she did like. I had promised her I would come over, make her a dinner for Mother’s Day, and I would take her to see a movie. I was on my phone with my aunt when I pulled up, snowballing ideas for what to do if things got serious and if we needed to think about placing her on a suicide watch, how that would work. I rang the doorbell; it was outside of the gate she put around the front yard for her dogs to go in the front yard.

No answer.

Rang it again.

Still no answer.

She knew I was coming over.

I opened the gate, went to the door, the door was cracked open, my aunt was on the phone in my ear, “what’s going on?” I opened the door fully and my mom’s dogs came to greet me. The house was in disarray, furniture toppled over, papers scattered across the floor, so many of the details are blurred out of memory, I remember distinctly a ceramic statue broken on the floor but I couldn’t tell you what it was a statue of. I could hear a low intermittent moan coming from farther in the house. I followed it down the hall to my mother’s room, into her bathroom, where she was collapsed, naked, on the floor of her shower.

I told my aunt I had to go, I hung up and dialed 911. In the moment, I didn’t know how panicked I really was, my voice unnaturally high, my body warm and shaking and electric with adrenaline. That feeling hits me again, sometimes, when I don’t expect it. There was white like foam around my mother’s mouth, her eyes stared wide and blank at the ceiling, her every breath was that guttural moan as she attempted to draw air in, an autonomic action, she was completely unresponsive. Her body was on autopilot, and so was mine. I’d been rehearsing for a long time what to do in that situation, it’s the only way I made it through everything that needed to be done. I gave the dispatcher the address, answered her questions, “I think she did something to herself but I don’t know what…no, there’s no pills nearby…no, I don’t see anything in the trash…she’s been severely depressed…she has a history of depression…”, between pleading with my mom, “please don’t leave me, please stay with me, mom,” and wrestling her dogs into the front yard and out of the house. The dispatcher told me the ambulance was on its way and asked if I wanted her to stay on the line and I begged her not to hang up, not to leave me with nothing but the moans of my dying mother, she didn’t say anything during that time, was just silently present as I talked to my mom and waited for the paramedics. They couldn’t come in until I got the dogs out back, I cursed and screamed at the unruly mongrels and felt an irrational anger that my mom never got them properly trained.

I took a seat in the kitchen, let the paramedics work and my brain shut down. I called my aunt back, told her what happened. The paramedics came to ask me questions, I tried to answer them but I didn’t know and my aunt was correcting me over the phone, so I handed her over and let her talk to them. They took my mother away to the hospital and I was alone, in that childhood house, that held so many horrible memories of my mother’s untreated disorder, and every aspect of our lives that it colored and perverted. Every Mother’s Day was always fraught with anxiety, I think it was my mother’s least favorite day, her mood was always sour, and no matter what we gave her or tried to do for her, it wasn’t enough. Even the year before, the Mother’s Day when she told us exactly what to get her. She was so happy with her present, a sterling silver ring with our birthstones imbedded that cost us all a pretty penny – I was paying my own way through college, my older sister was paying rent on a Starbucks salary, and my little sister didn’t have a job – but a week later we were ungrateful brats again. There was one Mother’s Day when I was maybe ten or eleven, we’d set her up roses and two cards – one from my father and one from her daughters. I was watching television and waiting for her to come home from work to wish her a happy Mother’s Day. She came in and years of practice had taught me to recognize she was in a dark mood, a cigarette on her lip, her posture tense, muttering under her breath about how nobody loved her, nobody cared. She stalked to the desk, ripped the cards in half without opening them and threw them on the ground in front of me without sparing me one glance or word, and stormed to her room, slammed the door behind her.

We would later find out that my mother drank antifreeze, a method that has about a 5% survival rate. She was in a coma for about a month. It was another few weeks before they took the respirator tube out and her throat recovered enough that she could talk in small sentences, and not without effort and pain. She told us she filled a cup with the antifreeze, showed us with her fingers set apart how high she’d put it in the glass, when she finished, she washed the cup and stuck it in the dishwasher, hiding the evidence. She’d always heard antifreeze was flavorless but it tasted awful – they add flavoring to antifreeze to deter people from accidentally ingesting it. She’d thought it would be quick, but it’s really an excruciatingly painful and long, drawn out way to die. She’d stripped in her deliria and taken a shower because her body felt so awful, feverish and almost on fire, as it was shutting down and her nerves fried from the chemical reaction. I wrestled for a long time with the ethical delimma of my choices in that moment after finding her, and there was a thought that stuck with me through it all: What did I get my mother for Mother’s Day? I saved her life, and it was still the wrong gift.

It isn’t noble or romantic to stay with someone who refuses to get professional treatment for their mental disorder. There is no amount of love or patience or understanding that will heal them. In most situations, the harder and braver thing to do is walk away. None of us is a perfect person and none of us should have to bear the burden of another person’s unwillingness to get help when they need it. It took me a long time to come to terms with the notion that there is no one to blame in this situation. It isn’t my fault that I can’t give my mother the love she craves. It isn’t my mother’s fault that she can’t see the love that her daughters wanted to give her. But it is her responsibility to get help. If she refuses help, no one can force it on her.

It’s been years now since this happened. My mother is now as recovered as she’ll ever be. Her mind isn’t as sharp, and she struggles with controlling her muscles and the devastating damage to her nervous system that will never fully heal. She remains undiagnosed and is not receiving any kind of professional guidance or treatment. There have been new, dark memories, added to the old ones, in those times when we tried to be supportive and “there for her” during her recovery. Episodes that remind us she doesn’t want to change and she never will. So, we keep our interactions to a minimum, answer when she texts, try to help her when she asks for it, check in every so often. She lives on the other side of the country with two cats and goes regularly to the neighborhood karaoke bar. In a weird way, she seems happier with this set up, this distance between her and all of the pain that my sisters and I seemed to bring her, that constant demand for love that we couldn’t fulfill, maybe it really was all our fault and we were the ones to blame, or maybe it’s because I’m not living with her depression anymore.

I don’t know if I’ll call my mother on Mother’s Day, but for anyone else out there with a complicated relationship with their mother, it’s okay if you decide not to call your mother either.

[eerythingisshaka]

Mr. and Mrs. Stevens

This is my submission for @hoopshoney and @purple-apricots Black Panther Anniversary/Valentines Fic Fest!  Not sure if this fic goes with the theme of the fest and if its a bit....I don’t know, however I did a thing and that’s that on that!

Warnings:  Violence, Language, Sexual Situations

Word Count: 4k

Erik Killmonger x Black!OC

Prompt: “Try not to get blood on your clothes. We have dinner reservations in half an hour.”

Her phone trills in her bra as she checks herself out in the mirror.  The shift she picked up for a friend starts in 15 minutes and she hates when he calls beforehand.

Picking up the call she answers.  “Hey Erik.”

“Wassup baby girl?  You at work?”  His voice carries extra loud in her ear and kind of scratchy.

“Yeah actually.  So why are you calling?”  She asks in annoyance while applying her lippie.

“Aww, now don’t be like that.  You -- money tonight e--?  So don’t trip!”  His voice crackles in her ear.

She takes a step back to look over herself in the mirror, pushing her braids back and turning around to check her behind.  “The only thing I’m tripping over is why you obviously aren’t using the new AirPods I got you last month?  I can hear the 10.99 drugstore quality in my ear, it’s bringing down my mood.”  A loud sniff interrupts her train of thought as she sees a brunette leaning over the rim of a sink with a rolled up dollar bill.

Erik tuts at her.  “Come on, you know I’m a traditionalist when it comes to the audio experience!  I gotta, I gotta have, you know, an immersive, like, surround sound type of thing and like, the cords help-”

She leans on the sink in front of her.  “You lost one at the gym today huh?  When I called you and you said ‘shit shit shit!’ that was you dropping my money down the drain, huh?”

“Your money?  Since when is it your money only?”  Erik asks out the side of his mouth.

A girl taps her on the arm, wiping her nostrils as she holds out the dollar bill with a line left on the sink.  She shakes her head with a polite smile.  “Since I been doing all the work here.  These long nights, planning my own appointments, working these guys for tips with only my own damn wit, when they obviously want more!”

“Pssh, aight aight, calm down.  You know I appreciate this.  It’s OUR thing though, so don’t get your butt on your back with me.  I know you nervous cuz a high roller comin in today.”  Erik says calmly.

She picks up her bag and stuffs it in a locker, slamming it closed.  “Yeah, it’s basically now or never, Erik.  If I’m not what he’s looking for, he’s moving on and then we ain’t got shit!”

Erik shushes her softly.  “Chill, trust me.  You what he’s lookin for.  Guys like him love bitches like-”

“You better be kind and rewind that for me!”  She demands.  Erik always slipping his tongue at the wrong times, ignorant self.

Erik laughs.  “I don’t mean you!  He likes ‘females’ like you.  He studies them the most, you know?  That better?”

She sighs, choosing to ignore the still derogatory term.  “Fine.  You just be here when it’s all said and done.  I need you in times like this.”

“You do, huh?  I need you too, if you wearin whatever was in that bag you packed.  Shit looked tiny, so you ain’t covering much.”

She cackles out loud, her laugh bouncing off the walls of the room.  “Shut UP!  Don’t be silly right now!”

“Ain’t nuthin silly!  WE ain’t playing, you feel me?”  Erik says authoritatively.

She kicks her heel at the ground, biting her lip.  “I might be in a mood to see my friend backstage tonight.”

“Oh, so you claiming this dick right now?  Cuz, I thought this was MY dick!  Since I put in all the work around here, getting hard, staying hard, breaking your fucking back so all you gotta do is take it and you can barely handle that-”

“Oh Erik, fuck on with that.  Buh-bye!”

“You get it now?  Be good, DeDe.”

---

Johnny Rocket’s Adult Entertainment Club has a reputation for high profile clientele and catering to every kink imaginable.  Politicians, celebrities, CEOs, and anyone with a 7 figure or more annual salary has the possibility of getting in any night, however the waiting list was 6 months back, minimum.  If your name is powerful enough, you may receive a bump for the inconvenience, but there’s no way that list would move, as people kept looking for a chance to have an extravagant night inside.

One did not have to be looking for a touch from a stranger in order to enjoy themselves there, the club scene is just as hopping with exquisite seating, expensive liquors and miscellaneous party favors for the bold.  Tonight, Johnny Rocket’s is packed wall to wall for a birthday party of the man who runs the Upper West Side of Las Papeleras, of that’s what he would call it.  Mark Foley is the embodiment of greed; a shark tank businessman with a lust for power.  His monopoly of the financial district kept his pockets running over and the local law enforcement’s lined to keep his shady dealings going at an accelerated rate.  

His dealings started off with drug trades across the southern border of the United States, renting out the time of immigrants on the promise of Visa documents and safe keeping of their families on the road to citizenship.  This was a messy business however, as many of his vulnerable employees would be caught shortly after a drop or killed for being intercepted to ensure the details of his operation remained unknown.  It wouldn’t take much to cover his trail with his buddies in DC anyway.  Even with a successful run, Foley would instruct his subordinates to drop off the grid, leaving his pushers high and dry until ICE came for them eventually.  

But he was out of that game, now it is all about real estate.  Foley knew exactly where to upstart businesses for friends and confidants that would make him the richest man in America.  

“The rundown, dangerous, and poverty stricken  neighborhoods are nestled so conveniently between downtown and the burbs.  We just need to get those low lifes sucking off the teat of our taxpayer dollars to get off some extra dough, or get the fuck outta there.”  Foley slurs his words, picking up his tumbler of 12 year old whiskey.  

One of his associates respond, shaking his head.  “Ahh, come on, Foley.  Those people have been living there for so many fucking generations!  How could you uproot them like that, changing there way of life at the drop of a hat like that?  Where’s your heart?”

Foley blinks his eyes a couple of times, staring at his acquaintance from across the room for what seemed like hours.  The flashing, multi-colored lights of the club blur his vision as the bass of A$AP Rocky pounds at their temples.  

“Really?”  Foley asks loudly over the music, frozen with his drink in his hand.

The man laughs out loud, banging the back of the couch as he leans his head back in blissful humor.  “Fuck no!  I’m just fucking with you Foley, come on!”  He boasts, picking up a bottle of whiskey, clanging it against Foley’s glass.

Foley shakes as his hoarse laugh builds in his gut.  “Ohh, man, you had me going there for a second!  You can’t joke like that with me man, you’re still on probation with me.”

The associate combs his hair out of his face, adjusting his tailored, chocolate suede jacket.  “Let me have some fun, huh?  Anyway, you know what to do.  Call up Johnson to get in touch with Hesson about his eminent domain clause on the block, and kick those sons of bitches out on the concrete.  They’ll find a way, roaches never die, you know?  They just skedaddle on to a new nest to infest.”

Foley lights up a cigar, pointing it his way.  “Exactly.  I consider this motivation to do better for themselves.  Hell, once I clean up the pigsty, they can bring their credit score and occupation info, if they have one, and make a deposit with 6 months rent to settle in to the swanky new digs I transform those rat traps from!”

A waitress comes over in a leather miniskirt and thigh high boots with a fringed crop top that rests off her shoulder.  Half of her braids are bound on top of her head, with the rest cascading down her back.  Even in the dark room and the intensity of the strobing lights, her melanin shown beautifully rich, bringing the table to her full attention.

“Can I get you gentlemen another round?”  Her voice said with a sultry timbre, leaning forward to pick up bottle and adjoining glasses.    Some of her braids fall in the face of a hypnotized Foley who reached his thick hands through them, sniffing.

“Mmm, if you mean the juice, that’s not what I need another round of, sugar.”  Foley says wagging his eyebrows.

She looks over at him, pulling her braids back and out of his hands.  “You are Mark Foley, correct?”

He nods slowly, mouth half hanging open.  “I like the way you say my name, doll.”

“My name is Sade.  Your friend here made arrangements for us to...get to know each other a little better…”  Sade bites her lip, using her almond shaped eyes to invite Foley into the possibility.

He didn’t need too much convincing as he clapped his hands looking over at his associate.  “You sly dog!  You planned this for me?”

He shrugs. “Nothing but the best, for the man who holds my old hood in his hands.”  Raising the bottle up again in solidarity, Foley springs up out of the booth, grabbing Sade by the waist.

“This EXACTLY what I need!  Let’s not delay, drop those glasses at the bar and let’s boogie!”  Foley exclaims, leading Sade along and leaving his associate with the bill.

Foley’s hands were lit up over Sade’s body, feeling her soft and firm portions of her body with no shame as she led him to the quieter, private rooms in the bottom level of the club.  A black door marked with the number 8 in gold is where Sade took them before pausing to turn around and face him, snapping her fingers to regain his sober attention.

“Once we cross this threshold, you will need to behave yourself.  I won’t ask you again, otherwise consequences will be set.”  She says calmly.

Foley looks around the hallway, rubbing his hands together before whispering.  “Whatever you say, mistress.  I am at your command.”  His Dad-bod practically vibrated with excitement as she opened the door.  As it closed with a clang, Foley peers around to inspect the various chains, harnesses, chairs with binding mechanisms that decorated the room.

“Whew, this is-”

“SHUT UP!”  Sade yelled with a crack of a whip.  Foley turned around quickly in shock.

“Sade, I wasn’t-”

“Are you speaking out of turn after an order?”  Sade snarls.  In the midst of Foley looking around the room, she has put on a black lace mask covering her face and a nine tailed whip in one hand with ropes in the other.  

Foley shakes his head excitedly.  “My apologies!”

“Turn around and get on your knees.”  Sade says walking around the perimeter of the room like a lioness tracking her prey.  Foley does as he is told, fitting the profile of sub perfectly as he avoids eye contact.

“You are a stupid, worm-grubbing quim aren’t you?”  Sade says matter of factly, playing with the nine-tails in front of him.

Foley nods aggressively.

“ANSWER ME!  Don’t you have a tongue?!” Sade demands, this time cracking the whip across Foley’s arm.  

