#(I didn’t have a body or weight based ED I just struggled/struggle with the act of eating because food has Textures

[stargirl1331]

The thoughts I’ve had today on my body, a positive list

When i twist my hips the skin creates a wrinkle and i saw that and thought of those old statues of Aphrodite (this one specifically) and how sad it is that something that wonderful, something mirrored in human art from centuries ago, mirrored in the divine, can be hated.

I have a spine and that’s amazing.(the thought was actually “I forgot how wonderful it is to have a spine” while looking at myself in a mirror which is so random. I’ve had a spine my whole life this isn’t a new development????)

Stretch marks are where the love I hold grew too fast for my skin and had to show through in spots because there was so much of it. Also they are so totally normal and it’s silly that people think they are ugly or just for pregnant people cause dude what.

I can’t see my collarbones and much and I love collarbones and now it’s just like a little secret but not really. You see them when I move a certain way. It’s a game of peek a boo with my bones

My elbows are less stabby. Better for hugs. Also why on earth do I have an extra elbow point but it’s cool and fun.

Not my body per se but who the fuck decided that “they look like they give nice hugs” is a backhanded compliment and rude because I refuse. Shut UP hugs have nothing to do with weight or whatever you’re trying to point out I’ve decided it means they have a nice smile and their eyes crinkle the right way. They look like they’d give you a hug and it would feel like home because they are a nice human. I feel like I could look like I give nice hugs when I smile.

Ankles are so interesting like my tendons have dissapeared a bit but also there’s that divot when I flex my ankle and how do you flex an ankle what is that even but they are so interesting

I like how the back of my ear feels where it meets my skull. It’s smooth.

Spines are so interesting why is there a line of indents down my back it feels so cool and makes me look like I have muscles or something but i don’t. I like my spine.

What is it with spines today?

Anyways what I’m trying to say is that I love my body it’s served me so well and it’s doing so good and I’m gonna keep fueling it;)

[detectivecarlosreyes]

In Case of Emergency (Ch 8/10)

Ao3 | 2.2/15.6k | Buddie | Status: Incomplete

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Chapter 8: 30 feet of mud between you and me Both Buck and Eddie struggle with the concept of sleep after Eddie gets taken to the hospital and Buck gets through the rest of the shift wondering what the rest of the team thought of reaction to Eddie's accidental burial. Set mid-Eddie Begins- 3x15, after Eddie's self-rescue and before Chris's show and tell.

Retrospectively, Buck knew he had let his emotions get the best of him. Losing his best friend, his partner, the man he decidedly loves to the depths of the earth to a place that he couldn’t easily follow was unlike anything that he ever felt, and it sent him in a spiral of despair that could not be easily explained to the others.

And it wasn’t just the fact that Eddie was trapped under 30 feet of mud with no certain rescue that sat heavily on his chest, it was his immediate thought afterward - what am I going to tell Chris? - that really had him hell-bent in believing that despite the odds, Eddie was somehow still okay because he just couldn’t fathom any alternative that didn’t result in Chris getting to see his father again.

And then Eddie was just there, having resurfaced in a way that was so typically Eddie that Buck couldn’t feel anything other than joy and relief. He reveled in just being able to hold Eddie’s hand even for the short period it took to get him to an ambulance.

Buck was ready to get out of there as soon as he could because all his thoughts were consumed by Eddie and the gravity of that situation, of the fact that he’d almost lost him for good. The need to see him and hold him to be sure his self-rescue wasn’t a figment of his imagination was near overwhelming, thankfully when they returned to the station, they were mercifully free of calls for the next few hours allowing them time to get warm and clean after being out in that torrential rainfall, but that didn’t mean he was able to get even a wink of shut-eye.

And with the mental exhaustion of being at the tail end of a 24-hr shift, there was little energy for speculative conversation to which Buck was secretly grateful because at least the tiredness gave him a buffer from the potential consequence of that call resulting in Cap calling him into his office to discuss interpersonal relationships and ask the questions that could very well be on everyone’s mind since witnessing his less than subtle emotional outbursts, something he assumed based on the way they looked at him.

Not that it would be a bad thing seeing as neither he nor Eddie were actively trying to keep it a secret anymore, not since Christmas really, but it was one thing for people to guess and speculate, and another thing entirely him to announce and confirm it without his better half present and consenting to share such news.

Much to his relief, the end of their shift came around soon enough, and having had a message relayed from Eddie through the hospital reminding him that Chris would need to be picked up from Pepa’s for school, a job he usually reserved himself but seeing as he was out of commission the job defaulted to Buck, meaning he had to leave as soon as humanely possible to keep to the schedule.

It was enough for Chim and Hen to question his eagerness to leave, seeing as he was usually the one of the last out of the station.

“What got you in a rush this morning?” asked Hen as he collected both his and Eddie’s bags, slinging them over his shoulders, “got somewhere to be or something?”

He looked at his watch and said distractedly without missing a beat as he added up time it would take to get from the station to Pepa’s and then to the school, “Actually yeah, I need to pick Christopher up for school seeing as Eddie is still at the hospital, and if I’m going to make it, I really need to leave right now. I’ll see you guys later.”

And promptly left with a wave, leaving Hen and Chim to share a long questioning look before staring after him, only now noticing that he was in fact not just carrying his own bag.

** ** ** ** ** ** ** **

Eddie was glad to finally be allowed to go home having been given the all-clear some 8 hours later.

The hours had passed slowly for him, lying in the hospital bed, waiting for his observation period to be over. It was excruciating, especially knowing that he could not for the life of him get any measure of rest despite being told by the hospital staff that was exactly what he should be doing.

It was something that he was unable to do, not when his mind was replaying what happened in that tunnel over and over again feeling as though he’d just barely cheated death, which in reality he had. He shouldn’t have survived being trapped down there, probably wouldn’t have it not for the family that he created for himself, with the fire station, with Buck, with Buck and Christopher.

Christopher.

Tears had sprung to his eyes at the thought of his son, knowing that he had been so close to not being able to return to him and that Chris could have very nearly lost both parents in the space of a year. It was a sobering thought, one that plagued him in the early hours of the morning while most of the hospital still slept.

And thinking about it all had just left him restless, itching to hold his son in his arms to remind himself that he actually did make it out and Chris still had a father to come home to. It was those thoughts as well that lead to remind him that he was supposed to be taking him to school and ended up convincing one of the nurses to call Buck to take his place for the morning, something he knew Buck would do without hesitation.

Speaking of Buck; the man showed up after dropping Chris off with an inexplicable warmth to him greeting him with a soft “hey” before insisting that he hang around until he was discharged despite looking just as exhausted as he felt, as if he had just as little sleep as himself.

Much to his displeasure, his body still betrayed him still showing signs of exhaustion despite being given a clean bill of health. And Buck walked closely beside his tired frame to the door carrying both of their bags and opened the door using his own key looking distinctly at home in doing so, a stark difference to the first time all those months ago.

With a sigh he sat on the couch, eyelids drooping while Buck left him for the kitchen stating he should at least have a shower while he made them some tea before getting some rest. Rest: there was that word again. Something Eddie was slowly beginning to hate because every time he closed his eyes he was back in that hole, trapped and alone. It was enough to keep the chill in his bones.

Reluctantly, he trudged to the bathroom and turned the shower on as hot as he could stand, and gave himself a quick but thorough wash not wanting to be surrounded by water for longer than necessary, unwilling to let the sensation of it get the best of him.

Soon after, he returned to the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed, smoothing out the pillow and finding himself unable to lay down, terrified that the moment he closed his eyes he would just keep reliving that moment when he realised he was alone, no connection to the outside world, no way of knowing that they knew he was still alive.

“I made you some camomile tea, thought it might help,” Buck announced as he joined him in the bedroom, setting the tea beside him on the bedside table, before turning and standing between his legs, cupping his cheek with one hand and pressed a kiss to his forehead. Eddie couldn’t help but lean into it with his eyes closed, relishing in the contact.  

It was over too soon, and he mourned the loss of contact until he heard the sound of clothes rustling and opened his eyes to see Buck changing into his sleepwear. He watched over his shoulder as Buck climbed onto the bed behind him and felt his heart speeding up at the prospect of the simple act of sleeping.

“Eds?”

“I can’t close my eyes, Buck.” He admitted under his breath unable to move from his spot, “I still feel cold even though I know that I’m not and I’m afraid if I close my eyes, I’ll open them again and I’ll be back there.”