He shrieks.  “Agh!  Yes! Yes mistress, I am!  I do!”

“Hm, we’ll see about that later...Do you have a problem with authority?”  Foley stammers, not sure how to answer.  “A man of such wealth and status must know a thing or two about breaking rules….Are you going to break mine?”

“No mistress.  I’ll listen to every word!”  

Sade puts her heel into his chest, leaning against him on her knee as she speaks in his face.  “Have you ever let a Black person tell you what to do?”

Once again, Foley is at a loss for words as Sade runs a gloved hand through his thin, short strands of hair, before bringing the palm of her hand square across his cheek with a hard SLAP.

“That ends today.  Tell me Black Lives Matter.”  Sade commands with a dig of her heel that makes him wince.

“Ahh, Bl-Black Lives Matter.”  Foley says hesitantly.

Sade takes her foot off of him before cracking the whip on him again.  “LOUDER!”

“Black Lives Matter!  Thank God, they matter!”  Foley says more enthusiastically.

Sade looks him over with disgust.  “Take off your clothes as you recite every Black person you know that has contributed to the fabric of our nation.  Go!”

Foley starts with the buttons on his jacket and an ode to Harriet Tubman, Rosa Parks, Martin Luther King Jr.  (Sade had to whip him for leaving off the Jr.)  getting down to his briefs before stuttering on names, giving up before after he said Bill Cosby, holding his hands in front of his manhood.

“It’s not cold, put your hands down!”  Sade demanded.

He does do quickly, looking embarrassed at the small protrusion he can’t seem to control.

Sade shakes her hand tutting him.  “I’m glad you’re having fun.  It’s a shame though, how little you know.  The American private school system really failed you.  However I am in a generous mood and have every  intention on catching you up to speed.  With a little help from a friend.”

On cue, the door opens and in walks his associate.  

Foley protests.  “Whoa, hey, this may have been incorrect info you got.  I’m not into THAT.”  

Sade grips his hair at the root.  “Have my boot as a snack while the adults talk.”  Stomping her foot in front of him, Foley bends down on the concrete floor to kiss and lick her shoe.

Sade sighs, wiping her brow.  “Babysitting is so hard.  What took you so long Erik?”

He unbuttons his jacket sighing.  “His fucking card wouldn’t go through upstairs.  So this muthafucka owe me his life and some change now.”  

Erik picks up Foley’s pants, ruffling through his pockets for his wallet.

“Whoa, bro, what are you doing?  You aren’t a part of this!”  Foley says.  

Sade was not pleased with this interruption, bringing her boot around to land it squarely with his chin.  The crack of the impact echoed in the room as Foley flopped on his back, writhing in pain.

“What...the….FUCK!”  He yells out, blood starting to coat his fingers.

“Damn, Sade!”  Erik exclaimed, staring at his girl.

Sade inspects her boot.  “Shit, he got a damn scuff in it, now I’m really pissed.  Tie his ass up so we can move on.”  

Erik handles Foley like a ragdoll, turning him over and using Sade’s ropes to tie his hands behind his back.

“You fucking niggers don’t know who you’re dealing with!”  Foley says through clenched teeth.  

Erik pulls him up by his arms over to a part of the wall with a collar and chain attached to it.  Turning Foley around, he hooks his neck up to the contraption.

“You really want them to be your last words, bitch ass cunt?”   Erik says, tightening the collar on the last possible notch.   “Gotta use they language to get to em sometimes.”  Erik says to Sade.

Foley laughs nervously as tears fill his eyes.  “I could make you rich, man.  Get your mom out the ghetto.  You got any siblings?  You could take them anywhere!  I’ll turn your life around in ways you never seen, just let me out of here with this bitch!”

Sade sits on a stool trying to buff out the mark on her shoe.  “Erik, his voice is annoying me…”  She says in a sing-songy manner.  

Erik pulls out Foley’s phone from his pants pocket, holding it up to his face to unlock it.  

“Fuck!  I shoulda known that facial unlock would bite me in the ass.”

Erik opens his camera to take some pictures.  “Aww, shit!  You finna be the Belle of the Ball once these circulate through your contacts.  No way your bros at the Capitol can clean this mess up.”  Erik laughs, showing the gallery to Foley, who is whining for mercy.

“Come on!  Don’t do this!  Let’s talk this over!  You need some money?  Let me give you something something, and we can work this out.  No harm no foul!”

“Give him your bank login, we’ll handle the rest.”  Sade instructs from across the room.”

Foley shifts, blinking the sweat out of his eyes.  “I-I mean, you don’t wanna give me a figure first-”

Erik sends a strong blow to Foley’s gut, knocking the wind and dignity out of him.

“O...k…” Foley rasps as he coughs through his username and password for Erik to set up a transfer.

“Thanks for the paycheck, bro.”  Erik, takes some leather gloves off of a table, sliding them, flexing his fingers.  “No way in hell you can help me while you still got breath in your body.  And ain’t shit you can do for me.  That neighborhood you wanna run over so fuckin bad ain’t yours to take. ��White folks can’t never miss out on a land deal, fuckin colonizers.”

Foley struggled against his bindings, becoming agitated.  “I am providing a service!  Something that will make their world better!”

Erik punches the wall next to his head, cracking the concrete.  “A world you ain’t got no plan to let them in?  They already got a place to stay, and you want them outta there cuz the living is too cheap and they barely affording that.  So instead of working for them, you’re just gonna build shit that they can’t afford, segregating them even more until they gotta leave.  Turning half the shit into fucking parking lots any damn way.”

Foley breathes heavily, swallowing hard.  “It’s so disappointing to hear you settling for less, bro.  It really is…”

Sade comes up behind Erik, handing him a club and brass knuckles.  

“I don’t need that shit, I got this.”  Erik insists with a wink.

Sade rolls her eyes.  “Try not to get blood on your clothes.  We have dinner reservations in an hour.”

As Erik takes off his jacket and dress shirt. Foley says, “Aye, what was it you said before?  Roaches always surviving?  What’s it to you when they’ll find another hole to crawl into?  Making babies and killing themselves, it’s the circle of life.  I'm just tired of seeing your Black asses fucking with my city.”

Erik reaches behind his back near his waistband to swiftly take take out his military issue knife, grabbing Foley by his neck, slamming his head into the wall.  As Foley neck folds sheath his hand, Erik brings the knife slowly to his eye socket as Foley closes his eyelids tightly.  That only makes the process more messy as he screams in excruciating pain while Erik skillfully gouges him.

“There.  Now you aint gotta see shit. That better?”  Sade says, walking away at this point when all she heard was the pounding of Erik’s fist in bone.  Foley’s feebled cries in pain didn’t last long when Erik socked him in his mouth, making him swallow his own teeth.  Sounded as if he even indulged in the knuckles and the club after all, as he dared Foley to say something again, until it was impossible to do so Sade sat in her seat, reviewing her manicure as the cacophony of pounds into Foley’s body turned soft.

Erik’s breathing was the only thing left as he made his way back over to Sade with a wild nature in his eyes, and blood coating his knuckles and face.

“Ohhh, look at you!  You’re never careful when I ask you to!”  Sade scolds him as she pulls out a handkerchief and water, wiping down his hands.

“You know how I get carried away in the moment.”  Erik says, voice gravelly as he stares at Sade.

Sade finishes off his hands, reaching for his face to clean.  “Mhm, I know.  Lucky for you, I brought a spare undershirt to change.  What about your pants…”  Sade brushed some dust near his crotch, feeling his dick twitch under her touch.  “That is enough!  I’m not cancelling this dinner.  It's been weeks in the making!”

Erik bites his lip, leaning over Sade as she digs through her bag.  “You blaming me when you out here dressed like that, kicking white folks in the face and not expecting me to wanna fuck you for that?”

Sade reaches for the collar of his shirt, tearing it halfway off his him with a blade between her teeth.  She takes it and aims it over his chest.  “You know how we celebrate…”

Applying pressure, she drags it slowly across his skin, red liquid bubbling along the length of the cut as Erik seethed.  The satisfying release of his skin allowing the penetration of her blade made her breath hitch in her chest. “We got another one, we mark the occasion.  Without him contacting his people in DC, no way they can settle a vote to gentrify now.”  

Sade runs her thumb along the blood trickling out, wiping it clean before bring her face in his chest to lick his wound.  The soft, muskiness of his skin is too tempting for her to let go as she caresses his chest.

Erik sighs deeply, taking one hand to grab her ass and the other wraps her braids around its knuckles pulling her face back as he devours her mouth hungrily.  Erik lifts her up and onto a nearby table with a thud, pulling her skirt up to her waist as she reaches to free him from his trousers.

“Ooh, dont make me scar your back up now.  This is lucky number 57?”  Sade chuckles as Erik brings ankles to his shoulders, leaning over her.

The way Erik looks at her, one might think she was his sworn enemy.  But this is Erik’s favorite time with Sade.  Not just fucking, but taking out white folks that aren’t doing shit for anyone but themselves, leaving a trail of dead brown and black bodies behind them.  Doing this vigilante justice together never got old.

“Try me. And a lot more to come.”  Erik promises as Sade kisses his keloid riddled arm, biting down once he entered her.

Sade peppered Erik with affection as they fucked.  Their roles easily switched from business to pleasure.  Sade being the brains behind most of the operations, and Erik being the muscle, all he needed was to be told where to go and he had the rest.  But as lovers, Erik took control of her, and she needed that change of pace.  

As Erik reaches for her throat, he put his weight on her, lapping at her neck as he digs her out desperately.  Sade gasped with each stroke he dropped inside of her, seeing stars as her breath quickened.  Her head fell to one side as she got a full view of the damage Erik did to Foley’s body.  The bruising, the bone jutting from his skin, blood pooling near his collapsed skull was all too much for Sade.   She came so hard, Erik nearly slipped in her wetness flooding between them, tightening up on Erik until he contributed his own fluids to their celebration.

Erik lays still on top of her panting.  “How much time left we got on the room?”

Sade rubs his back, still smooth but hopefully not for long once they continue their mission.  “45 minutes.”  She smacks his shoulders, willing him to roll off of her.  “You’re cleaning up by yourself this time.  Your dick is making me miss dinner, I’ve suffered enough.”

Erik laughs slow and deeply as he rubs his face, satisfied all the same.  “You need a mop-iana?”

RagTag  (it’s been so long since I wrote, I’m forgetting who likes to be tagged)

@chaneajoyyy @bidibidibombaclaat @wakanda-inspired

[kamino-ink]

Brawl | Lee Minho [Disney!au]

✧ Genre: Disney!au, fluff, cheesy as fuck Minho, suggestive bc its Minho how can I nOt-

✧ Summary: You’re not exactly the most interesting of people, at least not your eyes; but one of the biggest delinquents in town, the son of Ursula, insists on defending your honor no matter what.

✧ Word Count: 2.6k

✧ Want to read other parts of this series? Check out my masterlist!

                                         ✧

you weren’t the child of some important fairytale character, rather you were simply a normal citizen growing up as normally as anyone else

sure life was interesting enough watching the children of important figures in the land of fairytales and stories, but you preferred to mind your own business in the solitude of your home by the beach

you’d moved out from the main hub of town about a year ago, deciding that you didn't need to rely on the financial support of your parents after graduating

and even if you didn't say it, a lot of people who knew you personally were well aware that you were content with living in the town of magical or powerful beings; while others craved to leave the land in favor of exploring the rest of the world, it was essentially impossible

some of the founders of the land arranged a sort of plan to keep the coming generations safe from harm - if they were all trapped in one place, they couldn't harm innocent people outside of their realm or vice versa

so basically all of you were stuck on a single island, meant to inhabit it for generations to come

but none of you were allowed to ever leave the island, as doing so would alert normal humans of your existence; one could never trust their intentions

so while you were technically a child of a couple in the universe of Peter Pan, you didn't really care about your status

on the other hand, those who resided in the central part of town consisted mostly of the children of characters who played big roles in their stories; from Mulan to Merida, almost every character written down in the books had been cast into the real world so they could live in peace

so here you were, fresh out of the comfort of your parent’s home, sat sipping on some herbal tea to clear your sinuses by the beach

miniscule grains of sand snuck between your toes, but you didn't quite mind, choosing instead to let your body relax into the sand

you had come out here for a reason; to be free of the binds in town and live your own peaceful life of utter solitude

“Jisung you moron, I cannot believe that you got us kicked out again!”

“Listen Seungmin, its not my fault that they couldn't handle my bare-chested sexiness-”

“I am this close to hexing you, asshole. Just because your dad never wore a shirt in his goddamn life doesn't mean you need to be the same.”

it was mostly a life of solitude, not counting the occasional intruders who would freely walk down the shore of the beach just in front of your cozy hut

you recognized the pair arguing just feet away from yourself; they were the sons of Tarzan and Maleficent, respectively

oh my god if they're here, I bet that dickhead is here too-

“Morning, gorgeous. I was wondering when we’d pass by your... hut.” Lee Minho himself hummed with an amused smirk, his piercing gaze darting down to your more than exasperated expression

ah, Lee Minho was a peculiar case indeed. He was the only son of Ursula, having been born merely a month before the island founders transported everyone here

while most parents, good or evil, tried to make sure all of their children would get along with one another, it was as if Ursula had thrown that idea out the door and encouraged her son to do the things he did

he was enticing, owning a voice of gold that would make anyone’s heart to backflips if he spoke to them

he was also known to be one of the most cunning, strongest people on the island

Minho frequently picked fights on people of all shapes, sizes, and ancestry - he didn't give a flying fuck if you were the love-child of a famous prince and princess, he could and would initiate a brawl if he wanted to

while a good portion of the community looked at the man in distaste and fear, you knew he was a good man deep down

he only ever picked fights with people who really deserved it

for example, when a group of kids in high school had been making fun of Changbin’s parents since his dad was bisexual [in this day and age? wild] Minho was the first one to throw a punch, helping his friend beat the shit out of them

yeah they were suspended and nearly expelled, but from that day on you couldn't help but admire him in a sense

you’d grown up side by side, but since you weren’t too important, you weren’t really involved with anything the other big-leagues did

while Minho was captain of both the swim team and the dance team, you were usually found in the background, simply minding your own business

of course you felt an odd connection with the man, as well as other kids older than yourself and those born in the same year as you

all of you had been born before the transportation to the real world, and while the youngest included the likes of you and Minho both, just born months ahead of time - each of you wondered what life was like in the world of fairytales and fictional stories

but something inside your head convinced you to approach him all those years ago back in high school

you’d been watching him and the son of Cinderella since the start of their swim practice, admiring how easily he moved in the water

which was because he was practically made for it, considering his ancestry

“hey, Minho,” you’d called out to him, still leaning against one of the walls when he glanced over to you in surprise, “come here for a second.”

and he’d done just that, walking over to you in all his glory, water dripping down his bare chest and arms, his black hair wet but still somehow looking neat and presentable

“uh, hi?”

“could you - could you teach me how to fight?” you’d stuttered out to him in sheer panic, his own eyes twinkling in curiosity at your request

“I um - you see, well, I have to walk home alone after work most nights and it isn’t exactly... safe, I guess.” which isn't a lie, in all honesty

in the late hours of the night, you worked at a measly grocery store to get some easy cash, but having to walk home alone was incredibly scary

even though all of you had been, for the most part, raised in the human world, there were still low-life's and downright villainous people residing on the island

knowing that you could possibly run into someone like that alone with no way of defending yourself was a daunting thought

“yea, sure, why not.” Minho had agreed almost immediately, much to your surprise

ever since then, after school, the boy would drive you to the gym and train with you

whenever you got off of work he was right outside the front door where you would walk out, waiting so he could walk you home each night

you were a bit confused, since you had been training with him so you wouldn't feel defenseless by yourself - but he insisted on making sure you got home safely no matter what

over the years the two of you grew to be quite close, so much so that you'd been nominated prom king and queen

you still had the picture of you two dancing in celebration, red solo cups in hand as he had been in the middle of twirling you on the heels of your feet when the candid photograph had been taken

“What? Too distracted by my dashing good looks to talk?” He pressed on smugly, snapping his fingers just inches in front of your face to snap you out of your daydream

“In your dreams, Minho,” you retort with a roll of your eyes, accepting his hand lent out to help you stand from the sand you’d been sitting in, “I was just... thinking.”