He felt Buck’s weight shifting on the bed before his warm body pressed up against his back, a firm but gentle hand placed on his waist, and Buck’s lips lightly touched the junction between neck and shoulder.

“If it makes you feel any better, I haven’t been able to sleep either,” Buck murmured against his shirt, “Let me be here, with you- for you. I’ll keep you warm.”

He could feel the tension melt from his shoulders, not realising that he had been holding any in the first place and allowed Buck to drag him with him to lie down. Almost instantly he relaxed into the comfort of Buck’s arms, feeling the heat the man radiated seep into his core, warming him up in the specific way that he had been sorely needing.

And they just lay there in the still partially lit room, finding an easy rhythm in their breaths. He was close to sleep before he started with a sharp intake of breath, his brain reminding him of one important thought, “What about Chris? We need to pick him up from school.”

Buck shushed and lazily stroked a hand in his hair, “Don’t worry, I’ve got an alarm that’s hours from now to get us up before pick up, and then we can cuddle him on the couch for as long as you want, but right now we both need to sleep.”

That was something that he loved about Buck. His innate sense of knowing and understanding him as much as he knew and understood himself. He settled back down, nestled in Buck’s arms, and reflexively breathed out the words neither of them has said out of fear of saying it too soon despite knowing how the other felt.

“I love you.”

Buck’s arms gently tightened around him, pulling him in closer to his chest as he answered softly into his hair, “I love you too, Eddie.”

** ** ** ** ** ** ** **

True to his word Buck’s alarm startled them into consciousness. Much to their relief, sleep had come easily, exhaustion pulling them under swiftly, leaving no room for dreams or memories to wake them.

In no time they were dressed and fed with sandwiches Buck had prepared earlier when he was in the shower and were at pickup waiting for the moment that Eddie had been waiting for since he resurfaced in that pond.

“Daddy!”

After that nothing else mattered, he scooped up his son and held him tight and wouldn’t let him go, even going so far as sitting in the backseat with him on the drive home.

“Bucky said you had to go to the hospital because you got really cold when it was raining last night. Did they help you get warm?”

“That’s right bud, I was very cold and tired because I was helping a little boy, only a couple of years younger than you, get back to his mom.”

“You saved him?”

“He sure did Chris! Your daddy is a hero.” Chimed in Buck from the driver’s seat, and Eddie shared a look with him as Buck mouthed in the reflection of the mirror, our hero.

Soon enough the three of them were cuddled up together under a blanket on the couch with Eddie in the middle and Chris and Buck on either side of him, bellies full of pizza and ice cream, slowly being lulled into a food coma while watching the latest Disney movie that Chris was excited about.

Eddie was content, having the two reasons that helped him make it back alive wedged under each arm, feeling the most at peace than he had ever been in the last 24 hours.

By the time the credits were rolling, Chris was out like a light and he and Buck weren’t that far behind, despite having a solid 5-hour nap earlier. So, they drowsily set about relocating Chris into bed before falling into their own, resuming their earlier position with Eddie curled around Buck’s side head on his chest with Buck’s arms circled around him, securing him in place.

He was nearly lulled to sleep by the sound of Buck’s steady heartbeat when Buck’s voice quietly rumbled in his chest.

“Hey Eddie.”  

He hummed in response, not bothering to open his eyes.

“I’m pretty sure the team knows about us now,”

“Is that so?” He asked with an air of levity as he shifted his head.

“I would like to preface it and say that it’s not my fault, I thought I lost you.”

“I guess I can forgive you for that,” He answered before quietly laughing into Buck’s chest, “Really it’s on them for taking so long to notice anyway, its not like we’ve been all that subtle at recent gatherings.”

Buck softly snorted at that, “Yeah, that’s true.”

“We can figure it out in the morning when we’re awake to remember it.” He suggested with a deep yawn, barely able to stay conscious.

He barely got a whispered okay before they were both fast asleep in another peaceful slumber.

[in-this-body-of-mine]

To The Bone (2017) - Analysis and Charting

Let’s go! I’m NOT excited because life is hard but what better way to distract myself than to do this kind of shit. No one cares, anyways.

Since this is the first one, let me tell you what we’re gonna do here. I’ll include the IMDB summary, a summary with spoilers, the placements in the chart, we’ll go over each item (also, spoilers abound) and finally my review and final thoughts. Yes, it’s gonna be long. Read at your own risk.

IMDB summary:  A young woman, dealing with anorexia, meets an unconventional doctor who challenges her to face her condition and embrace life.

Summary with spoilers: Lily Collins plays Ellen/Eli and from the start of the movie she is on the brink of her disease. She was just kicked out of a recovery center and she gets an appointment with a ~cool unconventional doctor~ played by Keanu Reeves. She goes into ANOTHER inpatient treatment home to be treated by him. Shit happens, she seems to be getting better somehow, but then she spirals down, runs away, and after a... near death experience (I wish this was an euphemism) she decides to try recovery again and goes back to the treatment home. That’s where the movie ends.

Chart placements!

Now for each item:

White: Ellen or Eli is played by Lily Collins, who once played Sandra Bullock’s daughter in that movie were she was a Karen. It doesn’t get whiter than that.

Female: She changes her name to Eli mid film (which is how I’ll be calling her here bc we respect chosen names in this household) but she still seems to identify as female and be referred to as such, so here we have it. We do have a guy in the treatment home, but we’ll come back to him later.

Teenager/Young adult: I’m pretty sure she is 19 but every review I see says she’s 20. Either way, she dropped out of college even though she just started it. The actress, however, was 28 at the time the movie was released.

Wealthy/seemingly well-off: Her family has the money to send her to inpatient a bunch of times, and they make a point to mention how they have connections so she didn’t have to wait in line to see this new doctor. Case closed.

Skinny actress from the start: As we know, Lily Collins is already thin and she did struggle with anorexia in the past. Why, however, did she lose weight for this movie? They said it was her decision “to make the character more authentic”. As if not being skin and bones wouldn’t be enough. As if eating disorders don’t come in every size. They shouldn’t let her. The need to shock people is a very dangerous sign to me.

No distinctive personality or hobbies/interests: I’m glad Eli has a thing she loves. It’s not super present, but it’s there, and it’s plot relevant. She loves art and in the story, she had a tumblr (look, it’s us!) where she shared drawings related to her ED and a girl liked her drawings so much that, when she killed herself, she mentioned Eli by name in a note. But that isn’t really explored too much and I kind of got disappointed by that.

Good student: We don’t really know about that... and I don’t think it matter, it’s ok.

Seemingly irrelevant love interest: Why? Just why do we need Luke? Luke is the only guy in the home, and we can SEE that he’s only there to be Eli’s love interest. He wasn’t needed. None of the important plot points have anything to do with him. Make her date a girl. Make her date NO ONE. This is about eating disorders. She could have closer friends in the house. Why was this necessary. Her whole speech about how love is a lie could come from a friendship but no. They had to shove pretty white boy there.

Daddy issues (sometimes coupled with mommy issues): I find this extremely funny but her dad isn’t in the movie. At all. He’s alive and well, but he makes a point to never come home when Eli is even awake. I don’t think they cast an actor for that. As for mothers, she has three, and it’s a trip. Her stepmom on her dad’s side is very out of touch but she wants what’s best for Eli, but she really hates Eli’s biological mom. Bio mom, in turn, is described as a “bipolar lesbian” and the stereotypes are just... ugh. Bio mom has a wife and she is a bit weird too. They sent Eli to live with her absent dad bc “they couldn’t deal with it anymore”. This brings us to a great scene where we can see Eli shrinking in her seat and when the psychiatrist asks her what she is feeling she says “I’m sorry I’m not a person anymore. I’m a problem.” And that’s great to see. But at the same time, I hate that her whole issue in this movie seems to come from her family and anorexia is just a thing that happened, with some vague references to control. 

*Triggering event*: We never see it and it’s okay - but I kind of wanted some more explorations of motives because we have ZERO.

Anorexia as diagnosis: As I always say, what is even the point of making a cool looking movie about EDs if your protagonist is not only anorexic, but also terminally anorexic? Ugh. That’s the only portrayal of anorexia that happens in media and I’m fucking tired.

Checklist of habits (manual for those looking for one): I mean, I mark this down but as I always say: everything is a manual if you’re looking for one. But if you’re doing more than not eating or purging or exercising I’ll judge it as a new tip. A lot of us already thought of/did most of them probably. But the marking remains.

Inpatient treatment (or extended hospital stay): As I said, she is kicked out of one treatment center and goes straight into another. What fucks me up is that the movie HAS other characters with other diagnosis, but we never see anything about them. We don’t see their journey. We only know Luke is a dancer bc he is the love interest. We only know Megan is pregnant and then she’s not bc this sends Eli in a spiral. We only know Kendra is not straight bc she makes a joke about it (and Doctor Beckham follows with a horrible joke about conversion therapy). Did you notice Ciara Bravo was in this movie? I didn’t on first viewing. She has like two lines. The whole movie is centered around Eli and every scene in the house feels like all the other patients only care about her too.

Emotional tipping point: Megan loses her baby and for some reason this affects Eli. Luke kisses Eli and for some reason she’s pissed. At that point, I was annoyed. She has a bad session with Doctor Beckham who basically tells her to grow a pair and stop complaining (which is insensitive as a doctor, but as a person I wanted to do the same) and she decides to quit and leave. She has to go to her mother’s home and I’m supposed to care. Stepmom is mad but doctor says she needs to hit rock bottom. She weights like 70 pounds dude. Rock bottom was about ten pounds ago, next stop is a coffin, mate.

Mom hugs: And here we have the emotional turn around of the movie and it’s just... make it make sense. She goes to her bio mom’s ranch. Her stepmom # 2 tells they’ll have therapy with horses (?). Eli goes sleep in a tent and bio mom cries and says she accepts if Eli wants to die. Very supportive I guess. They have this weird bonding moment where the mom feeds her a bottle like a baby and look, if you liked that, good for you, but I don’t get what I was supposed to feel about it (but that’s mom hug #1). She goes on a hike next morning and... dies? Either way she has an out of body experience where she talks to Luke and sees how she looks - which is weird to me. Didn’t we go over this in the beggining of the movie? Didn’t we establish that she does know what she looks like and doesn’t care? But still she seems shocked and they have a cryptical conversation and she wakes up. And just like that, she’s ok now. She meets up with the other stepmom (mom hug # 2) and goes back to the home.

Happy ending: In the last scene Eli is back to the home and we understand she’s going to try to recover for real this time. I’m okay with that specifically, I think it would be bad if they pretended she just got better with no relapses and everything is fine, but it’s a hopeful ending. Despite the fact that we have no idea if she won’t have a fit and leave in two days and that we never know anything about anyone else and Megan, who lost the baby, never comes back. It’s fine. At that point, I didn’t expect much.

Analysis: I was hesitant to be critical bc this movie was based on the real life experiences of the director and Lily Collins. But fuck it, this is my circus and I’ll clown as much as I want. While I do understand that, I have a lot of thoughts.

Mainly, I need to say that while I understand this is her story, this is a story that was told so many times. I’m tired.

The general public that wants to defend the movie says “well you can’t tell ALL stories”, and while I agree, these people probably only saw this movie about the subject. If you HAVE (or had) and eating disorder, you probably saw tons. And they ALL tell the same story. Which is why I started that chart in the first place.

This movie does have good moments. I do like the acting, I saw people complaining about Keanu Reeves performance - but I do know these were people who disliked the movie entirely. I think his performance was great, Lily Collins performance was great, and their chemistry was great. The best scenes in the movie happened between the two of them. The one thing that I LOVED was their first interaction when he calls her on her bullshit. “You’re not thin, you scare people, and I think you like that.” YES. I never heard anyone talk about that. And I guess I’ll never will, bc the movie itself never talk about this again either. Also when she justifies the tumblr where her art triggered a girl so much, she says that she was just drawing what she knows, he calmly tells her that she can draw, but she doesn’t have to share it online tho. I liked their interactions because often ED patients are treated with silk gloves (is that the expression?) and sometimes there is a need for some though love. I also love Liana Liberato who plays her sister and that’s about it.

The problem with the doctor ends up being: what’s his method? How are you going to cure her? The method makes no sense. I don’t see the reasoning. I don’t think anyone does. And somehow it works and she goes back there. 

I think my major problem with the movie is that it has the same issues every ED portrayal before it. It’s the same story again. I think it shines the most in the whole “it’s not about food, it’s about control!”. It IS about food though. For a lot of people, it is. Maybe not for this director or for Lily Collins, but for so many people it is about food. It’s about control as well, and it is possible that there is other factors related to it, but you can’t chalk it all up to a control issue and pretend it’s just whatever. If the food didn’t matter, it wouldn’t be an eating disorder.

Because of that, we have this heavy focus on her family issues and nothing to do with food. We have people trying to rationalize - maybe it’s bc your mom is a lesbian, maybe it’s bc i didn’t bond with you as a baby - and all that does is to make her lesbian bipolar mother seem like a crazy asshole and her dad seem like an absent asshole as if this is the only factor here. Give me SOMETHING. Any connection to food. Any sense. Nope. She just won’t eat bc her family is fucked up. Hoe, that’s all of us.

And I think the movie unintentionally DOES glamourize anorexia. Subtly, yes, but it does. Eli has SUCH an easy time refusing food. She doesn’t seem to think about food as much as she thinks about herself and her family and Luke and being annoying. She knows a bunch of calories and she overexercises. Idk.  Not to mention that moment when Kendra asks her about purging and she says “it’s not her thing”. I mean. It is no one’s thing. No one likes it. It’s a compulsion. And if you have anorexia that severe and you are not with a feeding tube, you do eat every now and then, and you do have purging mechanisms. If she had said she prefers overexercising as a purging mechanism than to throw up, I would believe her. But the movie acts as if she just never eats ever and somehow she’s still standing. Give her a feeding tube then. It would be more believable.

I know it sounds kind of ranty, but my point here is: this extremely anorexic girl, that looks like a sack of bones, and gets that by never eating and doing crunches all the time, it is the wet dream of a fatphobic society with a 71 billion weight loss industry. This is the dreamy and frugal idea of anorexia that people have when they are deep into the illness - not when they recovered as the people involved say they did. I get that this is a very personal project. But it’s flawed. It doesn’t do anyone any favors. It just tells the same story, for the millionth time, but since this time it was in a big platform, more people saw it, and it was better done, with a better budget and with a good enough resolution so I can see every bone in Lily Collins body.

Anyway, that’s it for today. If you read all of that, thanks. Since this is Netflix, I’m assuming everyone saw, but the other movies are out there and if you need liks, hit me up. Be back soon.

[whimperwoods]

titles are hard. it’s d&d-based fantasy whump tho. Arms of the Enemy? somebody give me a better title challenge.

I saw a post about being rescued and carried bridal-style by an enemy and it was great but now I don’t know where it is? If you have it, please shoot it my way and I’ll link it, ‘cause whoever thought of it first was a genius. ^_^

Anyway this got quite long so I’m stopping here and hopefully gonna write more at some point?

Castor is a warlock, in service to the Great Old One and the Dark Emperor, in that order. Ed is a fighter, a knight and battle master in the service of the True King of Lumenea. They have always been enemies. In the space between the Old One and the Emperor, they might be able to become something else.

Also Ed is hurt real bad and Castor is carrying him out of the dungeon because sometimes he acts on impulse.

tw: blood, tw: coughing up blood, tw: descriptions of deaths in battle

***************

Castor stepped into the cell and found himself frozen, his feet unmoving on the floor. It was one thing to see Sir Edmond like this in his scrying orb and another entirely to see it in person.

The limp, battered form of his enemy didn’t move at the sound of the door creaking open, and Castor felt a cold weight settling in the pit of his stomach. He’d left his room in the tower knowing the knight couldn’t be left in the dungeon, but Sir Edmond had still been awake then, struggling to keep his head up even as the rest of his body lay unmoving where it had been thrown.

His footsteps didn’t rouse the man, either, and the relief he would have expected turned to a sick horror twisting around the weight in his gut. He hurried forward, moving before he could second guess himself, and scooped Sir Edmond into his arms.

His hand shook as he held it out toward the point where the chain around the knight’s ankle was attached to the wall. He had to be careful, had to cast the spell far enough on the other side of the wall that he wouldn’t catch the two of them in it, but he couldn’t afford too long aiming or he’d drop the dead weight in his arms.

He released the magic, and a concussive wave sped forward with a loud crack, breaking open the end of the chain and sending a ripple of cracks outward through the stone, stopping just short of his feet.