“Ouch, that must hurt.”

“Shut it, octopus.” You hiss, flicking his forehead while Jisung and Seungmin made their way towards the two of you.

“Anywho, Chan is throwing some huge party tonight and invited you to come.” He informed you with a bit of bitterness to his tone, much to your amusement

it was painfully obvious how Minho had a... thing, for you, to say the least. while you didn’t know if it was a short-lived infatuation or genuine feelings, it was hilarious to witness him become jealous over the smallest things

like one time where Felix, the son of Belle, had been helping you with schoolwork in the library

his head was close to yours, bent down so he could quietly explain how to work out the difficult problems [what? he is a genius, so you didn't mind the younger boy helping you out at all]

then Minho had sauntered in, almost immediately spotting two of his closest friends so close together with the smart Felix whispering something to you

despite your protests, Minho had insisted that he help you instead, sending Felix away by reminding him that they had a dance competition in just a few days - the freckled boy had gasped and rushed out quickly to the studio just for some extra practice, trusting the older boy to help

needless to say, you had failed that assignment horribly

“aww, is little Minho jealous?” You asked him in a teasing tone, wiping off the remnants of sand from your sundress, making Jisung and Seungmin snicker behind you

the black haired man glared at you playfully, though his lips were curled into a pout

“Y/N, I am not jealous - oh, forget it, I was wondering if you wanted to come to town with us while we picked up some food and shit for the party.”

you shrugged, knowing full well that you didn't have anything else to do for the rest of the afternoon besides sitting in the sand or wading in the water

“Sure, just let me put on some shoes- Minho!” You squeaked in surprise when he doesn't even give you the chance to finish, as he’s easily picked you up and thrown you onto his back

you huffed and puffed at him, gently smacking his head as he lead your small group off the beach and up the path towards the main part of town, ignoring your squeals of protest the entire time

about an hour had passed and you were still stuck on Minho’s back, even after all that shopping and going through shops to find food

Jisung and Seungmin were walking just a few feet ahead of you two, carrying the light bags of food for the party in their hands while Minho lagged a bit behind them, his hands supporting your legs still wrapped around his waist

“Goddamn, look at that ass!”

“You think her boyfriend will get pissed if we snap a pic?”

you gawked in disbelief at what you were hearing, turning your head to see two younger boys cheekily winking at you

you had completely forgotten you were still wearing a sundress, and while your backside was protected by shorts, it still left little to the imagination

you felt Minho pause abruptly in his tracks just so he could slowly turn around and face your disgusting catcallers

“Say another word about my girl and I swear to god I’ll snap your limbs like twigs.” He threatens the mischievous boys lowly, his voice dead serious and intimidating

as if they were wanting a death wish, the pair of boys rolled their eyes and sent not-so-discreate winks to you, completely ignoring the boiling man carrying you

“Hey lady, if this weirdo isn’t giving you what you need, we can solve that problem for you.”

with a deep breath Minho gently slid you off of his back, pushing you behind him while Jisung and Seungmin made their way back to you two, clearly wondering what had happened to make their friend so eerily pissed

“You two shitheads need to learn some fucking respect,” the tall man growled in a growing fury, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides, “or would you like me to knock some common fucking sense into those empty brains of yours?”

“Alright alright, we’ll back off man.” One of them gave in with a roll of his eyes, holding his hands up in surrender as he started to lead his partner past you and the two boys still staring in curiosity

then, as they made their way past you, one of them reached out and squeezed your ass invasively, smirking at your gasp of shock and disgust

he didn't have time to even blink before Minho had swung at him so hard that he’d been knocked out

his friend looked back quickly, his eyes wide in fear at what just happened

if he decided to fight back, you were sure that Minho would turn the confrontation into an all out brawl

“Take him away before I decide to make the bastard bleed.” Minho growled, now standing in front of you protectively while the boy nodded comically fast, picking his friend up with one arm and waddling away

that night you decided not to go to the party - the confrontation from the shopping trip still had you a bit zoned out, and you knew that if you had gone you would've been too anxious with so many drunk, hormonal people crowded into one space

“Minho, you didn't have to stay with me.” You sigh to the man, glancing over to him and watching as he clenches his jaw, still clearly upset at the event earlier that day

you could tell that he blamed himself for whatever reason; he probably thought he could’ve prevented the sick guy from touching you, but none of you could’ve predicted that he would have acted so rashly anyway

“Too bad, princess, you're stuck with me.” He huffed back, not sparing you one look in fear that he might lose it and freak out about the incident again

you let out a deep, resounding sigh before you scoot closer to him on the stairs of your porch, resting your head on his shoulders comfortingly

you could feel one of his hands trailing up your bare thigh, his fingertips lazily tracing your skin as you both watched the ocean waves lap at the sandy shore of the beach

“Let me... let me be the only man who can touch you, Y/N.” Minho blurts out suddenly, though his voice is oddly serious and quiet

your cheeks heat up quickly at his blunt statement, though you can’t seem to comprehend exactly what he’s suggesting

“When that sicko touched you today, I was so close to ripping his head off. You didn't give him permission so that’s why -” he breaks off with a gulp, his fingers now squeezing your thigh, as if he was testing his boundaries, “that’s why I’m asking for your permission. Please, princess, let me touch you.”

you find yourself letting out a soft, nearly inaudible ‘okay,’ and within milliseconds the man has tilted your chin up with the pads of his fingers and thumb, his serious gaze boring into yours

“Are you sure?”

“I - yes, I’m sure, Minho. You were my hero today, and shouldn't heroes get a proper reward?”

you watch with red cheeks as his tongue darts out to wet his lips, now parted as he leans in closer and closer, until your noses are touching and his pink lips are grazing yours

“Princess, you are going to regret those words when I’m done with you tonight.”

                                         ✧

[swanderful1]

Duplicity: Ch 4/?

Summary:  Secrets shroud the homes of the idyllic Willow Lane. Its newest resident, Emma Swan is no exception. In a place where perception is everything, the facade begins to crack. And Emma finds herself staring down the deep, dark secrets that the neighborhood was built on and that nothing is as it seems. Not even the blue eyed gardener.

Notes:  First of all, a special thanks to my beta @resident-of-storybrooke who is an actual angel and also to @shady-swan-jones for the incredible artwork. Here with an update, just in time for the weekend (and the finale) but while one door closes I'm happy to continue writing and creating using these characters who have inspired me so much.That being said, I hope you enjoyed reading. Thank you for stopping by, I love getting feedback or kudos or just greetings are fun! Hope everyone has a nice weekend!

Disclaimer: I own nothing, all rights to OUAT

The whole thing can be read on AO3 and ffnet

The dinner at the Nolan’s had been a welcome distraction from what Emma was dealing with in her own house. That much was evident the second their front door closed and the lingering silence between she and Neal filled the house with tension so thick it could practically be cut.

Whatever front they had put on in public, had quickly faded.

Emma stomped her way up the steps to the master bedroom and waited to hear Neal’s footsteps behind her.

The walk in closet off of their room was almost the size of their first studio apartment in Boston. It was hard to believe they had gone from living in less than 400 square feet to where they were now. But Emma would do just about anything to get back to when they had been too madly in love to care that the heat hardly worked. Or that the dated floral wallpaper was peeling. Or that the entire apartment always smelled like the Chinese restaurant in the building next door.

“Emma...” he said when he finally came upstairs to their room. Emma was already in the closet, changing from her clothes. “I went to the dinner, everyone had a nice time…”

“Please. I just want to go to bed.” She went back to pulling her silk pajamas from a drawer in the white cabinets of the closet system. An additive that Neal had insisted be put in the house.

“I was late getting home, it isn’t the end of the world,” he said tersely. Entering the closet but staying in the doorway. He knew enough to give her space at least.

“It’s more than that, Neal.”

“Then what is it? Tell me, because I can’t read your damn mind, Emma.”

“You haven’t been here this week! We moved here because of you and so far all you’ve done is come home late if at all.”

“My job is not 9 to 5, you know that. You knew that before we moved here. Don’t act like this is some surprise.”

“I thought that moving here it might be different. I guess I was wrong.”

“What exactly did you think would be different? We moved here for my career. My legacy, my father’s business. You knew that, you knew what my father was like.”

Emma felt stupid, each day that she went along it got harder until she had constantly felt herself wondering why she was tagging along with someone who clearly did not care for her as he used to. In hopes that he would again become the person she had fallen in love with.

“Where do you even go half of the time? You’re never here. You come home late, you smell like booze constantly...”

“Forgive me for working to try to provide a nice life for you.” Under his breath she heard him add, “I would think you would be grateful.”

“Excuse me?” she snapped. All attentions now on him, not the clothes. “Oh, that’s right because I grew up without a home I’m supposed to crawl on my knees over glass to thank you for all of this?”

Judging from his face she could tell that was exactly what he wanted her to do, which only served to anger her more.

“I should be grateful for what, exactly? Moving away from everything I’ve ever known? Spending day in and out alone in this house? Aside from tonight when was the last time we had a meal together? When was the last time we had sex?”

His jaw clenched, and she debated whether or not to say the next part. Emma stepped toward him, her eyes locked with his. Frustration filling her body.

“If I wanted to marry your father I would have.” She pushed past him and walked into the bedroom.

“Everything I do is for you, Emma, for us! Why can’t you see that?”

“No it’s not.” She stared out the bay window before shutting the white curtains. Everything he did was for himself. “Is there someone else?”

She knew the answer, had for a while, but still she asked.

“No,” he said, sounding defeated. He wouldn’t meet her eyes and Emma felt herself begin to tear up. “You’re being ridiculous.”

She said nothing, just stared at him.

“Shouldn’t I be the one asking you that?” he said with ice in his voice.

“What are you talking about?”

“I think you know exactly what I’m talking about,” he said, only a few inches from her now. “What would you do, if I snuck out of a dinner to sit on a stoop with another woman?”

“Oh for god sakes, Neal, you’re the one who hired him.”

“Don’t make an ass out of me for doing it,” he said. Emma’s eyes widened. He had done it to test her. She was sure of that now. Bring in an attractive gardener to spend time with your lonely wife. Emma’s blood boiled, she couldn’t even look at him anymore.

Killian Jones had been a trap, one that she was falling right into. Emma walked away, not wanting to continue to argue with him. It was exhausting.

Down the hall in one of the guest bedrooms she pulled down the made up bed, and crawled underneath. The house had several spare bedrooms, this one was the furthest from the master. Emma had tried to decorate simply, using white linens and gray furniture.

The moon hung high in the sky and cast light into the windows of the guest room. Emma stared out them and into the clear night, the stars were visible from her new home. That much she liked. What she didn’t like was the irony of her being in the guest room of her own house.

There weren’t many emotions in this world that Emma Swan liked. One of the few things she had control over in her life, and as she grew up, was that of her response to circumstances. Because while there was only so much she could do for her situation, her approach was what she knew she could control. So for a long time, Emma had been in as much control as she could have been.

But then when she was 17 years old, she met Neal. At a bar she had used a fake ID to get into with another guy she had been dating. The day she met Neal was also the day she left behind all she knew before. He swept her off of her feet. She left that bar with him and never looked back.

Neal took her interesting places on dates. He had a car, a run down probably stolen yellow bug that had since been retired. In all of the chaos that was being young and in love he was her stability. And she was his. He had just been cut off financially from his father, the older Mr Gold thinking it would have his son crawling back to work for him. Unfortunately, he had been right. Five years later, after graduating from Boston University, Neal had begun working for his father.

Emma settled into the covers. She breathed in the scent of the lavender fabric softener on the sheets, remembering the time not so long ago when Neal had been her wings. Now, though, he was more like cement shoes.

In the morning Emma woke late. Her watch read that it was 10 am, she had forgotten to set an alarm. Next to her phone and watch though on the nightstand sat a singular Hershey kiss. The tiny piece of chocolate wrapped in its signature foil packaging.

Their relationship was wrought with miscommunication. It always had been. They were both stubborn and shut down from other people. But he had been the person she knew longest. And with that came the responsibility of knowing what pushes the other’s buttons. She knew Neal’s, and he knew hers.

Another thing, though, was that they knew how to apologize to each other.

Emma picked up the tiny chocolate candy and held it in her hand knowing their history with it. Neither one of them had an easy time apologizing to each other but this had always been their way. It was the way he had proposed to her. It was the way he broke the news to her that he had to move. It was the way she apologized for leaving when he had initially told her.

Her heart fluttered a bit, it was the first glimpse of her Neal she had seen in months. And he wasn’t moving mountains, but it was a sign. A sign that he was still the person that had swept her off her feet 10 years ago.

“I didn’t know what time you would be up.” Emma looked up at the doorway and there stood Neal, holding two steaming cups of coffee.

“My alarm didn’t go off this morning,” she said carefully, taking one of the mugs from him as he sat down on the bed. “I’m surprised you’re here.”

“Em… I didn’t like how we went to bed last night.”

“Me either,” she said staring down at the steam coming from her mug. She caught a whiff of something, the barest hint of cinnamon. Her favorite.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his leg touching hers. Finally she looked up to meet his eyes. “For how I have behaved and treated you.”

Emma remained quiet, as she finally watched something formulate behind his eyes.

“And you’re right, I am acting like my father. But you don’t deserve that.” He took her hand in his and felt the ring he had given her months ago. “Which is why I think we should actually get married…. For real this time.”

“What?” she said back, she definitely wasn’t expecting him to say that.

“I know we only did this to appease my dad but maybe we could really marry each other, have a ceremony in our new house….”

Emma was so stunned she could hardly move. She just stared at Neal. Dealing with the whirlwind of emotions that had gone on between them in the past 12 hours.

“Neal…. I…” she stuttered. “We decided we didn’t want to get married.”

“We made that decision when we were 18, Emma, things change,” he said calmly. “It’s just something to consider.”

“Won’t your dad be pissed when he realizes we didn’t actually get married before moving here?”

“He doesn’t have to know… he thinks we eloped so we can just tell him we wanted a real wedding.”

Neal stood up from the bed, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead. He drained his coffee and started to leave the room before turning around to face her in the doorway, “I’m gonna start putting together all of that exercise equipment still in the boxes.”

Emma smiled, it was forced but she still appreciated that she didn’t wake up in an empty home this morning.

“Thanks for getting all of that by the way,” Emma said. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Just because we had to move here for my career doesn’t mean you have to abandon yours,” he said. “Plus I liked to watch you on the stairmaster.”

He winked at her and instead of blushing Emma felt unsettled. She didn’t like whatever feeling hit her as Neal left the room.

When they first started dating, Emma had no family and Neal was cut off from his father. So envisioning a big, white wedding was beyond either of their imaginations. That was what they had agreed upon for most of their relationship. But then as they got closer to moving to Storybrooke, the more Neal started talking about them actually getting married.

“It’s a more traditional neighborhood, Em, we should think about getting married,” he had said. Which was, as one can imagine, not the way every little girl imagines herself getting proposed to.

“You make it sound like a business transaction,” she said back and then they didn’t speak of it again. Until one morning in their old apartment when Emma woke up to a diamond ring resting on top of a Hershey kiss on the pillow next to her.

“We don’t have to actually do it, but at the very least we can pretend,” he had said. Emma still remembered that morning, the sound of an ambulance driving by outside the window. “Just like the good old days.”

Back when they first started dating, they went on road trips all of the time. The problem was, they were both too poor to afford anything but the gas and had to shoplift at convenience stores all along the east coast.