Sir Edmond started shifting in his grip, moving weakly, and Castor felt his face begin to burn, unsure how to explain himself. But what was done was done, and he needed to hurry out of the cell before someone could find him in the middle of things.

He’d meant to wrap the end of the chain around Sir Edmond before he left the cell, but up close, there was nowhere to wrap them that wasn’t already bloody, the knight’s body ripped open in so many places that even where he was whole, Castor couldn’t see it through the blood crusted over his skin.

He scooped up the end of the chain, gathering it up and draping it over his own arms before he hurried out of the room, his greatest enemy cradled safely against his chest.

*****

As Ed came to consciousness, everything hurt. His breath stuttered and faltered in his chest, and his eyes teared up in silence as the movements of his own lungs sparked waves of agony that rolled through him like fire.

Something was different. He wasn’t on the ground. He was in the air, held up by - something. Something warm. There was something against his side, against his cheek, that was warm and solid and gave like the floor didn’t.

He needed to know what it was. It was new. He forced his eyes open, desperation and despair settling against his breastbone as even that required two flickering tries to accomplish.

He was being held. Carried. He could feel the motion, now, could identify the additional waves of pain that didn’t match his breathing. The arms around him were strong, but the chest was clothed in a thick sweater he didn’t recognize. The face was blurred with the tears he hadn’t been able to hold back, and he couldn’t identify the man.

He leaned into the man’s chest as best he could, grasping the front of the sweater and holding on, hoping it would help him steady himself at least long enough to blink his eyes clear.

*****

Sir Edmond’s breaths came in shallow, broken gasps that shook his whole body, and Castor was relieved when the man grabbed ahold of his sweater, because it meant that he at least wasn’t trying to get away.

His own heart was racing and not only with the exertion of climbing stairs while carrying a man nearly his own size. Before, he never would have managed. Before, Sir Edmond had been a looming figure, terrifying, his eyes full of fire as he crossed battlefields, kept away from Castor and the other mages only by the strength of Zhok’s rage kept defensively between them. He still had nightmares, sometimes, of Sir Edmond’s sword tearing through an assassin’s chest, the light dying from her eyes before she even realized she hadn’t evaded his notice.

Sir Edmond’s grip on his sweater tightened and Castor instinctively pulled him in closer as they reached the top of the dungeon stairs, his heart racing and his throat filling with an old lump.

He knew where he’d meant to go, but it meant so much extra distance, before the night was out, and Sir Edmond was so weak, so much weaker than he’d realized, through the tiny image of the crystal.

Sir Edmond’s breaths were loud, choking things, and Castor’s feet turned toward the outside, where he’d planned to go, and tried not to worry too much about the rest. It would be extra distance, but the sound of the knight’s breathing wouldn’t echo, wouldn’t be so deafening without the walls to bounce it back to him, hollow and damning.

He just had to get outside. Get to the stables. Not look back, or second-guess himself. He pulled Sir Edmond closer again, hoping he wasn’t making a terrible mistake. Things had seemed so clear through the crystal, so obvious when Sir Edmond was lying, ruined, at his feet, and now - now the only thing he could make sense of was that he’d at one point had a plan.

*****

Ed blinked. Blinked. Forced his eyes to open, to close, to open, to clear.

The face above him was familiar, but it took a moment to place, even knowing where he was imprisoned. Castor the Black, Herald of Night, Battle Mage of the Dark Emperor. One of many men who had killed Ed’s soldiers. The man who had blasted common soldiers backward like he had a cannon at the end of his am, who had sucked the life from their battle cleric with one hand and run away so fast even horses couldn’t keep up with him. One of the emperor’s finest.

He sucked in a sharp, deep breath that made him dizzy with pain. His body spasmed around it, his tensed muscles pulling open his injuries as they tried to protect the aching lungs that half-collapsed in his chest. As he gasped to refill his lungs, his whole body convulsed with a violent, racking cough that brought up some of his own blood.

“Shit!” the mage said, stopping in his tracks and pulling Ed closer to him, holding tighter as Ed’s coughing shook them both. “Shit! It’s ok! I’ve got you!”

Ed choked and gagged, every inch of him screaming in agony around the rough jerk of his coughs, and his eyes filled with tears again, obscuring the mage’s face.

He was pressed tightly to the mage’s chest, and the hand he’d balled up in the man’s sweater had instinctively clenched tighter against the danger of falling, his own body betraying him as it fought to live through the coughing fit.

His head grew lighter, and then lighter again, bright sparks lighting up the inside of his eyelids with every sharp, shallow hack his cramping lungs could manage.

His breath only slowed itself after his consciousness slipped away again.

*****

Castor felt Sir Edmond’s grasp tightening in the front of his sweater, but the man’s panicked choking still threatened to wrench him out of Castor’s arms. He slid to his knees, trying to shorten the distance to the ground, and ended up half curled around the man, as if that would protect him from what had already been done.

Sir Edmond’s fingers loosened when he fell unconscious, and Castor took a deep breath, his head sagging forward toward the knight’s bloodied face as he held the man in his lap.

“Fuck,” he whispered to himself. When it didn’t satisfy him, he whispered it again, more vehemently. “Fuck!”

He sat up.

This was stupid. A mistake. This had always been a mistake. And yet - he looked down at the unconscious body in his arms, the man he had watched through his scry crystal for all those years and hated, watched again for all those months of unbrokenness and scorned, watched in these last days once he was broken and pitied - no. No, he’d made his choice.

He rearranged his grip on the knight and clambered shakily to his feet, hoping to get to the stables before the man woke up again.

*****

Ed hurt. He hurt. He fought through the pain, trying to find a sense of himself, and realized only after a dozen ragged breaths that he wasn’t in his cell. He was warm, floating, held by something, and the surface against his face was - was - things slid into place and he cried out weakly, shoving away from the mage’s chest and going nowhere, his arms too weak to free him.

“Hey,” the man answered, his voice rumbling through his chest so that Ed could feel it in his hands, a pleasant hum in a pleasant warmth, and everything in him hated that Castor the Black was the only pleasant thing in his world, now.

It was a trick. It had to be a trick. A new torment, cleverer than the old pain, like this enemy was cleverer than the ones who had beaten him in the cell, long after he’d given them what they wanted.

“No,” he rasped, his voice more groan than speech, “No.”

A ‘please’ hovered at the tip of his tongue, right there, before he snatched it back. No. No. He wasn’t begging. He had begged before, just once before, and look what it had gotten him.

He shoved against the mage’s chest only to find the man’s grip tightening instead of loosening, humiliation on top of humiliation. His throat tightened, and his breath came harder, made him fight harder for it, made his whole body shudder and quake and threaten to rattle itself into broken, bloody pieces. He was dying. He was dying. Why was he not just allowed to die?

The arms tightened around him, the pressure agonizing against his wounds, but the tightness in his throat was something else, something else, and it was getting worse, and he would not cry in front of Castor the Black unless he was made to.

“It’s alright,” the mage said, the rumble in his chest back, his voice gentle, gentle, a trick. “It��s alright, we’re almost there. I’ve got you.”

“No,” he managed again, barely a whisper, his hands sliding uselessly down the front of the mage’s soft sweater as he tried to push away and found himself falling closer instead, his arms giving out before he could even begin.

Castor the Black had armor, gleaming leather as dark as he could get, almost not brown at all, but in spite of the blood Ed had gotten on it, the fabric under his cheek and hands was soft, warm and comforting, something that belonged somewhere safe, somewhere far from here. His fingers closed around it, and he couldn’t stop them.

*****

Sir Edmond stilled in Castor’s arms, going quiet and unresisting, his fingers locking back into the front of his sweater, and Castor didn’t know if that was better or worse than the knight trying to push away. It was at least easier, which was something, and Castor forced himself to concentrate on that part, on the practicalities of putting one foot after the other and getting to the stables.

His arms ached from carrying the man’s weight, almost as dead and leaden now as it had been when the knight was unconscious.

He wasn’t built for this. He wasn’t trained for it. He’d fooled himself, thinking himself so different from the wizards that made up most of the emperor’s forces. If their positions were reversed, Sir Edmond could carry him with ease. If their positions were reversed, Sir Edmond would have put a sword through his heart long ago.

When he reached the well beside the stables, he set the knight down beside it and collapsed onto the ground next to him, his arms strangely weightless and aching softly.

He knew better than to speak directly into the man’s mind, knew he shouldn’t open up that kind of link, knew it would only frighten someone who had been an enemy for so long. He caught his breath instead, watching the knight pull himself together, curl in on himself in tiny, weak, desperate motions, and split open some of his wounds, barely scabbed over.

“Don’t,” Castor said, as gently as he could manage, his hand hovering over Sir Edmond’s shoulder as he realized he couldn’t find a place to touch him that wouldn’t be worse. “Don’t. You’ll only open up more of your wounds.”

*****

Ed’s face burned. Castor the Black pitied him. Had he really fallen so far? He moved in tiny, tiny jerks, motions of less than an inch that took all of his strength and sent dizzying waves of pain through him as surely as the mage’s steps had.

It didn’t matter. Breathing hurt, too. Everything hurt. He’d never hurt, like this. Not even with lightning coursing through him in the middle of a fight. A wretched, pained noise fell from his throat unbidden, and he turned it into a growl as best he could, baring his remaining teeth at the enemy mage.

The mage sighed heavily, tipping his head back and leaning it against - something. Ed forced his head up, trying to get a better look, only to find that he didn’t have the strength to keep it there. Fuck. He turned his face away from his enemy as much as he could without grinding it into the dirt, embarrassed and focusing the last dregs of his strength on keeping himself from crying.

“I don’t think I can get you back to the castle tonight,” the mage said eventually, his voice calm and soft. “So we’ll have to make the best of it.”

The mage moved, a rustling sound accompanied by a soft half-grunt, and then footsteps. Ed twitched, an instinctive flinch he only half managed to stop, and another pathetic high-pitched noise wheezed out his throat. He breathed again, his closed eyes tightening against the shame and the motion of his lungs hurting, hurting, hurting.

Make the best of it. Gods, what did that mean? The words thumped dully against his brain, but he was too dazed and overwhelmed to know anything more than that they sounded like the important part.

He breathed, and breathed, and did not cry, even as reopened wounds oozed blood down his back and thighs.

The mage walked away from him, the man’s footsteps becoming fainter and fainter, and Ed lay there, too weak to run, too weak to move, too weak to fight for anything but a last shred of dignity. His throat was thick and his sinuses pressed at the back of his nose. It wasn’t enough. He wasn’t enough.

The breeze blew over him, gentle, and he waited, and feared, and hurt, and did not cry.

[isa-ly]

THE TRUTH UNTOLD

TW: mental illness, eating disorders, depression, anxiety

I know the title might be a fun little hint to a certain k-pop song (which is a reference about three people will understand) but despite that little quirky pun, this post I’m about to write and that you’re about to read, is not gonna be easy. Or witty, or funny like some of the previous posts were. It’s most definitely going to be the longest one, though.

Because, in all honesty, this is the one post I have been absolutely dreading to make. However, it’s also the post that I kind of started this blog for because, unlike my depression, anxiety, panic attacks, insomnia and quarter-life crisis, this is something only my closer circle and those who happened to ask, really know about. 

And, once again in all honesty, this is the actual reason I started therapy almost a year ago. Because in every way possible, shit had hit the fan so hard that there had been nothing left but to step on the emergency breaks. But I don’t want to get ahead of myself here. So, let’s try and start from the beginning.

I’ve talked about my more or less mental breakdown and burn out during my last year of university a few times now. Didn’t spare any details either. However, there is one thing that I’ve been mindfully avoiding that actually took up a pretty big part of that time of my life. The reason I avoided it, was because in my head, I kept running in circles on how I would phrase it and explain it in a way that would a) not sound too shocking and b) not make me look like a complete stranger to people who, until now, had no idea of what I’m about to say.

Eventually, though, I realized that I was doing the exact same thing I’ve always been doing. Which was searching for excuses to not talk about the biggest struggle in my life and make myself vulnerable. And I don’t want to make these excuses anymore because, really, all they ever did was harm me. So, here goes nothing.

Hello. My name is Isa. And for over a year now, I have been suffering from an eating disorder called anorexia nervosa.

The sheer act of just having typed this sentence out on virtual paper, threw me so hard that I spent a good 15 minutes simply staring at my laptop screen just now. I told you, this wasn’t going to be easy. 

Since the only place I’m really “promoting” this blog on is Instagram, I’m just going to try and somehow use that as a segue to this post. Over the last year, I’ve received quite a few messages from friends, family and sometimes also random acquaintances, whenever I posted a picture of myself on my story or feed. Some of them were jokey, some of them interested and a very select few were concerned, too. All of them were about my apparent change of appearance, however. Of course, I didn’t only receive those messages online. The people who know and see me in real life, the above mentioned inner circle, have known for a while and some of them, as much as I wish they hadn’t had to, saw all of it happen in real life.

I know I included it in the trigger warnings already, but I want to point it out one more time here because I know how incredibly triggering these things can be – especially to people who have struggled or are struggling with similar issues. So, if reading about body image, dieting, weight loss and eating disorders makes you uncomfortable or could trigger bad memories and behaviour, this post might not be the one for you. I don’t want to be patronizing, you know what’s best for you, just wanted to make sure to highlight it before I continued.

I also want to preface this by saying that I can and only will talk about my own experience here. I am in no way, shape or form an expert on mental health and eating disorders and what I’m going to say and talk about, is purely a narration of what happened in my own life. Eating disorders, just like any other mental illness, are very individual and I do not want to come off as blurting out generalizations about them. Just so that we’re clear here.

Therapy taught me that the psychological, biological and/or societal origin of eating disorders is still almost completely scientifically unknown. It is for that exact reason, that the various EDs are some of the most stereotyped and stigmatized mental illnesses there are – which is also why it took me so long to actually pluck up the courage and energy to talk about it. I imagined people reading about my anorexia and thinking: “Oh, I bet it’s because she was bullied for her weight when she was a kid”, or: “Well, just another one of those girls who wanted to be skinnier”. Possibly also: “I never would have thought that someone like her would end up with an eating disorder. She always seemed so confident!”

So, to combat the fear of coming off like a cliché or sob story, I knew simply had to tell my whole and honest story. Because even if I’m worried about being put in a box or labelled as something I’m not, it still happened. And it’s still my story. And to move on from it, or better, with it, I have to tell it. And I have to tell it right. 

So, here it goes.

Ever since I can remember, I have disliked my body. Growing up as a Human Person™ in this society, I realize that’s not really something that makes me stand out (which, if you think about it, is actually incredibly fucking sad). Apart from my own self, however, no one ever really shamed for the way that I looked and I was also never bullied or teased by others because of it. So, that’s a no for the “Oh, I bet it’s because she was bullied for her weight when she was a kid”-stereotype. It makes me want to gauge the patriarchal beauty standard’s eyes out, to think that never actively having been shamed for my body or weight, is something that I can consider a “privilege” in this world. I’m aware that a lot of kids and adults don’t have that twisted privilege, which, again, just makes me want to set the world of body ideals on fire, but I don’t want to diverge too much from the point of this post. 

Remember that society I was talking about? Yeah, with that around, having someone point out or shame you for how your body looks different from what’s considered the ideal, isn’t really something that’s necessary in order for you to still notice it and develop massive insecurities. So, even though I was “lucky” and “privileged” enough to have avoided being bullied for my body by real-life people, I still grew up not liking the way I looked, always noticing that my stomach, my thighs, my arms, my boobs, my butt, were different to those of the girls everyone called pretty. Which inevitably led to me harbouring a contained, yet undeniably significant amount of self-hatred for the way my body looked over time.

Now, I might have been one of many body-conscious teenagers, but, in quite stark contrast to that, I was also a seemingly self-confident one. Or at least I really, really wanted to be. It’s what everyone always told me I came across as. The loud, opinionated and self-assured girl, who didn’t care what people thought of her. Maybe that was to compensate for my own insecurities, maybe it was for protection, or maybe it was also because I just knew, or hoped, it was the right way to go. I believed and preached that how I looked, what I weighed and what I ate didn’t matter, both to myself and to all of my friends and family. I knew I was absolutely fine the way that I was, as long as I was physically and mentally healthy. I’ve always known that, and I fully believe in it too. And yet, here I am. About to tell you what both you and me are already suspecting: The story of how that knowledge didn’t end up protecting me as well as I thought it would.