They would be fake married, fake pregnant, fake fighting. It was a game. Their game. She considered him as he slipped the ring on her left hand. It wouldn’t be so bad, she supposed.

“I’ll wear one too, Em.” He kissed her wrist and they made love that morning. Too caught up in the idea of another one of their games to recognize that they were older now and there were consequences to their rouses.

She remembered everything about that morning all those months ago. The Boston t-shirt she always wore from Neal, the sound of an ambulance driving by their apartment window. The weather was rainy and gloomy but it made their tiny bedroom cozy.

But now, sitting in their new house, surrounded by Pottery Barn furniture everything was so quiet. And Emma’s mind tried to grab onto something meaningful to remember this particular morning. A sound. A smell. A feeling. But she couldn’t.

Emma was in the office off of the kitchen later that morning. The built in shelves took up the entire wall behind the desk and were filled with books she had collected from thrift stores over the years. Plants were used as bookends. A tiny window gave a glimpse of the front street. It was cozy, and though Neal rarely worked from home he still insisted on a home office. She sipped her coffee and scrolled through page after page of porch furniture. It was the one part of home decorating she had avoided. Mostly because she had no idea what the backyard would look like yet.

An email came up in the bottom right hand corner, signifying that Neal had an incoming message. Emma’s gut told her not to look, not to snoop. She was never that girl who went searching through phones and emails and calls. She liked to think she trusted people in her life. Nowadays though she wasn’t so sure. It seemed more and more like Emma was always on the defense with Neal. And even this morning, when he had been so sweet, it felt like a bandaid.

Against her better judgement she opened the email, and luckily it was only from Target telling him about a sale going on this week. Emma released a breath. Paranoia was not her favorite feeling. But a few messages down in Neal’s inbox she saw a chain of messages from none other than Killian Jones. Curiosity getting the better of her yet again.

Just as she suspected it was message after message of Neal micromanaging the entirety of the project he had given her ‘free reign’ of. All the while Killian Jones being completely receptive. Of course he was, he was a nice guy. Or what she had seen of him at least, and she liked to think that she had some ability to judge character.

Her eye caught on the sight of a message from Neal where he stated the yard would need to be done by the end of May. For some sort of party.

Interesting. He hadn’t mentioned anything to her about a party. One would think….

Unless it was to be some sort of wedding ceremony. Some surprise gesture to get her to marry him. Emma’s breath caught in her throat, she didn’t know if she was being ridiculous or realistic in assuming that him asking this morning was only a formality. Why else would he throw a party without telling her? It wasn’t either of their birthdays, no one they knew either.

It was certainly plausible.

A knock on the door pulled her out of her racing head. Quickly Emma closed the email and went to the door. Just what she needed right now, a fucking visitor.

When she opened the door she found Mary Margaret standing on the other side holding two to-go cups of coffee and a small paper bag.

“Hi,” Emma said a little startled.

“Hi, I come bearing coffee,” said Mary Margaret in her sweet voice.

“Come in, please,” Emma ushered. Out of the corner of her eye though she caught sight of Killian Jones unloading his truck at the Mills house. She would ask him tomorrow if he knew anything about the party, no need to bother him right now.

Emma and Mary Margaret made their way to the kitchen table. The nook was surrounded by windows that allowed for a view into the backyard, which would be lovely someday but right now was just a big project and some dirt.

Sipping coffee there was a silence over them for a few minutes. Mary Margaret looked like she had an agenda for being here, especially since she hadn’t called ahead. But she still came across sweet to Emma, almost like a mother in the way that she acted toward people. Most likely that came from her being a teacher. Even still, it made Emma want to trust her, and it made her want to be around the woman more often.

“I hope you had a nice time last night, I know David and I did,” she finally said, setting down her coffee cup and leaning back in the chair. She wore a soft yellow sweater and white pants. Compare that to Emma who was still in her pajamas, she felt like a bum.

“I did, it was lovely,” saind Emma. “We used to live in an apartment building so there weren’t too many dinner parties going on there. It’s nice to have neighbors we can spend time with.”

“That’s one of the best parts about living here, the neighbors are almost like family.”

Emma went to chime in and say she had never really had a family before, but decided against it. She felt bad enough about bringing up her past at the table last night. The last thing she wanted was for Mary Margaret to feel uncomfortable around her.

“I didn’t mean it that… I don’t want to offend you, of course it’s not the same thing as a fam…” the pixie haired woman stumbled over her words. “I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable talking about your upbringing with me.”

Emma sipped her coffee, giving the woman time to find her words.

“What I meant to say was that I want us to be friends.”

“Friends?” Emma asked.

“I feel like I’m really not getting this right..” Mary Margaret joked. “I like spending time with you. It’s nice to have someone new around. And when I moved to this street there wasn’t exactly a welcome wagon.”

“Other than you and Ruby this place seems like a tough crowd.” Emma thought back to her only encounter with the Mayor at her garden party. How cold and icy she was, but had a hard time picturing anyone being nasty to the woman sitting across from her right now.

“There’s a lot of history here, in Storybrooke. Some families have lived here for years, so there’s a lot of overlap.”

“Well, I enjoy being around you as well. Especially if you’re gonna bring me coffee and croissants every time you come over.”

They both laughed at that and the nervous tension in the room eased. Emma liked Mary Margaret, she was a kind person. And the world could use more people like her. People who were just nice. Besides that, it would be great to actually form a friendship with someone. All her life Emma had been strong in so many ways, but friends was not one of them.

Sunday morning Killian awoke alone in his bed. His head was already reeling from the night before. The dinner party at the Nolan’s had been fine as far as cordial events go, but there was something that picked at him about it. The memory of sitting on that front porch with Emma as he blurted out about his dead brother was so out of character for him it was downright terrifying.

So rarely did he share anything about Liam with anyone new. Obviously his friends had known, they had been around when it happened. But Emma didn’t ask for the sordid tales of his past, but she did seem lonely.

Killian pulled himself out of bed and ran his hands through his hair. According to the clock it was 7 am, he had some time before he had to be at the Mills’ house. He was building a new shed for them and finally had all of the clearances to do it. Something that was odd for the Mills house, normally when it came to approval from the HOA the process moved rather quickly.

He quickly showered but when he got out realized he didn’t have any towels.

Thankfully he lived alone, he thought, as he dripped down the hallway to his linen closet where the spare towels were. But when he pulled out the towel something hit his hand, it was gooey and felt like some sort of gel.

“What in the….?” he spat out looking at his hand. The gooey mystery substance coating his right hand. He reached way back, in the depths of the shelving to find an overturned bottle.

It was a bottle of shampoo, well past its prime, that had fallen between the cracks. Not just any shampoo though, what he could smell of it was what Milah had washed her hair with. He closed his eyes and let himself picture what mornings used to be like when she was still alive.

The smell of her dark, curly hair pressed against his nose. The feel of her soft body tucked into his. The way she would pull him closer when it was cold outside. On a morning like today, when he hadn’t shaved for a few days, she would complain about the tickle of his jaw.

Anytime he thought of her though, inevitably his mind would wander to the last time he had seen her. The morning after she had died, he hadn’t even been with her when she had taken her last breath. His last memory of her was the sight of her laid out on a metal table, under a blue cloth, making a confirmation to the detective that she was indeed who her ID said she was.

But the person he saw in that room wasn’t the woman he had fallen in love with, she was a shell of herself on that table. An empty version of Milah. The side of her that was an addict had won out in the end.

Who knew an old shampoo bottle could send him on such a tailspin?

Later that day he was working at the Mills house, distracting himself from the morning. The framework for the shed had been built, and was coming along nicely. That was the thing with Killian, no matter what went on day to day, work could take his mind away from anything.

“Hi Mr. Jones,” came a young voice from across the yard. Killian looked up from his work to see Henry Mills walking toward him. They 8 year old son.

“Hi Henry,” he said back smiling. While Killian wasn’t used to being around kids, most of his friends didn’t have them, Henry was a good kid. “I’ve told you before you can just call me Killian.”

“My mom says I shouldn’t call grownups by their first name,” he said back, kicking a stone with his shoe.

“Well I may be older than you but I’m far from a grownup.” Killian smiled at Henry, who was young but always seemed to have a maturity about him. It was probably because, in most scenarios, he was the only kid around. He was an only child, and there weren’t a ton of other kids on the street to play with. “You can help if you would like.”

“Really?” the kid’s face lit up. As much as Killian should probably just work alone, Henry was always helpful and he couldn’t spend another afternoon watching the 8 year old play alone on his swing set.

As they set to work Killian found Henry to be quite helpful. He sorted screws and nuts and bolts. He held things in place, he acted as an extra set of hands. They worked like that for a while.

“Henry, what did I tell you about bothering Mr. Jones while he works?”

Cora Mills was standing not 10 feet from them and he had hardly heard her coming. In her hands was a silver tray with some glasses and a pitcher of ice water. She was an older version of the mayor. Wearing sensible, tailored pants and a white linen shirt. Her long dark hair was tied up and her lips were painted a bright red. It was awfully formal for a Sunday afternoon at home, but that was the Mills family. They ran the town, and they knew it.

“Good afternoon, Ms. Mills,” Killian said standing from his hunched over position. “Henry was just helping out for a little while, he’s never a bother.”

“That’s kind of you,” she said with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Henry, your mother has lunch on the table inside.”

The kid shot up and ran toward the house, waving a quick goodbye to Killian. The young lad had so much energy, Killian felt like it would be a cold day in hell before he could run toward that house right now after working all morning and afternoon.

“You’re very kind to be so patient with him,” Cora said, bringing his attention back to her.

But he didn’t like the way she looked at him, he never did. It was part of his job though, and being that the Mills family were responsible for his brother being so successful he just smiled and endured it.

Monday morning, Killian felt a weird churning in his stomach. He wasn’t inherently a nervous person, but as he made his way to Neal Gold’s house that was exactly what he was feeling.

“You’re awfully quiet this morning,” said Will as they were working in the backyard. The morning had gone off without a hitch but Killian couldn’t help but notice Emma didn’t come out to say hello.

Perhaps he had gone too far by telling her about his brother, perhaps her husband felt uncomfortable with her being alone with him. Whatever it was, he noticed her absence.

“I mean, you’re always a bit grouchy but we’ve been here for a few hours and you haven’t said more than two words,” Will continued. He was one of Killian’s oldest friends. They had met in elementary school, coming from similar toxic family situations.

“I’m not feeling particularly chatty today.”

“Yes because you’re usually such a talkative person.”

“I’m here to work I’m not here to doddle,” said Killian with a hint of irritation in his voice as he continued to dig out places for the posts of the fence. A wood fence that will eventually be covered in natural looking vines, but it was easier to focus on that then his bad mood.

He wiped the sweat from his brow, it was only 11 am and already very warm. If only that pool in the middle of the lawn was full he would jump in right now to cool off. By the end of the week the plumbing for the sprinkler system would be done.

“You know, some people would find your silence off putting,” Will continued to jab at him. “But I love a challenge.”

“You are intolerable.”

“Then fire me!” he teased. Killian at least cracked a smile at that. He worked alone a decent amount, he felt he was more efficient that way. But it was nice to have company every once in a while. However annoying Will was, he was still company. And he was one of the people who dragged him back to work after losing Liam. For that he would forever be grateful.

“I think there’s someone who wants to talk to you….” he heard Will say as he picked up his head. Walking toward them was Emma Swan, long blonde hair free and flowing. She wasn’t in her usual workout gear and ponytail. It looked like she was on her way to something. The purse that hung on her shoulder, he recognized as one he had bought for Milah for Christmas one year. The difference was, the one Milah had was a fake version and Emma’s appeared to be real. A several thousand dollar bag, hanging from her shoulder like it was nothing. That was the kind of life she was used to.

“Killian, can I talk to you for a minute?” her voice sounded in his ears as she looked right at him. He tried to read her expression but her sunglasses masked her most telling feature. Her eyes. Apparently he had frozen in his spot because he felt the gentle nudge of Will on his shoulder.

“Sure,” he said a little too quickly. With the back of his glove he wiped his forehead again before following her toward the porch. When he turned back to look at Will his friend’s eyebrows were raised in such a way that he thought perhaps he now knew why Killian had been so quiet.

Emma led him up the stairs of the back porch and just when he thought she was going to stop there, she opened the french doors and led him inside her house.

The cool air hit him as he stepped inside. Immediately he was conscious of the dirt on his boots that were tracking on the wood floor.

“It’s alright, just leave them on,” she said as if reading his mind.

He took in the surroundings. After many years of working in these neighborhoods, this was the first time he had ever been invited inside. It was just as massive as it looked on the outside. The french doors from the porch led into the space of a large living room, off of that was a sleek white kitchen. But in all of its grandeur, amongst all of the artwork and books, there were absolutely no pictures.

“Would you like a glass of water?” she offered from behind the kitchen island. Emma had taken her sunglasses off and set them next to her bag on the counter. He searched her bright green eyes, but if Killian was being honest they appeared to be a bit foggy. Had she been crying?

He could only assume she was going to tell him off for following her out to the porch at the Nolan’s on Saturday night.

“Sure, that would be great,” he said, removing his disgusting work boots and leaving them by the door. It felt like a crime to wear them in her pristine home. Dragging mud through her seemingly pristine life.

Killian walked over to where Emma stood in the kitchen and reached across the island to grab the glass of water from her. He kept his distance though, this was her home, and god forbid her husband walk in to find the two of them alone in the house together. Killian would never work again.

“Yesterday I was in Neal’s office and stumbled upon something,” she turned and went through one of the doors off of the kitchen. He didn’t know what to do so he just watched as she quickly returned from what he assumed was Neal Gold’s home office. Making a mental note of where it was he looked at the piece of paper in her hand.

“What do you know about this event we’re having at the house at the end of May?” she asked, catching him off guard.

“It was mentioned just in terms of the timeline,” he said back. “Nothing else was told to me about it.”

Emma sighed, setting down the sheet of paper that had the chain of emails between Killian and Neal about the yard. Whatever kind of marriage the two of them had, it clearly was not a very strong one if she had to ask him about an event her husband was planning.

“Me either,” she admitted as she crossed her arms over her chest. The ring on her finger catching his eye. “I don’t like surprises.”

“Maybe it’s some sort of birthday party…. Or anniversary….?” he offered, wondering why she was so concerned about it and also why Killian was the only one she was able to consult. “I’m sorry I can’t be of more help, love.”

“It’s alright, I just thought maybe he told you.”

He surveyed her again, noting how uncomfortable all of this made her. It was why she had dragged him inside, the idea of not knowing something as simple as a party your husband was planning… well that was probably irritating to her. Perhaps her life wasn’t as pristine as they led the world to believe. In the space of only a week Killian had noticed that. It wasn’t up to him to comfort her, that wasn’t in his job description as the town’s local gardener. But he felt himself wanting to do it anyway.

“Look, Emma…” It felt odd calling her by her first name, but the way she looked at him told her she was listening. “I’m sure it’s just a surprise he’s throwing together. And that whatever it is will be lovely.”

Her green eyes were rather striking to him, as there was something behind them that made him very wary. Fear.

“If he gives any indication as to what it is you will be the first person I tell,” he said scrambling for anything to just wipe away that look of fear on her face. There was so much more to this than a mystery party but right now it was all he had to offer her. “I promise.”

As if all at once she realized just how inappropriate it was for him to be in this kitchen with her right now alone, she snapped out of whatever haze she had been in.

“Thank you,” she said stiffly. “I didn’t mean to keep you from your work I just… I didn’t want to talk about this in front of…”

“Other people.” He finished for her. Quickly dismissing himself back to the yard where he belonged. But as he worked the rest of the day he couldn’t help but wonder what on earth Emma Swan was so afraid of.