Despite me always having believed in not giving a shit about beauty standards, ideal body types and the obsession with whatever the fuck “skinny”, “slim thick” and “lean” are supposed to be, it undeniably had an effect on me. Just like it has an effect on literally every other person, regardless of gender or age. It’s pretty much passed onto us the minute we’re born, like a part of our literal DNA. It makes me sick to my very core, but I always knew that this insecurity, no matter how much I knew it shouldn’t have ever been one and no matter how much I fought to stand above it, was woven into the very fabric of my being. The very minute we learn to interact with others and the world around us, the clear, limited and completely unrealistic image of how we’re supposed to look in order to meet societal expectations, is indoctrinated into our innocent brains – consciously, subconsciously and in literally every other way possible.

I don’t want to give a lecture on how society, media, and peers make us believe it’s necessary and right to chase bodies that, realistically, no one can ever outrun, but I felt like saying at least this much about it to set the base for what’s about to come. Certainly, this almost innate, underlying dislike for my body – or most parts of it – wasn’t the sole reason for developing an eating disorder in my early twenties. But it was most definitely a cruel predisposition that played a big part in how my anorexia unfolded and the leverage it had and still has on me.

I mentioned in the beginning how, despite it being one of the most common mental health disorders, there’s barely any scientific explanations as to how eating disorders really come to be. Which is why assuming that being unhappy with my body and the way it looked was the only reason I slipped into disordered eating, would simply be false. After all, I lived twenty-one years of my life being more or less fine with it. It was an insecurity, yes, but it didn’t dictate my every day life, it didn’t influence how I lived it. So, the “Well, just another one of those girls who wanted to be skinnier”-stereotype, doesn’t really prove to be fully true either.

Which leaves the last assumption: “I never would have thought that someone like her would end up with an eating disorder. She always seemed so confident!”

To which I can only say: Yeah, uh ... same? I mean, do you really think there’s anyone who found themselves developing an eating disorder only to think: “Oh, yeah, that makes sense, I always knew I’d end up like that!” Sorry, that was a bit dark. I know that this assumption is something that mostly I myself am worried about and that there’s no reason for me to actually get defensive. However, while most reactions to me talking about my eating disorder have been very comforting and caring, I’ve also had a few quite unpleasant experiences and well, those tend to have the harsher impact. So, please forgive my mildly cynical reasoning here.

Right, then. If I didn’t ever get bullied for my body or weight, didn’t just want to “be skinny” and really am that confident – how did this happen?

Well, I’ve already given part of the explanation just now, when I told you about my unfortunate predisposition of never really having fully loved or accepted my body. The other part of the explanation, lies in pretty much every other post I have written so far. Most of all the latest one: Control.

It was a real challenge to have written that last entry without ever mentioning my anorexia with even one word. Because really, for me personally, control is literally all it ever was and will be about. My therapist told me that it’s quite common in other eating disordered people too. But again, I’m not here to talk about anyone else, I’m here to talk about my own experience. And it starts just like I said in my last post: With losing control. And in many ways, the combination of always having disliked my body and suddenly having slithered into a massive life-crisis where I felt like I had lost all power and control over everything, was the very dangerous mixture that started it all. 

I don’t want to make it about that too much, but it’s still worth mentioning that after my semester abroad, which had ended in January of 2018, I had gained some weight. Weight that, having changed up my diet a few years prior, I had actually lost and that all of a sudden, was now back on again. It had just been a very wonderful yet also stressful time abroad and well, heaps of uni work, very little sleep and the general student lifestyle, just caused me to pile on a few kilos. The part of me that genuinely never gave a fuck about body standards, once again did genuinely not give a fuck about that. And yeah, when I came back, there were the occasional family remarks of “Look at you, gained quite a bit of weight there, didn’t you?” (which I know are made with no malicious intent, by the way, but, forgive me if I say this: just shut up) and I had also obviously started noticing that none of my old clothes fit anymore and I did indeed look a lot larger than in any of my older pictures. Was that a blow to my self-built confidence because we live in a society that rewards weight loss and punishes weight gain? Sure. Was that when I developed anorexia? Nope.

Because, if you’ve been following the timeline of my mental health issues that I have oh so passionately been crafting in the last few posts, it wasn’t until autumn of 2018 that I first started struggling with my back then still undiscovered control issues, which lead to my anxiety, depression, insomnia and – now that I’m telling my whole story – my eating disorder. Or, to be fully correct, disordered eating, back then. Because just like the rest of my mental health issues, this too, crept up on me slowly at first.

I remember the first time I had this very simple thought. At least, it felt simple. Simple, but so deeply wrong and dangerous. And yet once I had had it, it wouldn’t leave anymore. It should have rang all the alarm bells in my head. It really should have. But I understand now, that the reason I had this very simple, deeply wrong and dangerous thought, was because I was desperate to control something, anything at all. Regain power over just one part of my life, whatever that might be.

So, that thought kept coming back. Over and over again:

What if I just stopped eating?

I would snap out of it and tell myself: “What the fuck, Isa? That’s ridiculous. Also, what does that even mean, are you crazy? You love food, you love eating it and you need it to survive.” And I’d ignore it again. But it would come back. Every now and then, usually in the moments where I felt worst about myself, it would echo stronger in my own head and ignoring it would become harder and harder. It was a thought so insane and so ridiculous, I told nobody about it. My rational mind knew that it was totally stupid to even consider something like that, and so I felt stupid for doing it. Which is why talking about it was off the table for me, back then. It was my dirty, little, silly secret and I was going to keep it that way. 

I was smarter than that, I knew better than that. 

It didn’t change the fact that I felt so lost in university though, and even more lost in life, and so that shitty thought just wouldn’t leave me alone. Until eventually, I budged. And that’s the part where it really stops being witty and smart-assy. 

Because that’s the part where I made the decision to only eat once a day. And it was a decision that I fought for with an iron will. A decision that gave me control. Over all the wrong things.

I said I would tell my whole and honest story, but in case you were wondering: No, I’m not gonna give any numbers, not when it comes to weight and not when it comes to calories. Mainly because the only thing they do is create competition and shock value. Even to people who don’t struggle with eating disorders. And apart from that, they’re also triggering to me, even if it’s my own story. So, all I’ll say is that I limited myself to one meal a day. For an entire year. It didn’t always work, thank God for that in hindsight. But I tried to do it every day nonetheless, and even though it wasn’t a by-the-books eating disorder yet (which is a whole other rant I have but that’s not for now), it completely ruined my relationship with food, my body image and my own self-worth. 

Every time I ate, I would feel guilty, it made me feel like a failure. I had never experienced this kind of shame before, the idea of feeling accomplished whenever I managed to go without eating for almost an entire day. It was this sick sense of pride and, you guessed it: Control. And yet it wasn’t enough, because my body would obviously fight back, demanding food with every bit of power and rage it had over me. I felt awful. On top of university stress, panic attacks, anxiety, depression and insomnia, I was now also hungry almost all the time. And when I had my one meal a day, I wouldn’t enjoy it. I would simply gorge on it because I was so depleted and ravenous. And then I would feel guilty and hate myself for it.

This went on for many months. I hid it as best as I could and in most social situations, I would make exceptions so that people wouldn’t notice. Exceptions I would hate myself for, but they had to be made to keep this habit my aforementioned dirty, little secret. It was like an entire new personality was starting to form inside my own. A dark and hateful one that chipped away at all that confidence and rational I had built over the years. A few close friends suspected eventually that something was off, and some of them asked about it but I would immediately play it off as just not feeling well because of all my other mental struggles, the ones they already knew about. It was an excuse that made sense, so no one really dug any deeper. And I couldn’t really have given another explanation back then anyway. Because again, I didn’t know yet why any of this was happening. I didn’t know that not eating was a twisted and horrible coping mechanism, that I had developed to gain back some sense of control in my life.

At that point, I had started weighing myself too. Something that had given me a big, bad shock when I first saw the number on the scale. In my mind, it was big and bad too. I knew how much I had weighed pre-semester-abroad. And so I knew how much I must have gained and by now also lost again. And yet that number was still way too big. It crushed me. And sadly, only spurred me on more. I would try not to eat. I would “fail”. I would hate myself. Rinse and repeat.

And no one knew what was going on. Least of all me.

It got a little bit better over the summer of 2019, just like the rest of my mental health did. That was around the time I had finally made the decision to take a gap year and figure out all my issues. And that included the very bad eating habits I had developed over the last year. In a way, that decision was also a way of me gaining back control, which was presumably why all my other bad coping strategies, including the not eating, faded away a little. No more nightly panic attacks. No more insomnia. And a lot more breakfast, lunch and dinner. I still didn’t like my body, I was still scared of the number on the scale. But I was ready to turn my life around again, get therapy and fight that nasty, dangerous habit I had let myself fall into.

Unfortunately, as I already mentioned in previous posts, the therapy I was so clearly in desperate need of, didn’t work out as quickly as I had wished (again, thanks for that, health care system). I had gone to my first ever assessment where they had diagnosed me with anxiety and depression disorder. And, actually, the psychiatrist that I had had my first ever session with, had also decided to diagnose me with anorexia nervosa because according to her, while I hadn’t ticked all of the eating disorder boxes yet, I definitely did show signs of eating disordered and anorexic behaviour. To me, that had sounded quite ridiculous and harsh at the time. Anorexia? Pft, no way, I didn’t look like the girls from the shocking posters and depressing documentaries, it was no where as serious as that. (Tip of the hat to those stigmas and stereotypes I was talking about earlier)

But of course, she was right. However, they didn’t have a free spot for one on one therapy and group sessions weren’t really what I was looking for either. So, I went on a waiting list and never heard back from them again.

The cold season crept back in and the wonderful, warm and sunny-safe bubble I had lived in all summer, burst as quickly as it had been blown into existence. Everyone went back to work, back to uni, back to life. And I ... well, I went back to being lost. To not knowing what to do. To having to write my thesis I still couldn’t write for some reason. To having panic attacks. To having insomnia.

To not eating.

Only that after a year of being so miserable whenever I ate food and still feeling so awful in my own body, I decided I would have to change the way I was going about it. In my extremely mentally fragile mind, I thought I had to step it up if I really wanted results. And, as I like to say it, that’s when shit really hit the fan. In a way, it felt like I had spent an entire year sitting on a roller coaster ride that was slowly climbing up the incline, getting closer and closer to the inevitable drop. And just like on any actual roller coaster, when that drop came, it came fast.

It was no longer about just eating one and any meal a day. In the matter of a week or two, it became about numbers, calories, measurements, grams, milliliters. All of a sudden, I found myself meticulously writing down every single thing I ate and when I had eaten it. The food groups kept shrinking and so did my portions and the amount of calories I would consume in a day. I would set a new limit on Monday and decrease it again by Wednesday, pushing myself harder, restricting more and more with every week. All I could think about was food. And all I could do was not eat it. In what felt like a matter of seconds, a worry, a fear, a habit had turned into a full-fledged obsession. An addiction. And that’s when anorexia entered my life.

I’ve re-written this part over and over again because I’m desperately trying not to make it sound like a pseudo-romantic and tastelessly dramatic young adult novel. But I realize that’s just my fear of sounding like a cliché again. So, I’ll stop scratching and writing everything anew now, and just keep going.

In the first few days and weeks of crashing into this new, horrible world, I remember yet again thinking another very simple, yet dangerous and devastating thought. The one beside “What if I just stopped eating?”. And this thought, to me personally, was even scarier than the last one. 

It was the thought of: “What if I can never eat again?”

Because that’s exactly what anorexia felt like to me.

Many people describe it as a whole other person in their head. Almost like a foreign entity, taking over your life. And while I very strongly relate to these descriptions, I have learned that it’s best for me to not always manifest my eating disorder into a separate identity to my own, because in certain times, that gives it too much power and makes it seem undefeatable. Which it isn’t. So, I’m going to try and describe it in another way. The way I first described it to my therapist. With a metaphor, of course.

It felt like up until this point, I had been sitting in the car that was my own life, driving down the road of my present and future, looking in the rear view mirror at my past. I was the one with the foot on the gas and the breaks, I was the one that decided what turn or exit to take. Autumn of 2018 had felt like breaking down in that car, having to pull over and being lost in the middle of nowhere, without any signs to guide the way. My bad eating habits felt like someone stopping and pretending to help me, jump staring my car and having it tucker slowly again while following me at walking speed, with me still not really knowing where I was going. And finally, anorexia felt like that someone kicking me out of my car, buckling me into the passenger seat, taping my mouth shut and taking over the stirring wheel.

All of a sudden, it felt like I had no say in where I was heading, how fast I was driving or what road I was going down. For over a year, I had used this dangerous and awful habit of coping by not eating, to wield control and have power over something. And now, it had taken that power away again, like a pact with the god damn devil, and had started to use it over me instead. Which is exactly what eating disorders do, and what my anorexia did too. They give you a false sense of control because control is all you want, and yet all you can’t have. All you need to do is replace control with food. Because food is all you want, and yet all you can’t have. Anorexia gave me my own, fucked up metaphor for my control issues. 

I knew that what I was doing was more than just dangerous. It was no longer just trying to eat once a day, not managing to and then hating myself. This was barely eating anything at all, setting the bar lower each day and starving myself. And not in the figurative way. I lost weight so rapidly, I could barely keep track. The scale became my second home, the calories my worst enemy and food, or more trying to avoid it, the entire purpose of my life. Nothing else mattered anymore. 

Falling into anorexia has been the scariest and most horrible thing I have ever had to go through. It felt like I had lost myself. I was still there, in my own head, somewhere. Still strapped into the passenger seat. But I had no say in any of my actions. I just silently watched and witnessed, obeying everything my eating disorder told me to do. I know I said I usually avoid completely painting it as a separate person in my own head, but back then, back when I was still severely anorexic, that was just what it felt like. Like a literal parasite, that had latched onto me and was sucking me dry of any and every life force and fight I still had left.

All my days would consist of trying to navigate around food, doing my best to avoid it, lying to everyone, most of all myself. I would look up every single nutritional information of everything, every meal at a restaurant, every drink. I had lists where I wrote it all down, tracking my calorie intake and weight loss. Documents that contained all the calories from every single food and also non-food item imaginable. It would start with things like fruits, vegetables and condiments and end with things like tea, vitamins, chewing gum and toothpaste. I would google how many calories a panic attack burned. I would pace up and down my room at night to get my step count higher. I would walk around the city aimlessly for hours every single day to avoid eating, no matter the weather, no matter the time. I would work out at the gym like a maniac and almost pass out every single time afterwards. At family breakfast, I would hide food in my sleeves and socks to avoid eating it. It was more than just ridiculous. It was insanity. But it was an insanity I couldn’t let go of.

Anorexia was the most twisted and horrendous full-time commitment of my life. I had felt lost and without purpose for so long and in the most fucked up way, my eating disorder had given me a 9-to-5 – no, scratch that, a 24-god-damn-7 job to do. It had given me a new purpose and a painful illusion of the things I had craved for so long. Control, willpower, strength, endurance. Only that it was exactly that – just an illusion. Because at the end of the day, I would go to bed empty, both literally and figuratively, feeling nothing and hating everything. Because that’s what anorexia does. It strips you of everything you have in life. It takes away every joy, every pleasure, every interest, hobby, passion or relationship, and it isolates you. Completely. It worms its way into your life and fills out every single nook and crack until it’s the only thing that seems to be left. And therefore, the only thing you still care about. 

It felt like losing my complete identity.

Mentally, I was at the worst state I had ever been in my life. This was around December of 2019. I had barely been keeping all of this up for over a month, but I was eating so little that I had lost an alarmingly large amount of weight very fast, which came at a high cost. I was always cold, I couldn’t sleep, I had awful headaches, I kept forgetting conversations and talks I had had with friends, I felt dizzy and nauseous all the time and worst of all, I was so cripplingly depressed that I didn’t even care about any of that. Because when you deprive your brain of nutrients this much, it just shuts down. And that’s what I did, too. I just went into standby mode, as I kept losing more weight and becoming more miserable with each day that passed.

Both my body and mind were running on nothing but adrenaline and thin air and I lived life in this absolutely isolated and horrible auto-pilot, where I continued on as if nothing was happening, as more of me, both physically and mentally, disappeared and was replaced with complete emptiness. I still struggle to find the right words to describe how I felt back then. The only thing that comes close is just complete nothingness. Like a fucking black hole inside of me that had swallowed everything and created a complete vacuum.

Writing about this makes me want to just close my laptop and stop. In a way, it feels like giving my eating disorder and the hardest time of my life a spot light. Like giving it attention and a stage to perform on, to flaunt its dramatic tragedy. I can feel that the anorexia loves that, relishes every word I’m typing about it, every second of attention I’m giving to it. And hate that, I fucking despise it. Because it doesn’t deserve its own stage. It never did and it never will. So, let’s try and move on to the part where things changed.