[rogue-snorunt]

Why I made a ko-fi

I got an anon who said that if I'm going to ask the public for money, than I need to explain why and it better be good. Which. Subtlety kind of rude but I get it. I'd want to know the story too and while I did give the explanation already in my first post about it, because I broke my own link with my incredible stupidity, I took it down.

reposted the link to my Kofi that hopefully works now but did leave out the explanation because I feel bad involving others in my problems and I don't want people to hear em and feel guilted into anything.

So here it is: the full obnoxiously long saga of the series of unfortunate events that had led me to making the Kofi from start to finish describing my 2017-2018 life presently.

It all started back in January of last year..

The cafe in which I work.. Worked? Work.. closes every January for cleaning for anywhere between 2wks and a month and in the time they encourage us to apply early and collect unemployment. This would be my first and last ever time doing this.

Why close? Mainly because my bakery is an old fashion French bakery where our lawyer city boy rich owner went to France and liked some countrymans brick oven so much he dropped I think it was a million or so to not only buy the oven, but to actually bring said oven to America brick by fucking brick.

And to clean this wood fed oven the size of a living room, you need AT LEAST 2-3 wks to let it cool down enough for some poor scrawny guy to climb in through the tiny wood stuffing hole and excerise all that soot. Plus deep cleaning a detached two story bakery; the kitchen and cafe itself..

Anyway back to the plot:

So on Jan 1st,2017 I applied and by Jan 14th2017, the place temp closed for cleaning.

I had saved 900$ for this because I'd be okay for the month.. $200/month for rent; $50 for phone, $35 for gas, $130 for groceries for me (who has strict diet of lactose and gluten free diet because I WILL die if I eat gluten because my organs swell; attack themselves and try and shut down. Rip™ my diet gets fucking hella expensive. Bread alone is &4-$5 bucks) $300 monthly student loan etc..

Well: not a week in our gas heater said fuck you. So to help repair, there went -$400 bucks. A WEEK IN. Than my grandmas car died, -$250 a week later. Fuck me gently.

Than the fateful blizzard night of Jan 31st 2017 that would be the catalyst of unfortunate bullshit leading today.. at 4:35 on my friend was bringing me home after a fun weekend, as I do not have a car, and he wanted to make sure I got home safe before the super storm hit. The cafe was reopening Feb 10th.

I was later informed that at around 4:56, my friend hit black ice and we °360 hard into a tree. I only remember seeing it about to happen and worrying about my glasses about to break, then nothing. Then looking at my blurry hand and even with my one good but still kind of blind eye, I saw that it was black; blue and I couldn't move it. Then I guess I said "well shit" and went to sleep.

I had broken not only my glasses trying to protect them, the fucking irony.. but my metacarpals; my nose, inhaled the chemical death from the airbag and recieved mild chemic Burns to face and throat. My smol rib cage was punched by the airbag so hard it got bullied out of place and was now compressing my lungs and a severe concussion.

My friend luckily being a 6' ft some man was set far away from air bag and being the impact was more my side, had only bad bruising to the limbs but okay. His truck now an accordion.

The doctor only looked at my hand and ignored my concussion, as I had an in the ambulance and was apparently making stupid nonsense jokes. So they assumed I was fine I guess.

I had to call in to my job and sadly tell them the news I would not be able to work for maybe a few months.

A month later while home and coming down the stairs, I suddenly could not breathe and got light-headed. Not good when you on stairs. I ended up refuckin up my metas and now add broken tail bone to the list.

My return to work just went from hopeful 3-4 months to 6. I was not financially equipped for this

But wait rogue! The unemployment!

Ah yes. The fucking thing that would fuck me harder then the airbag and stairs combined.. You see:

I had asked everyone I knew that had ever collected unemployment before what to do and even the girl who did the disability thing: for I was unable to work; disability would not kick in until at least a month. I got bills men, life don't stop cause bad shit you know?

Everyone told me, collect unemployment until Disability kicked in. Then stop. Okay.. these 6 people would know best right? Dingdong: unfortunate event #3 so far:

By the time disability kicked in I had collected $700 caps. Nice! Right? Well my honest naive ass thought how you cancelled unemployment was to tell em to cease and why. So I did.I explained what happened. This proved to be the biggest mistake of my pathetic life and installed the lesson of "don't be honest with big brother." They said "oh no you got injured? Well guess what fucko. You now have to pay back the $700, or else and guess what, we adding an bonus fuck you of $200 ."

Hahahahahaha-what?

I'm not able to work; disability only gave$100 some and I got friends and family I am in debt to for helping during these shenanigans.

Then unfortunate events #4-#9 took place. my aunt died.

I had to be hospitalized for pancreatitis; kidney stones and infections a few times, sometimes for all em at once.

Then my dog prostate cancer became apparent and despite the medicine and surgery every thing that could hell, he had to leave us for the rainbow bridge.

Than my grandma's car died again.

Then my stepmother died.

Grandma had to get surgery for her knees and began to complain of occasional blindness and migraines.

Went back to work early because you guys do what you gotta do man, only it's 7 months later and in a couple more, the fucking Cafe is going to close again.

By the time it did, I had been using every paycheck to catch up on bills; pay back the my friends and family lent, paying the late bills from my dog and car repairs, back owed payment and feedback to the student loan. and just as I had started seeing the light at the tunnel.. we closed and I wasn't prepared.

Unemployment have nothing but the middle finger.

It'll be fine.. I can handle a month. It'll suck but-

ITS NOW MAY AND THEY AIN'T OPEN.

During the time I was laid off this year I spent my time as follows:

Joined Tumblr and began to meme to counter that bi-polar depression and made some friends, looking at you @m-is-for-mungo 😘💞💞

A man grabbed my hand that didn't heal right and squeezed it so hard he fucked the bone. Had to go back to p.t. Hand once again fucking useless and I had posted about this way back, if you dig in my archive, you'll find the posts.

Applied for a state job at our prison with my friend whose already there, as kitchen worker

Got the surgery that I could no longer put off as it was too fix the anatomical problem contributing factor to my organs rioting like they do, but thankfully since it was considered life threatening, my insurance covered it.

Finally deal with death of my dog; and my family. Then my dad having a stroke and other family stuff.

Got that pesky rogue ribcage displacement taken care of

Fell down the fucking stairs again.

Adopted a special needs cat.

Became once again a financial burden and the moment I could, filled the still laid off time by trying to help my friend at their restaurant as much as possible.

Got the "we want you asap BUT thanks to state Bullshit like budget stuff.. We have to wait for the actual state to say yes" call from the prison call.

My uncle was discovered to cancer but by the time it was found, he had a week left. Then he died.

Got my shit broken by the scorned ex of our roommate

And then got the fucking letter from unemployment mildly threatening me to pay up.

But you said you didn't have a car in January 31st but then you do now??

After the car event, my friend told me to seek comp because I did get fucked up and being a baker who broke their hands, shit ain't good.. I did not want to because it was my friend, it wasn't their fault and if I had had my own car or just during go there in the first place this wouldn't have happened. Reluctantly after much badgering, I did.I did not get anything however until a year and half half later. and yeah, I’ll tell you how much seeing how Im being brutally honest: $10,000.

I immediately bought a $4000 car so I would never again be a burden and every single car I’ve ever owned have been $100+ garbage death traps I got from shady people and for once in my fucking life I wanted a car that wouldnt break down or try to kill me a week later; helped my grandma buy a car that wouldn't fail her, bought her a new fridge because hers died and paid some of her bills she got behind on. My friend had fallen behind on their bills as well and I owe everything I am and still being alive to these people.

You bet my stupid ass, I used almost every dime to help them. And id fucking do it again because: homies help homies.. And when your Nana whose been both mom; dad and nana to you and is the reason you weren't place in foster care needs you.. You fucking help her no matter what.I did have enough to pay the student loan for last month and this month. I got a new track phone because mine broke, bought a pair of shoes because I've only ever had my loafers and the soles fell off finally and I brought groceries. I have enough to pay rent and I am now tapped out.

My only debt is this $900 fuck you from the government and my $15000k student loan.

And now y'all caught up on the fucking disaster that is my life.

I'm sorry for this sobstory of me crying about my problems but i.. I really do not like asking for help.i hate asking for help. I hate that I have to ask for money because I've been in desperate shitty situations my whole damn life and managed to somehow scrape by but for the first time, I'm in a situation that I can't fix alone. And I fucking hate it and that I have to admit it. but I need help .

This is why I made the Kofi

A kofi that is absolutely only for and will only be used, to pay that $900. I promise you that even if I become homeless, I am going to pay that goddamn bill before anything else. Because I helped everyone with their debt and they are all good now, we all squared and now it's my turn to be okay glib-dimit

[samdukewieland]

Stuck Inside Media Diary Week 9

It was sometime during this week, very possibly the week before that I realized why egg-zacktly Mad Men has been so (”comforting” seems like a big word here, but let’s just say) comforting during this period of time. Well I guess there’s a couple of reasons, time being one of them: being able to escape to other peoples’ problems and not have them be (overtly) contemporary. The second just as obvious being that this show spends probably 95% of its settings indoors. Maybe once a season do you see these people outside for whatever reason; season 3 was probably the height of having scenes outdoors, between Sally’s teacher and those scenes and then the Roger/Jane Old Kentucky Home wedding. Surely I’ve been outside more hours than watching Mad Men these past 7 weeks, but at this point I don’t really know. Hasn’t made me want a cigarette, so that’s something.

Sunday, May 17

Sour Grapes, Rothwell & Atlas 2016 [as of now this is available on Netflix]

Pretty neat little telling of rich people getting scammed. Definitely better than the Fyre Fest docs that came out last year, though you can see this as almost a model for it, however my problems with those are the same problem here, being I don’t really care that these insanely rich people got duped. I mean I care because it feels good, but rarely do you get someone in that position (especially from a financial standpoint) admitting they got duped or doing it in a way where they’re trying not to come across as a victim. And like I get it, I know that’s the point of some of these where it’s “look at their lack of self-awareness” but that’s not particularly satisfying. What’s satisfying is seeing the person do this and explain how they did it (the why is pretty obvious) and what their process is. You wouldn’t want to see a documentary about Terry Benedict having his casinos robbed and act like he doesn’t know why (I mean I would, because I invite almost anything from the Ocaen’s-verse, but you get my point).

Mad Men, “Collaborators”, “To Have And To Hold”, “The Flood”

Season 6, upon this viewing, appears to be the weakest or second to weakest season of the series; I don’t really know for sure. It’s definitely not bad, but lacks the sense of urgency to watch. It’s a little repetitive in some of its storytelling choices with Don, but does explore the motives of the men who want to be him, but lack that Dick Whitman/Don Draper drive that only he has (in the realm of Mad Men). Pete, not unlike Don, decides to keep up his habit of having an affair (with another married person too) and keeps it close to home feeling very in tune with Pete Campbell mentality: not seeing the dangers of shitting where he eats. Sure he keeps his affair to the confines of his Manhattan apartment, but it’s with a woman who not only lives in his neighborhood, but someone who is friendly enough with his wife. It backfires instantly and because no one has ever had a frank discussion with Pete about the consequences of his actions, this might be the first time Pete has actually had to learn a lesson. But because no one talks him through “this is where you messed up and this is how you can become a better and bigger person from this” it almost feeds his outwardly victimhood. Once again, props to Vincent Kartheiser for playing Pete Campbell perfectly for 6 straight seasons (and beyond). 

And here’s something Season 6 decides to ponder: how about Bobby Draper? How about Bobby Draper deals with the assassination of MLK through seeing Planet Of The Apes? Probably the toughest look Mad Men took in its run (besides Hamm losing every year to Cranston for best actor) that it totally asks for.

The Last Dance, Parts 9 & 10

The end. This thing went out how it lived: absurdly entertaining while still being confounding in what it decided to say and how to present itself. There’s probably a lot to be taken from it, but my brain will forever linger on “eat the pizza.” (partly due to The Ticket, partly due to it being one of the funniest lies I’ve ever been told) Also I’m not a Pearl Jam listener (this genre of rock is my absolute biggest blind spot), but uh, that song’s pretty cool that they played there at the end; good sports montage moment-reminded me of a montage to close out a season of The Wire. No “Right Here, Right Now” though.

Monday, May 18

Circus Of Books, Mason 2019 [as of now this is available on Netflix]

Pleasant enough li’l entry of history about an important cultural landmark in LA; it really banks on the notion of “you’d never assume these people run this store” which isn’t ineffective. But it doesn’t come from an impartial place, it comes from the daughter of the store owners, which you could argue makes her the most qualified person to tell this story. But when your subjects are so unassuming and almost bothered by your insistence to tell this story it comes across as more (unintentionally) uncomfortable rather than trying to prove a point. But that’s kind of the looming question over all of this too-what’s the point? The titular bookstore closed last year, implying that there’s importance to this instantaneously being a historic document, when really it’s just a love letter to your parents and also your brother to tie it together just a little bit nicer.

Mad Men, “For Immediate Release”

The episode where it starts to find its footing again; as interesting an idea as it is to separate Don and Peggy on paper, the execution leaves so much to be desired. Peggy needs a force to push up against and while I’m sure she might have with Jim Cutler, but that’s not super interesting. Teaming up Ted and Don, maybe the only person to respect Don as an artist, but openly questioning his method to him on the show and not taking his excuses at face value.

Tuesday, May 19

Platoon, Stone 1986

Yeh, I don’t think I like Oliver Stone movies. I think I like the ideas of them, but ultimately I just don’t think it’s a match (heartbreaking for him). Part of this was I was on a massive Apocalypse Now high chose this as a chaser for that, which is mistake, and I knew this as I was watching. Or maybe it’s just that, explicitly, Vietnam movies set out to punish you for watching them, both in trying so hard to prove its authenticity while still being heavy-handed in other regards. Oliver Stone kind of feels like your cousin who insists on telling you that Dr. Strangelove is *actually* a farce and satire (yeh, I’ve used this before-guess what, it’s happened to me).

Mad Men, “Man With A Plan”, “The Crash”

Mad Men does its Sopranos karaoke best when drugs are involved, plain and simple. Though truly wild and Tony Soprano-levels of insanity when Don forces Lindsay Weir Sylvia to stay in that hotel room for like two days straight (or maybe a day, I don’t remember).

Wednesday, May 20

Blown Away, Hopkins 1994

I can 100% guarantee you that the only reason I thought I should see this movie is because it’s been lodged in my brain and marked as “important?” because Bill Simmons mentioned it offhandedly in a podcast once saying it’s a “_____ Boston movie.” So when I was scrolling through local listings, as I’m wont to do, and I saw that it was on, almost like a Pavlovian response, I immediately hit set to record. I’ve fallen for the trap of “record movie that should only be watched if it just happens to be on-do not go out of your way to watch it” and this is just the latest entry into it. This thing’s a quintessential dad-movie that has a wayyyy better poster than it should. I should probably be mad that I watched it, but this thing is so beautifully stupid that I’d be betraying myself by acting like it isn’t entirely in my wheelhouse. I was just happy to see the marble machine pop back up when it did.

Mad Men, “The Better Half”

“Hey, uh....how about Bobby goes to Bible Camp and we just use that as an excuse to bring Don and Betty back together for a one-night fling? Yeh, I think it’s pretty good too.” Tough break for the loss of Abe, though-they always kept him far enough to want you wanting more of him, which was probably the right decision, ultimately.

Hearts Of Darkness: A Filmmaker’s Apocalypse, Bahr & Hickenlooper & Coppola 1991

Was this good for Coppola’s image in 91? It’s coming kind of off the heels of Godfather III, which is maybe the most damning way to start off a decade. Maybe the biggest knock against this is that there’s probably still a lot unsaid, or the thing that’d be better is if you could’ve been a fly on the wall during the actual production or the editing of the documentary.

Thursday, May 21

S Is For Stanley, Infascelli 2016 [as of now this is available on Netflix]

You have to wonder if the Kubrick estate was pulling some strings to have this made as a preemptive strike against Filmworker. Yeh, yeh, we all know Stanley was difficult (man geniuses tend to be!) but what if I told you that he had a friendly side with his sweet old Italian driver who he kind of held hostage? I guess because Emilio D'Alessandro had the benefit of not working directly on the movies/Art Kubrick was making a professional/personal distance was able to be established. It’s cute and charming (small, old Italian men have that effect on me)-there’s not much more you should demand of it.

Mad Men, “A Tale Of Two Cities”, “Favors”

Sopranos karaoke meets coke part from Annie Hall. Then maybe the most traumatic thing to happen to Sally Draper, rivaled by the most traumatic thing to happen to Pete Campbell (via Peggy relaying info). Though I will say, those small moments between Peggy and Pete, moments we don’t get a lot of, are so nice, because it is one of the few times this show’s characters are stripped of trying to have an upper hand. Honesty between people, not Mad Men’s bread and butter (it has never sought to be), but they know how to serve it up in small enough doses that you don’t take them for granted when they happen.

Friday, May 22

Chinatown, Polanski 1974

Weird how no one talks about this movie being incredible. Glad I can be at the forefront for this, clearly, little seen flick and champion it as much as possible! With that said, knife to the nostril is a very real new fear for me.

Top Chef, Season 17 episode 10

If I were a person who cared about the olympics I could see myself either being very melancholy or furious after this episode. Fine challenge, though not totally surprising. I dunno man, you gotta imagine how annoyed these contestants get every time Malarkey outlives them-or at the very least incredibly tickled by it. Looking forward to binging Last Chance Kitchen before this next week’s ep.

Mad Men,  “The Quality Of Mercy”

The Ken Cosgrove eyepatch is such a weird choice, but not altogether terrible. Hard to take a guy with an eyepatch seriously, which is probably the reason they gave it to Ken, because no one in that office does. The Bob Benson is a fraud reveal is fascinating in the sense of the writers trying out an experiment of “what if Don Draper but different job” though far more obvious. And what perfect symmetry having Pete find out from Duck (the man who thought he’d be able to use this information against Don and the man who, at the top of his game, absolutely could’ve used it against Don) about Bob and learned his lesson from 5 years ago and knowing how to use that information to his benefit (the setup to it is still pretty good, because I reacted this time the same way I did in 2014 with “oh Pete, you are dumb as hell” forgetting what the reveal is).

Saturday, May 23

Cast Away, Zemeckis 2000 [as of now this is available on HBO]

Somehow made it as long as I did without having seen Cast Away and it’s pretty good and also maybe the first time a Zemeckis movie gives worth to its character being (almost) extraordinary? Like in almost all his movies these characters kind of stumble into this otherworldly, almost other plane, level of humanity and ability; there tends to be a lot of right place at the right time with his main characters. So I had no idea that Cast Away flash forwards 4 years in the middle of its story (I’m kind of amazed with how little I knew about the bigger plot points of this movie, like no idea that it takes place in 1995 to start off) and not just making him instantaneous amazing hermit-man. It’s a fun movie, though I’m sure if I’d seen this in high school or early college I’d be all in a huff because of the whales, which is clearly just Zemeckis not being able to help himself. Whatever, pretty good and I’m glad he and Helen Hunt don’t end up together (though it does raise an incredible hypothetical). Though if you’re throwing a “welcome back from nowhere” party to a guy, wouldn’t you want to stick to specifically turf food as the delicacy you deliver to him? Like you’re already in Memphis, which is a pretty suspect location to have crab-give the man some BBQ, something without a shadow of a doubt he didn’t have access to on a deserted island.

Mad Men, “In Care Of” [season 6 finale], “Time Zones” [season 7A premier], “A Day’s Work”, “Field Trip”

The birth of “Not Great Bob!” truly a landmark. Season 6 is weird, it’s all a build-up, but Don’s descent has been going on for so long it’s hard to pinpoint what led to it all (maybe his divorce with Betty? Signing a contract? Anna passing away? there are so many chaos dominoes on the table that contribute to it all). Man needs therapy or to be reminded of who he is or how he got here. He’s brought down several, several pegs and he stays there and lingers in it, but he’ll be dammed if he isn’t loyal till the bitter end, or at least loyal to what he can be in control of and what he cares about (he does not care about Megan’s acting, though he does care about Megan and how much of her life he has put on halt).

Minority Report, Spielberg 2002 [as of now this is available on Netflix]

Steven Spielberg makes perfect Saturday movies. This is the sort of thing that if you had put it in anyone else’s hands it’d be without that crucial Spielberg twinge of hope or love that is the motivation behind its lead’s actions. It’s fun and pulpy and washed out and dark and takes Spielberg back to his feature debut: it’s a chase movie. It’s almost 2½ hours that flies by. 

[mynarcissticex]

This has been one of the most difficult last 5 months of my life.. but I think I am finally ready to put it all to bed for my own sanity.

July 20th 2019… was meant to be the happiest day of my life. The day I moved in with my best friend, soulmate, my person. I wanted to wake up giddy and nervous, excited to be with the man I fought hard for last year . I yearned to be swept off my feet by him and begin a new adventure together I was ready despite keeping my past a secret and having to self protect myself (for my own personal reasons)

But none of that happened how it should of done, Just like thought it probably wouldn't 3 years ago, The man I had fallen in love with at the beginning was not the man I always thought he was, And it has shaken my character to its very core coming to that realisation, The life I so desperately wanted to live with him was never going to exist. Our relationship would not be peaceful, supportive, mutual, and loving and it took 4 years for me to realize that this man was not right for me either, I knew he had issues but not the extent he showed me last year... I even gave him a second chance after he broke my heart. I invested in him more than I have ever ever invested in anyone and I made some piss poor decisions that I will regret ultimately for the rest of my life. I’ve always done things out of love for him or not at all.

I chose Matt out of the pick of men I could of easily of dated but life wanted to punish me by giving me another narcissist... and in the beginning he made me feel special (lovebombing) when he felt like it, but he did not make me feel valued. When I first took notice of him, I was 27 and completely infatuated. For months, I believed nothing would come of it I thought he would end up being just like my ex, on June 20th 2014 we went on our first date and I was smitten. I felt like I had been picked out of the crowd, I was the lucky winner of a long sought-after prize. And when red flags began to appear, I willfully ignored all of them. Verbal abuse began a month into dating . I had just moved house and was going through a difficult time and dealt with it alone, he told me he hated the long-distance but made the effort to travel to see me once a week Twice if I was lucky, I would clean up after him and buy our food and cook and pay for most things because he had little money I didn’t really care as I was just happy in his company at the time he was like a happy pill to me, I would Make so much effort compared to Matt our relationship felt one sided... He would become very angry if I forgot little things, so I tried my best to do everything to his specifications. I wanted to prove how serious I was and looking back he did very little not even the basic of things even a cuddle was a chore to him!

He wanted to know alot who I was hanging out with and where I was at all times If I did not answer my phone or texts sometimes he would immediately interrogate me. He was paranoid and I was never unfaithful to him, He would become greatly upset sometimes if I chose to see my family for a night rather than be with him. Sometimes he would come round to my House after not seeing him for a week or two... and I would be thrown in a panic over what mood he might be in or to make sure I cook us lavish meals, I was constantly made to feel I was not doing enough. When it was him that wasn't doing anything at all he was just bone idle. At the time, I saw it all as a sacrifice for a man that I desperately loved and wanted to prove my loyalty to him, I was going through the worst too at the time and hid it and brushed it under the rug in fear of speaking up I thought you’d never care or understand what I’m going through and he was very insecure and extremely difficult to communicate with and more often than not would take offence or get angry if I spoke to him about anything or he just would sit in silence, I was already separated from my ex husband 4 years prior to meeting Matt, I was living with my ex husband but in separate rooms and we had complete separate lives he didn’t always care what I did neither did I we just lived in the same house for financial reasons.

Slowly, I became more and more isolated in Romford and even where I’m at now, And had also lost myself along the way. I became so caught up in pleasing Matt, that I lessened my own wants and desires. His hold on me was even tighter. I spent alot of times paying for hotels in the past so we could spend more time together I was hoping he would be happier that he had more time with me, but it still was not enough for him it was like trying to fill a bucket with holes.

But I was still crumbling on the inside. In 2015 I started hitting the wine excessively everytime he came to visit me I used to fear the sound of his bike pull up on my drive I used to think what mood is he going to be in today how many eggshells do I need to tread on around him... sometimes instead of greeting me at the door with a kiss or a hug he would straight away smirk at me and berate me for the dry skin on my nose (he did this often), often arguing with me over trivial things until I broke down in tears on many occasions I knew there was something wrong with Matt when he happily watched me cry inconsolably over something he had done and he didn't even flinch or attempt to apologise until the damage was already done, I stayed in my quiet demeanor a lot I was already living in a situation I felt like I couldn't talk to a soul about I felt trapped... My life seemed so perfect on the outside, but inside the depression was beginning to consume me slowly chipping away at me and so was Matt. I tried leaving him several times in 5 years but somehow he always had a way of manipulating me back in.

There was no say in my own life anymore. If we had any fun (rarely) it was on his terms. I was walking a very narrow line with no room for deviation. As some would say, it was his way or the highway.

He would criticise me for most things, and didn't care about my feelings in anything it was all about him and his needs... Talking to him was often like trying to nail jelly to the wall! I ended up keeping things from him that I was currently going through in fear of how he would react, he regularly got angry if I had the audacity to stand up for myself to him he hated being told anything he didn't want to hear or if I didn’t give in... he would kick off like a child having a tantrum and sometimes he would break items of mine. And accuse me of provoking him when all I was doing was trying to find out why he was in a bad mood for no reason I wanted to connect with him and just have a good time together but he made that almost impossible and instead carefully twisted it around to be my fault. I just drank wine all day sometimes to block it out until I fell asleep.

Without getting into the all the details, a particular fight had gone too far 3 months into living together I had told him over dinner that I can’t keep helping him with the bills we agreed after I paid 16k upfront in rent to live here and that the utility bills were his responsibility... as I’d already invested 51k into him I had literally spent half of my life savings after giving him another chance last year I did everything I could for Matt but it was never enough he showed little to no appreciation he just wanted a constant supply of everything from me. the darkness I felt this time was more than I could bare. I wanted to end it and that’s when I realised after everything I went through with my ex on a similar level I couldn’t put myself through another year of it, I fought long and hard to get out of my previous relationship and thanks to my dads help last June I felt like what was supposed to be my clean break turned into a living nightmare infact worse if I had stayed with my, I had spent 4 years being told and feeling like I wasn’t good enough by Matt and I came to believe that I never would be for him. He dehumanised me so much to this point often subtly about various things I felt worthless to him.

I deep down loved Matt for the good hearted person he tried to be, but he had this side to him that outweighed the good and last feb when he out of the blue left me for another woman 2 days after we broke up which took me weeks to find out it destroyed me and I wish I took that as my blessing instead when he came crawling and grovelling back to me the day she broke up with him (which I didn’t know at the time) I fell hook line and sinker for his fake remorse and empathy because I thought it was sincere but it was all part of his game plan to get the debt we got into paid off and his 14k tmax I promised him in 2018 when we were happy together. Not only did he still get all of that from me after what he did he was able to live life at my expense for 5 months after and I used to just comply to keep the peace there was nothing I wouldn’t of done for Matt because I was drunk in love and kept on creating this version in my head of who he might become after I changed my entire life around for us. And this is why I knew not to do it 3 years ago even if I could of done. The day I came clean to him about being married and separated (which had no relevance to anyone but myself) but if you’re with a narcissist and you hit them with a truth they hate it because it blows their fake world apart... the 10th nov 2019 5 months after living together was really the day I clearly woke the fuck up and said to myself despite my past or my mistakes I know I deserve more than this man who brings nothing to my table but emotional abuse and misery. I’ve been through too much to this point to put myself through it again and I had to draw the line before he rinsed me out of more money because he couldn't be responsible for his part in anything he would prioritise supplies of cannabis and hair supplements over paying the gas and electric bill and I had no idea how much he was earning at work because he was so private about everything. I felt like I was being under Coercive control all over again.

And this is where it all starts to make sense. In October I paid to see a professional to seek some advice from a top psychiatrist to get a diagnosis on behalf of matt after reading out a list of things describing how he acted 24/7 and how he spoke to me about anything even when he was angry. after 1 hour she told me Matt is likely Under cluster a,b,c and made me do a personality test on his behavioural traits and it just naturally clicked in that moment it dawned on me what I was dealing with I never healed the cause of why I chose the 1st narc and then you get hurt worse by the 2nd narc and get told it’s a result of being abused by your biological father. you just feel broken by all the people everywhere and end up remaining completely alone, I broke down after that session and ended up sitting in the pub for an hour by myself going over the fact I was completely blinded for all this time. It absolutely killed me... because of all the decisions I made prior to this. I mean him leaving me for another woman this time last year behind my back was enough warning of what he was capable of but this man went above and beyond to destroy my heart for the last time... I kinda felt sorry for him too because there’s really no cure for his issues I thought to myself I’d love to help Matt but unfortunately you can’t help someone who sees no issue in who they are as a person. It’s time to free myself now and work on my issues instead of trying to fix his.

So now… the new life alone begins. One that I did not want to face. I wanted to be happily living with Matt it was supposed to be our happy ever after, A part of me still does. But I can’t look back now. I have goals and aspirations I still want to get accepted into uni and learn psychology/nutrition and achieve my dream career and be fully sober, I have to learn to find value in myself now. I have to hold my head high even on the days that I feel my worst. I have the most amazing support system my friends and family have been legends lately, I literally wouldn’t be here without all of them. I am still healing. I have outbursts of anger and sadness and I am trying to wade through it all.. I have learned what it means to set boundaries now as I never did in the past and that’s why I’ve been a doormat to men... and what I cannot tolerate in a relationship. I have grown tremendously from this experience but there is still more growing to do and healing from my CPTSD and health issues from being involved with these men.

What I have learnt is No one is worth sacrificing what you hold. It doesn’t matter if he is good-looking or promises you the whole world if he does not show you respect now or then he never will. Love is blind. Your family and your friends will see the red flags in them before you are willing to accept them. Listen to them. Listen to yourself I even failed to listen to Matts dad when he warned me about his son... but moral of the story is Every person is deserving of a love that sets their soul on fire, as well as provides a place to rest when weary. This world is harsh sometimes, so hold onto those who are kind to you. For now, I will be focusing on myself, my goals, my life, and my family and friends. And healing. I have one last shot at my life now to get it right it’s now or never.

[sarahsays]

t i m e l i n e

1. CONGRATULATIONS, IT’S A GIRL

19-year-old Alexandra Muñoz hadn’t grown up with much, but maybe things would be different for her newborn child. Her traditional parents had turned their backs on her after the news of the pregnancy, but she would get through it. She had someone new to concentrate on now: 

Sarah Leah Matthews was born on November 23rd, 1999, at 5 lbs 2 oz. She was two weeks early, which later would ring quite true to her personality: when she wanted something to happen, she wanted it done right then.

Although Alexandra she hadn’t wanted a child at first, she knew immediately that she wouldn’t change a thing about Sarah. When she looked at her newborn daughter, only one word came to mind: Perfect.

When her boyfriend at the time, Christopher Matthews, glanced over at Sarah, he said, “Oh. She’s  … pretty.”

2. BANG! BANG! IT’S A SHOTGUN WEDDING 

Alexandra Muñoz entered the new millennium as Alexandra Matthews. Christopher’s upstanding parents had pushed for marriage–it was the right thing to do–and even though Christopher seemed lukewarm about the idea, he conceded.

They were a nuclear family: a mom, a dad, and a daughter. All they needed was the white picket fence and the dog, and maybe everything would be okay. Maybe, at least on the outside, it would look like everything was okay.

Everything was not okay.

3. TABLE FOR FOUR ON A FRIDAY NIGHT

Their union was rocky on its good days and scathing at its worst. The two young parents had grown to resent each other in ways they could have never imagined. Still, they brought their son Caleb into the world under their facade. Maybe everything could be okay if they just tried harder.

Sometimes, they could play the part. When the kids were around, they tried their best to hide it. But Christopher had so much potential, so much of his youth left to live, and hated that he was wasting it playing house. He was supposed to go to college, see the world, date other women before deciding on the right one. He wanted that choice back. 

4. DRIVE AWAY AND TAKE YOUR LOVE WITH YOU

About a week after her seventh birthday, Sarah caught her father packing a suitcase. I’m going to stay at my mother’s for a little while, he said. He kissed her on the forehead, packed up his car, and left. 

That was the last of their nuclear family. 

It went on to prove to Sarah that love is worthless, and nothing is a guarantee. Don’t settle your roots in people; anyone can leave you at any time–and it can ruin your life in the process.

But sometimes, she wonders what would have happened if she had protested. What if he had stayed?

5. WHAT IT MEANS TO BE POOR

After the divorce, with only a high school diploma and no one to turn to, Alexandra struggled financially to keep her family afloat. They moved into a smaller house. She sold any fine jewelry she owned. And as a quick, temporary solution while she looked for work, she applied for welfare and public assistance. 

This would be the start of a vicious cycle: once you entered The System, you never left. 

For Sarah, this meant being treated like a second-class citizen. It meant being forced to live in a dangerous neighborhood because no upstanding neighborhood wanted to drag its reputation down with welfare recipients. It meant not being picky about food, and her family barely earning enough money to survive. 

It meant never having her mother at school functions, and as she grew older, sometimes going almost twenty-four hours without seeing her if their schedules conflicted enough. And even if she understood the situation the best she could, Sarah would grow to resent her mother for not being around. 

6. GIRL MEETS GRAFFITI

She had always been an artist, but at fifteen, Sarah discovered her affinity for spray paint.

She met a girl in her neighborhood who made the city her canvas. The girl was an orphan, a foster care kid, who had to get out of the house and entertain herself the best she could. She went by the name ILUSHUN–at least, that’s what her tag said. Sarah was enchanted, by the way the girl in the baggy, gray hoodie could flick her wrist and turn a crumbling brick wall into a work of art.

Sarah lingered around her for months, talking to her, learning her techniques. One day, ILUSHUN suddenly stopped showing up, and although Sarah figured she’d just moved away, she always wondered what had happened to her.

7. BUSTED! 

For over the course of a year, Sarah decorated the slums with her graffiti art. She lived for the adrenaline rush of picking the best spot, writing the perfect message, just making those close-calls of getting caught. It became an outlet for all of her rage, for the neglect she felt, the anger that always threatened to escape her lips. She spilled her emotions out onto the buildings under a new name: RAJA.

RAJA made the city her own, but it wasn’t hers for long.

One night, she got a little too cocky and a little too angry, and picked the perfect wall: the one behind the social services building that plagued her family. In big, black letters she wrote: DON’T BE A SLAVE TO THE SYSTEM.

She was caught teal-handed by the police, and she was sorry.

8. WELCOME TO PLATH ACADEMY

As it was her first offense, she was sentenced to either the juvenile detention center or this newly-reopened, ritzy-looking boarding school. Sarah and her mother chose the latter. She’d gotten a full scholarship due to her social standing, and it seemed like a win-win for everyone. One less mouth to feed, one less person to use hot water and electricity. And Sarah could talk to a therapist about all of the pent-up resentment she felt, and learn in a safe environment.

“A safe environment,” they had said.

9. T͉̳H͇̳E̪͎̭ ̙̺D͙A̜R̝̩̺͓ͅK͉͚̦͔͇͎ ̯̦R̹̖͎̞O͔͓͉̠̲͈̙O̯̪̩̩M̼̳̥̫̠͎

Things were fine, for a little while. Sarah naively started to settle down at Plath, despite her better judgment. Even if she knew she would be forced to leave one day, she couldn’t help growing attached to some of the people here. There were other kids like her; the staff understood her. It was nice. 

Until the maze. 

There was no passage of time in The Dark Room: the abandoned warehouse-turned-booby-trap with no lights. They had only been trapped down there for three days, but it could have easily been three weeks, three months. 

Three days of navigating traps, three days of blood, three days of abandonment. 

Somehow, she made it out alive, and with only a few scars to bear. But now she was afraid. 

Still, RAJA couldn’t be beaten that easily. 

10. CALL ME KING

She was starting to recover, just beginning to return to her old self again. The red irritation of her face had dissipated and she almost felt like herself again. Less like a victim.

And then the masquerade happened.

Someone with a death wish had nominated her for King, and then the rest of the school had followed. It had all been fun and games and first, until the announcement.

She still remembers the blood that sprayed her face, the peacock feather sticking out of Philip’s head like a trademark. Perhaps she had been part of the problem: perhaps she had been the partial cause. Classic Sarah Matthews, unable to keep her big mouth shut, like always.

But it’s been two months since then. Maybe the hell is finally over. Maybe she can finally do what she came here for and heal.

She can only hope.

[dudence-blog]

Dear Dudence for 13 October 2017

Man, Dudence feels terrible.  I. Was. Late.  I had this written yesterday.  I’d like to say that Mrs. Dudence’s birthday, or playing with Little Dudence, or any number of other reasons justified being late.  But I cannot.  It is all on me.  Today is the first day of the ALCS and this is, hopefully, the last of Herpes Week.  I might have to add “An STD doesn’t mean you’re an awful person” to Dudence’s Guidelines.  As always, shoot me an email at AskDearDudence@gmail.com or hit me up on Facebook.

I have a girlfriend I love very much. I have moderate depression and anxiety, and she has supported me for the entirety of our relationship; she’s a really excellent partner and person. We technically have an open relationship, but neither of us has acted on it yet, so we talk a lot about how we’re feeling and any worries we have. I’ve never had this kind of “check-in” before, and it feels great.

I also have three fantastic housemates, two of whom are in a couple. Before they started dating (also before I started dating my current partner), I had really strong feelings for one of them and had to work through a lot of sadness and jealousy when I heard about their relationship. Recently my feelings have resurfaced in full force, along with some feelings for the other half of the couple. I am often hit with waves of sadness and/or jealousy when I see them together, even if we’re all hanging out. Sometimes I think about what it would have looked like if I’d ended up with the friend I first liked, but mostly now it’s more wanting to be part of the couple, too—wanting to be around them, be together, be included (and yes, I’d really like to kiss both of them!).

Dear Gay and Tired, how terrible have your other residences as an adult been that a situation where you’re increasingly anxious, depressed, and jealous to the point it is eroding your mental health is the best situation you’ve ever been in?  That is just rough and as Newdie said you (or them) is probably going to need to move.  Although I think that either you or them moving out is the best option, I don’t think you should dismiss “tell them how I feel” out-of-hand.  You say you’ve discussed it with your girlfriend and that you wouldn’t do anything without her okay, which tells me she hasn’t said your feelings for them are a deal-breaker.  Talk it over with your girlfriend, have her give you her consent or not.  Is she doesn’t you’re not the worse off, if she does broach it with your roommates; please let one of them be named Jessie....  The worst case is you’ve blown up a friendship and have to move; you were going to need to do the latter either.  But I’d be willing to bet your roommates are aware that there is something up with you, maybe not the extent or details, but they know.  Give them the opportunity to tell you how they feel, and even if they’re not into it, it’s possible they won’t make it awkward.  And in the best case scenario a whole lot of people get to bang one another.  And if that does come to pass toss an invite to your fourth roommate, it’s just rude to leave them out.

I am an older, sexually conservative woman who got herpes from a man I was dating. He’s a pillar of the community and did not tell me he had herpes. I had a long dry spell before we started dating. My issue is that I have an unlabeled bottle of herpes medication in my desk drawer at work. My administrative assistant asked for some pain relievers, and I opened my desk drawer and shared from a labeled, over-the-counter bottle of acetaminophen. I saw her staring at the unlabeled bottle in the drawer. Later that day I went back to my office, and she and another person had actually opened the unlabeled bottle and were looking at the medicine! 

  Dear Pariah, I’m going to guess you had a moment of l’esprit de l’escalier with your assistant and her conspirator.  I think you need to go speak with, at least, your HR department about the original incident and determine what options, if any, you have at your disposal.  I also think a visit with an attorney who specializes in this area of the law would be in order, since this wasn’t something your employer erroneously revealed, I don’t know if the FMLA applies or if your state has a law against disclosing private facts.  At the very least your HR folks need to refamiliarize the employees with rules regarding unauthorized disclosure of medical information, and the consequences for such disclosure.  I’d think this is something they’d be very interested to do as the employer might want to know if they have an employee who can’t keep her trap shut regarding private medical information.  In regards to your assistant you are long past the time when you were too stunned to act.  You need to have a very pointed conversation with her about her incredible violation of your privacy.  I’d have prefered this conversation was had as part of her exit interview because you were firing her, but that’s me and we’re now months beyond the incident.  You don’t need to get into details about what the medication was for because it doesn’t matter.  It could have been for Supergonsyphyliaidsepes which you got from a foursome involving a pair of dwarves an octopus and it wouldn’t matter what the medication was because the grossest thing involved in this incident was your assistant and her co-conspirator shifting through your medication to identify what you were taking.  Granted, if you want to have some fun, when you do bring this up with HR tell them you caught her snooping through your desk looking through your medication and you’re worried she has a drug problem.  Let her explain to the HR pogue that she was merely snooping at your anti-viral drugs, not trying to score her next fix.  There is nothing in this which is your fault.  I know that doesn’t help with the feelings of shame, embarrassment, and betrayal but you need to remind yourself of it.  

I got married six months ago. My relationship with my family is at best distant—we don’t have a lot in common and there were several incidents of what I’ve been told most people would call abuse (but I’m not there yet, mentally speaking). My dad is a racist, sexist creep. I’ve managed to get him to tone it down around me enough that I can handle a monthly phone call, but that’s my limit. I really didn’t want him to walk me down the aisle, but by the end of the engagement, I was so burned out on decision-making that I just didn’t have the strength for that conversation, with him or any of my many relatives who would have demanded an explanation.

Dear Angry, Just Angry, it’s time for you to redefine your relationship with your father.  Either have a final conversation with him where you tell him that you’re not going to be able to talk with him again until he addresses his alcohol problem (if you even wish to continue having conversations with him if he sobers up), or get your husband to do it for you.  Hopefully there’s someone in your family who you trust enough to tell them why you’re not going to be talking with your father and that you want to limit your exposure to him during your brother’s medical issue.  While you might feel foolish for not knowing the extent of his problems, someone else in your family knew, and they needed to give you the head’s up.  As for your wedding, I know it’s hard to see it now, but this is something that’s going to fade.  Your friends and guests don’t view you being walked down the aisle by your father as an “endorsement”.  They don’t blame you for his behavior.  I think a good way for you to start moving forward with your own feelings from that day would be to finish up with your photographer.  Have your husband call your photographer and schedule the time to go over your photos for the album; but also have your photographer take out pictures with your dad prior to arriving.  Let you see that you still looked beautiful, happy, in love and excited for the life you were going to start with your new husband.  It’s amazing how much your memory of an event can improve when you’re spared a reminder of who you thought was ruining it.

My family is not well-off and neither am I. My parents always try to help me where they can because they feel guilty that they couldn’t give me a better financial start in life, which has never been something I held against them. My sister recently had a baby, and I came up to visit and help ferry my mom, who dislikes driving, to and from the hospital. My last morning here, my dad got up early and took my car to get gas.  I came downstairs afterward, and my car keys were on the table with one or two 20-dollar bills folded underneath them. I assumed this was the money they’d offered me to help pay for my sister’s shower. I left it there, but when I came back less than an hour later, it was gone. My mom and I were the only two people in the house. I didn’t say anything because what if I was wrong and I accused my mom of taking money meant for me? But Prudie, I don’t think I am wrong.

Dear Cheated, slow your roll high speed.  As NuPru points out you’re making two assumptions; the money was for you and your mom took it for nefarious reasons.  Let’s play this out:

“Hey dad, I saw there was a couple $20s on the table the other day, was that for me to cover the shower?”  

“No, it was my change from getting gas.”

Or, “Yes it was, why?”

Then, “I left it on the table, but when I came back it was gone.”

“Oh, yeah, your mom picked it up, she thought it was the change from when I went to get gas.  I forgot, here you go.”

Scene. Last night my wife and I went to a small theater to watch The Mystery of Edwin Drood. In the row in front of us, a woman became increasingly amorous with her date. She first leaned over and kissed his cheek. Then she took off her shoes, put her legs on his lap, and started kissing his neck. Then they began a lip-lock session—all while we were trying to watch the play. My wife, who had to look through their hook-up to watch the stage, leaned forward and asked them to break it up. Fortunately they did and must have decided to carry on elsewhere, as they didn’t return for the second act. At what point is it reasonable to ask people to “get a room” during a performance? And what would you suggest saying?

Dear Prude at Edward Drood, try asking your wife for help with this question.  If you’re feeling feisty though you could always offer to join in or you and your wife show them how it’s done.

I am a professional woman in my mid-30s. My parents live about five hours away, and I visit them for a few days at a time every few months. My mother has unacknowledged anxiety problems that prevent her from traveling to see me (her go-to excuse is that her pet needs her, although they have a pet sitter at the ready). She also refuses to call me. She says she could “never live with [her]self” if she disturbed me while I was asleep, as I sometimes work nights—though I’ve explained the Do Not Disturb feature on my phone and told her she can always leave me a voicemail if I don’t pick up.

Dear Not Asleep, you’re not unreasonable for feeling a bit hurt that she won’t initiate contact, but it might just be a thing you’re going to need to accept.  At least until she decides to do something about her issues keeping her from calling you.  I don’t know if you’re visiting them “enough” because I have no idea what “enough” would look like, but a visit every few months for several days at a time seems more than reasonable.  It sounds like you’re doing everything people would expect from a caring child.  You mom’s hang-ups are not something you can do anything about if she doesn’t want to do anything about them.  Call and visit when you can in good conscience.  If you do want to do something yourself though, next time you call your mom tell her you’re hanging up and you’d like her to call you back.  You’re awake, you’re expecting her call, let her see it isn’t the worst thing in the world.  Not sure if it would work, but maybe it can help her get over the issue she has with doing it for real.

[tihemme]

The Summer My Brilliant Mother Blew Her Own Mind - Part 1

August whatever, the last batch of students graduated Friday, and I’m broke. I’ve hunkered down for a two-week forced vacation, throughout which I intend to stave off next year’s inevitable financial crisis by drafting yet another television series proposal - but then my mother calls. “What the hell is going on?” And now I’m pissed at my brother. I told him yesterday over the phone that I’d had tests, and had failed them, that I needed to redraft my will. Would he be my executor? And no, I wasn’t sure how sick, I wouldn’t know for a few months, and no, I wasn’t planning on dying anytime soon, but as is, my ex-fiance from before my ex-husband would inherit everything, including an old set of vinyl I gave up in my 30s, and a poster collection I left in storage fourteen moves ago. And maybe my youngest daughter, God help him. “Don’t tell Mum or Dad.” “I won’t. But you should.” “I will.” “It’ll be worse if you don’t.” “I know.” “So, when?” “When there’s something to tell, T; I don’t want to worry them.” “I’m going to kill him.” “Kill who?” “T. I told him not to worry you.” “About what?”

Dammit!  This is my mother. She always does this. 

“T didn’t say anything?” “I haven’t talked to your brother in weeks.” Of course she hasn’t. “So, spill it. What’s wrong?”

Trapped, I tell her. Struggling to keep my shit together, I pace, voice wavering, confused dog at my heels, getting underfoot. I tell her all about it, and how I need her not to worry. And of course, I’m terrified, and she’s not an idiot. Hearing my mother’s voice, I fall to fucking pieces, and she takes over. As she rationalizes about cysts and lumps and all this progress that’s been made in the field of breast cancer research, I bite hard into my knuckles to stifle violent, body-wracking sobs.

“This is ridiculous. You need to be here,” she says. “You need to take a break, and be here.”

I have no one else. This bothers her.  My best friends are all colleagues. I doubt I register in the top 20 of any of their friends lists, but this is of no concern to any of us. I love them anyway. To keep things simple, I call them my “best-friend/colleagues.” The slash here acts as a kind of connective tissue; it connects the two concepts for me, while creating a safe barrier for them - like a tissue blocking snot. With it, they can keep calling me “colleague” while I call them “best friends,” and we each know who we’re talking about in the relative safety of our social-slash-work environment. 

I can shoot the shit with the best of them (which is all of them) about anything, but this. I can’t tell any of them about this. 

One of my best-friend/colleagues lost his wife two years ago, and cannot escape the vortex of grief. I worry for him every day, especially on the anniversary of her passing, which he marks monthly. I did the same when I lost my first true love at 20, followed weeks later by our premature stillborn baby. Twenty-six years on, I still feel that ache, so I think maybe I almost understand. He gets so sad so easily, and I’m honoured he trusts us so openly with his pain, but it’s also worrisome. Sometimes I wonder how he grieves at home, and it’s an unbearable thought. If this best friend found out his colleague was sick with the same thing that robbed him of his wife, I think he might be triggered. I suspect he’d need to insulate, and isolate, and so keep his distance, and that’s also unbearable to imagine. 

Also, the one time I offered to do something with him socially - I think it was to see a film - he delicately suggested I look into dating apps. So no, I will not be telling him. 

My absolute best-best-friend/colleague doesn’t exactly know he’s my best-best friend, but I don’t mind. He’s always appreciated my weird sense of humour, and doesn’t seem bothered when we happen to be scheduled to work on the same days. When we get the chance, we talk, a lot - well, I do, and he responds - but there’s an awful lot I don’t tell him. Like how he’s the only non-relative I’m leaving anything to in my redrafted will. Or how much I look forward to seeing him each week, and that when I don’t, it occurs to me to miss him. But because I’m still not convinced he hasn’t added me to his Restricted list on Facebook, I worry that if he did know either of these things, he’d shut me down completely, and without saying a word. Like, colleague/friendly ghost me. Or recommend I check out dating apps, too. 

So no damn way am I telling him about my boob. 

My female best-friend/colleagues are all my age or slightly older, and each of us is going through our own shit right now. I could tell them, I guess, but I don’t. You see, this mid-life gynoshittery is a contest none of us wants to participate in, let alone win. Don’t get me wrong, menopause and endometriosis and the national average pay gap are all over the staff room table when it’s all women present, but not breasts.

If you knew less about me, perhaps you’d suggest I should have more friends, like maybe outside work. 

I’ve tried. 

I used to ref roller derby. So long as you’re concussion-and-fracture free, a tighter community is hard to find. Before that, I was in the army. Those relationships ended not much differently than derby’s did, if far more violently.

In the intervening years, I had a husband. He didn’t approve of many of my friends, unless they were our friends - by which I mean, his friends - due to his belief that regardless of the age, marital status or gender of any of my own, I had to be sleeping with them. So, to save us all the embarrassment of his persistent public confrontations on the matter, I opted out of having any friends. For twenty years.

So anyway, yeah - my colleague/friends really are all I have. 

There is no one else.

Mum’s text reads, “You’br stil craming out, right?” I’ve been thinking about it, for sure, and I miss her, but I’m not sure I can justify it. I have a massive application deadline for the end of the month. Plus, these next two weeks off aren’t exactly voluntary. I’m not getting paid, and money’s tighter than it’s been in a couple of years. And she’s in bloody Saskatchewan. 

“There’r b rst beef anf Yorkshire pddinh.” 

Okay, just to be clear, no one makes gluten free Yorkshire pudding quite like my stepfather does. Think bannock in a gravy bowl. And I can tell, this last push is from him.

“Oh, well, okay then - I’ll be there Wednesday,” I joke back, still not committed. It’s Sunday morning. “Ok, we br reedy.”

My mother is a PhD. She taught upper-level anthropology courses for twenty years. So she takes proofreading very, very seriously, even with texts. But since her house almost completely burned down this past March, I’ve noticed she’s been letting things slide. And I mean, a lot.

I turn to my youngest, who’s bitched all summer about us not camping, not really taking a holiday, no promised one-on-one time without siblings and bickering. 

“Wanna go see Nan?” “What-? When?” “If we pack now, we can leave first thing. Camp a couple of nights on the way, and get there for Wednesday.” 

It’s fire season - the worst one yet - and I’m still not feeling well, so I clarify that by “camp,” I mean “sleep in the van and eat take out along the way.” My daughter’s kind of camping, but this isn’t exactly fair notice. 

“There’ll be Yorkshire pudding.”

Enough said. We start packing in the late afternoon, and I’m in the middle of drawing up a list of documents I’ll need to pull out of my ass the second I get back to hit that deadline, plus a list of groceries to cut costs for meals for the trip, when I stop suddenly, hit by a strange wave of anxiety. I look at my daughter. 

“Hey. Wanna leave tonight?”

Now I’m freaking myself out. My perfectly rational fear of animals darting out onto highways after dark means I have never, ever left for a multi-day drive any later than noon on the first day. So I don’t understand it. But I don’t want to argue with it. I need to leave now, and for once, my daughter shares my sense of urgency. 

We’re on the road within the hour, listing off all the shit we’ll need to grab along the way, calling the bank to add up the balances - we seriously can’t afford this right now, it’s ridiculous - realizing this is a mistake, and knowing, somehow, that it’s not. 

By the time we hit Merritt, the sun’s down. We pit stop at a gas station in Kamloops, and run into a motorcyclist who’s run into a deer. I text my best-best friend to tell him. His ex rides a bike, and sideswiped a moose last week - only she wasn’t on her bike at the time, but in a compact car that is now slightly more compact, but thankfully not bent in half like this biker was, or his bike. 

As soon as I hit Send, I wonder vaguely if my random texts outside work might annoy my bbf/c, and vow to not bother him anymore.

Pulling into Salmon Arm, we see the aftermath of another fresh kill. Whatever it is is large and hairy, and splayed out in the road in many more pieces than nature intended. It’s 11 PM, and I decide to stop for the night at nearby Yard Creek. The kid and I look up through the cracked windscreen at stars we haven’t seen since last year, and zzzzfoooph, spot a meteor. Briefly entertained, we crawl into the back of the motorized tent, and are asleep within moments. 

I wake at 6:30 to the lilt of morning birdsong, and a familiar dull throbbing pain deep in my left breast. 

The kid wants to sleep in, but I’m getting restless, so fire up the old Dutch oven. She chases me all the way from the van to the outhouse. Now both wide awake, we pee, brush our teeth, and go.

We stop for breakfast at Denny’s in Revelstoke, almost too tired to care about cross-contamination. My daughter orders her usual, and our waitress - trying to be helpful - recommends something from the 55+ menu for me. 

Do I really look so much older than I feel? 

My daughter assures me the waitress is just saving us money. Build-your-own breakfasts add up fast, and this way, it’s half the price. Fine. Whatever. I pick at my stingy eggs and bacon with wheat-free toast, and call Mum to tell her where we are. 

“What’s your ETA, then?” I have no idea. “8:30,” I say. “Will you push through, or camp again?” I just said... “Push through,” I answer. “Call me when you get to the junction at Maple Creek,” she says, “so Grrpa can put the pizza on.”

Grrpa is my stepdad. 

We’re on the road again by 7:45, but it feels later. Golden, Banff, Calgary for a pee break and to gas up. Naturally, there’s a BC fruit stand in the parking lot.  “Text Nan and tell her 7:30.” Brooks, Medicine Hat, the last exit to Drumheller, the needle locked on 130 all the way. I’ve been highway driving for almost ever, and rarely exceed 120.  “Text Nan and tell her 6:30.” We enter Saskatchewan, and I realize that even with the time change, we’ll be there by 5:30 at the latest.

Mum waits until the exact moment we blast through the Maple Creek junction to pull her next magic trick. 

“Text Nan and tell her -” The phone rings. 

“Where are you now?” “Jesus, Mother, are you fucking psychic?” 

It’s complete rhetoric. I expect her to say, “Well, we did just put the pizza on,” or “So, while you’re in Maple Creek,” or “Welcome to Saskatchewan; what’d you do, FLY?”

Except -  “… What?” 

She doesn’t get it. 

“Where are you?”

My daughter and I share a look. Something’s wrong. 

“We’re blas - just driving past Maple Creek now. We’ll be there in 30 minutes.”

“Oh. Okay. I’ll tell Denis. We’re having pizza. Is that okay?” Denis is my stepdad, but I don’t call him that. I’ve never called him that. He’s Grrpa, even to me. 

“Okay.”

Something’s really wrong.

“See you soon.” She hangs up, and my daughter and I don’t say a word as I edge over 140. I can’t say what it is, but it’s urgent, and horrid and heavy and late. For what, I don’t know. But it’s all I can think. We’re late, we’re so late. We’re too late. 

We’re too late.

[chasingmycoattails]

This is really going to be a cathartic series of stories with either illustrations, sketches or just stories based on my true fears. Some of them are very much grounded in reality while others are exaggerations of things that have happened to me and my family. Plot twist: my family has a very strong belief in the supernatural/occult/things-that-go-bump-in-the-night. Our culture practically demands it. Also, this is really fucking long And now we begin. -- My sisters have always been significantly more rebellious than myself. I've accepted this as a truth back when my older sister wore plaid miniskirts to class and my younger sister hung out with the chola girls after basketball practice. Unfortunately for them, this led to a few bad choices, mostly concerning their boyfriends. Maybe it was the inheritance from my mother (if a man wants you, he's a good man until he proves otherwise and even then, he's good for awhile longer), but they always picked duds. Clingy guys were the problem. My poor sisters, so pretty. The oldest, Olive looks like a China doll, eternally youthful. Her voice is delicate and her short, petite stature enticed weak men. Niv, well, she looks like a doll, too. Porcelain but naive, grown men were looking at her since she was a child. I couldn't take my eyes off her for a second, my mom would say, because that grungy old man a couple tables over couldn't take his eyes off her, either. This truth engulfed me in envy. I was too young to understand, until one day I was taught a fast lesson. It was nighttime and I'd gone out to my mom's car to grab her comouter bag. I was about 12 and had had bitter fights with Olive. She was older, prettier, skinnier and all-around more likeable than me. She had her boyfriend over a lot and he wasn't as nice as her old one, the one that went to college. He'd poke fun at me, which she'd ignore. I didn't like him and I didn't like her for having him. As I opened the door to my mom's SUV, I heard a slight rustling but I couldn't determine where the noise came from. Rabbits were everywhere, we had several dogs and cats, it could've been anything, really. I decided to ignore it and open the door. I see a pair of eyes, barely reflecting the garagw light's glow. My heart jumps into my throat and I feel the scream trapped with it, mouth clamped tightly. It's Jose*, Olive's then-boyfriend, crouching in the dark, the front seats casting a shadow over his frame. He shushes me, telling me to not tell anyone and not to scream, he's just waiting for Olive and can you please go get her? I don't think I can move but I nod anyway and reach around the seat, keeping my eyes on his crouched form, grabbing my mom's schoolbag before closing the door shut on him. As I turn away, my chest unleashes the largest, most painful gasp I'd ever experienced. I nearly hyperventilate on the way to the front door, internally panicking. Should I do the right thing and I tell my mother or should I tell my sister that her boyfriend was a total creep? She already hated me and I despised her, but we were sisters, right? How could I get her in trouble? So I walked inside as calmly as I could, handed the bag to my mother and slipped away to tell my sister that she had something to attend to. It was a couple weeks later that my mom and I came home to find that the tires on four different vehicles had been slashed in our driveway. Olive had called, crying, that Jose had come by and been mad that she had a study group over without him. As my mom made phone calls to his parents to find out what was going on, I realized for the first time that love could be scary. I avoided a review of that fear for several years. I'd never felt quite comfortable again outside at night, but I could manage alright. And then Nivia met Nathan*. He was a football player, young and stupid looking. Nivia had been into emo boys before, typical of her, so it was a change of pace to see her with someone who was so ordinary. I personally didn't care either way, but my inner voice told me it was stupid of her to get a boyfriend off Instagram. They weren't together for very long before he ended up coming with us on trips. We used to go about buying antiques for repair and suddenly, he was joining the caravan. I didn't care for him and ultimately saw it as meddling on my mom's part. He reminded me of the little baby birds with broken wings that my mom would bring home to me to "save". They were better off dead than being locked in a cage if they survived more than a week, but she couldn't leave lost causes alone. Kids who are beaten by their dads aren't lost causes, mind you, but Nathan was. I could just see it in him. You could poor gallon after gallon of love and kindness and warmth and he was such a blackhole, nothing could fill him. I was told to bandage him up while simultaneously learning that he'd be living with us. It wasn't long before things began to unravel. My mom gave him freedoms she never used to afford us. The kicked puppy act was getting old but my parents failing marriage was too devastating for mother not to need a distraction. And when he began to threaten to crash my mom's car whenever Niv wanted to break up, well, he was just frustrated, he'd never do it. He lived with us for months, put us in a financial deficit (allowed by my mother), stole money, pushed my mom's car to the brink so the engine was nearly falling out, and ultimately made life hell. It was hard for everyone but especially for my sister and I. Niv had already been abused in ways shan't mention further and I was losing my hair from the stress. My father had separated from my mom and there was no one here to help. My brother is a pacifist and ultimately didn't want to interfere whereas I carried around a pocket knife and had wooden brooms all over the house. At the first sign of insanity or violence, I was prepared to strike hard and fast. Nathan hated me in particular. I was the squeaky hinge, constantly complaining about his attitude, his lack of manners, his outright disrespect. Mental illness is not a joke but lifting up the leg of his shorts to show me his bloody game of cookie cutter as proof for how much Niv hurt him was hysterical to me. When he was finally asked to leave, it was because the stress was giving Niv ulcers and she was constantly sick. I had been, too, but because this had nothing to do with me, what did it matter? It was the day after he left that I heard the mattress creaking in an empty bedroom. I walked in, thinking someone had locked one of the dogs inside, and there was Nathan. He'd broken in. This happened several times. He'd break in through the window (the locks were busted, it wasn't hard), sit on our dark patio at night while my mom was sleeping (I could hear him on the rocking chair, just rocking quietly while one of the dogs growled until he left), standing/watching from the chicken coop. Whenever he left there, he'd let a couple birds out with him so I'd have a nice little surprise the next morning. I cleaned up at least 15 fowl corpses through the duration of his exile. He doesn't come here anymore, my mom finally stopped helping him or answering his calls. Maybe it was the cold truth that I was so tired that I'd contemplated suicide as a rational way of dealing with this problem. My mom can't handle much. I knew if I'd died, she wouldn't have been able to take care of herself, her family AND another person. That being said, I don't sleep in the main house, even though there are two spare bedrooms now. I sleep in the garage, safe, with a big window that overlooks the driveway. I can see anyone who comes onto the property from the front and at night, no one can see inside the dark room. There are times, though, that I hear odd noises coming from that bedroom. Or I'll notice odd things, like boxes or brushes out of place, toilet seats up in a house where only women reside. It sets my heart racing again, just like it did when I saw that stupid boy crouching in the back of my mom's car. I'm always tense, as though someone is watching me, waiting for me to let my guard down. I don't know if it's him or the paranoia that comes from living in fear for so long. Either way, if I find him in here, I can't guarantee he'll get a chance to walk out. -- *No names have been changed because they are assholes that deserve anything they get and I don't give a fuck if karma comes back to bite me in the ass, I fucking hate these douchbags