Back then, I might have become a master of lying and avoiding most people’s questions about me never seeming to be hungry or wanting to eat. But thankfully, there were a few of my close friends that had started to notice. Not gonna name any names, but you know who you are. And I cannot even begin to say how incredibly thankful and lucky I am to have had you there. Because even when I had given up on myself, you didn’t. Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t all rainbows and sunshine, oh no. I was still in a very, very bad place mentally, and my eating disorder was not planning on leaving any time soon.

But, with the help and intervention of said good friends and a few select, eye-opening experiences (that I won’t talk about because they really weren’t ideal but still ended up helping somehow), I finally realized the very obvious but up until then seemingly impossible thing: I had to start eating again. And I had to start now. 

And I did.

Looking back, I cannot even express how glad I am about that. Because it had started to become really critical. And I consider myself to be very lucky that it didn’t have to get even worse. That I was still able to make my own decisions and finally get help. Finding therapy was once again not easy but eventually, I did find an outpatient clinic that offered immediate consultation, as well as an appointment with a psychiatrist for medication and an internist for physical check-ups. And, to maybe bring back a slight sense of cheerfulness: It was also when I finally got to meet my therapist Kerstin.

Again, none of this was as easy and swift as it might sound like with me narrating it in those few sentences, but this post can only go on for so much longer before I get too drained and decide to just delete all of it again, so I will try and come to a close, for now. There’s still so much more to tell when it comes to my journey with my eating disorder and my mental health, because it’s nowhere near finished. And worry not, I will tell it – not so much for the sake of those of you who read it, but more so for my own. But for now, I want to finish by saying this much – mainly to myself again, but also to anyone else who might need to hear it: 

I know it might feel like you don’t care. 

About yourself, about what happens to you, about the future, about happiness. I know it might feel like you’re faking everything, lying to everyone and just pretending all the time. I know you might feel so horribly and painfully empty that all you want to do is sit still in the void of your own head and let the misery wash over you in dreadful peace. I know you might think that the only sense of comfort you can find, lies in the things that hurt you most. I know your pain seems like an old friend, one that will never leave you and therefore is worth staying close to. I know that continuing to fight on and struggling through life and all the hardships it throws at you, sometimes feels so impossible, that it seems easier to just give in and give up. 

The thing about that is, though: It’s fucking bullshit.

It’s nothing but a very mean and disgusting way of all your inner pain, trauma and warped coping mechanisms to try to pull you down to keep you “safe” from things that you can absolutely, completely and totally battle. And, yeah, it sure as shit ain’t easy. God, if I had a dollar for every time I had to pick myself back up after I stepped on a scale, after I ate something that scared me, after I looked in the mirror, after I relapsed, after I went back on track again, after I wished I could just melt into a formless blob and slowly whither away in peace– I would be a rich woman. But neither life nor capitalism work that way, unfortunately. So, why do I still bother? 

Well, because after going through hell and back, it’s the only thing I have left. It’s the only option there is.

You might not know who you are. You might not know what you’re doing, where you’re going, if you’re ever going to get better, if you’ll ever feel happy and at home in your own mind, body and life again. But what you can and should know, is that you can always try. Even if it seems pointless, even if it seems like you’re running in circles, wanting to bash your head against the wall because of how senseless it all feels. 

You can still try. 

And try, and try, and try again. It’s a choice and it is a hard one. Maybe the hardest one you will ever have to make. 

But I chose to make it, and I still continue to. Every day. With every morning I wake up, every therapy session I go to, every panic attack I breathe through, every depressive phase I crawl back out of, every meal I eat. I choose to do it, I choose to keep pushing because when it feels like all the bad and dark thoughts are more powerful than me and threaten to swallow me alive, making the choice to fight back as much as I can, is what proves that I am and always will be more powerful than them. 

Because this is my life. My body. My head. My brain. My mind. And I’d be a god damn fool to give them up to those inner demons that would never know how to treat them right, how to cherish them and keep them happy, healthy and alive. Because I think we can all agree that, at the end of the day, being happy is a hell of a lot better than being sad and empty. And so, at the end of the day, I realized that nothing and no one, not even my mental health disorders and past traumas, can take away what will always, exclusively and fully belong to me and me only: 

My choice, my happiness, my control – the right one, this time.

[the-redhead-who-writes]

Out of a Hat

"Picture Marvin performing a classic: pulling a rabbit out of a hat. He's done it a thousand times, but you've never been in the audience before..." A sweet, fluffy fic staring you and our magic boy!

It’s story time again, dorks! This fic is a birthday gift for @freckled-words! I know she has a soft spot for our magic boy, so I wrote a story based on a prompt I sent to her blog ages ago. I hope you guys enjoy!

Links: AO3

Your hair blew gently around your shoulders as you strolled aimlessly along the gravel pathways, the sun warm on your bare arms. You took a deep breath, smiling contentedly in the fresh air.

It really was the perfect day to be outside.

When you woke up that morning to the gorgeous summer sunshine streaming in through your window, you’d immediately jumped on the chance to take advantage of the weather. Throwing on your favourite blue sundress, you packed a picnic lunch and chose to head to the park a few blocks from your house.

You arrived around midday, and initially, it seemed pretty quiet; some parents were out with their kids by the play equipment, a few elderly couples were sitting by the fountain, and the ice cream vendor had just opened her pop-up stand. On a Saturday like this, you’d expected there to be more people around.

So where was everyone?

You got your answer as the sounds of distant applause and cheering floated up from the nearby grandstand at the bottom of the hill. Intrigued, you decided to put your picnic on hold and take a look.

Reaching the top, you peered down and saw a decent-sized crowd had gathered around a makeshift stage, an accented voice echoing over the mass of spectators.

“-nd that, kids, is why we only let a trained professional light a deck of cards on fire.” Laughter rang out, though you struggled to see from your distant vantage point.

From what you could tell, there was a man on stage. Standing next to a small table and wearing a long black cape, a blue shirt, and dark pants, he interacted animatedly with the audience in front of him. He also had a top hat, and what looked like… a mask?

Your brain worked to connect the dots, and a wide grin spread across your face.

A Magician!

Filled with sudden, childlike excitement, you ran the rest of the way down the hill only to hit the immovable wall of the crowd.

You huffed, cursing your height as your craned your neck to try and see.

“Alrighty, onto my next trick!” Whoops were met as the man addressed the captivated audience, and he motioned to a velvet drawstring bag sitting on the fold-out table.

“I sure hope no here is allergic to feathers,” he called out with a waggle of his eyebrows, and the crowd held its breath in anticipation. He reached his hand down into the bag, bizarrely sinking to his shoulder as he seemed to feel around for something. Then, with a flourish, he yanked his hand back out.

“Ta-da!”

... A beat of silence, then more laughter. Clutched in the Magician’s fist was a large white pillow.

At this, the man blinked before bringing the pillow to eye-level and staring at it perplexedly. “Um… pretty sure this is supposed to be a bird.”

He quickly turned back to the bag and grabbed it with his free hand. “I know I brought them!” he muttered to “himself” as he gave it a furious shake, even going as far as to stick his face into the mouth of the bag while the audience roared with laughter.

With a dumbfounded look, he dropped the bag back on the table.

“Sorry everybody, it looks like I done goofed!”

He shrugged helplessly amid playful shouts of disappointment, and you giggled at the hurt-puppy expression on his partially concealed face.

“Now now, don't worry folks; there’s plenty more magic to be seen!” the showman hurriedly assured his fans. “Let’s just move on, shall we?”

Scattered applause, then he looked dejectedly at the pillow he was still holding.

“Guess I won’t be needing this!” he said dismissively and turned his back on the crowd. Throwing the pillow carelessly over his shoulder, it arced high in the air, and just before it looked like it would fall into the audience, there was a tremendous bang! and a puff of thick smoke.

People screamed in surprise, and you flinched at the sudden loud sound. Then the smoke cleared, and you blinked up at the sky, your eyes growing wide with delight.

An entire flock of white doves swirled overhead, dipping and gliding in the wind. The crowd went wild, people young and old reaching up to try and touch the birds as they flew past and disappeared over the horizon.

The Magician happily bowed to deafening applause, and his show carried on for another 20 minutes, during which he made a selection of colourful scarves tie and untie themselves in a series of complicated looking knots; built a very impressive, multi-tiered house of cards, only to slip and knock the entire structure over amidst laughter; and performed an enthralling show with shadow hand puppets, ranging from your basic cat to an entire moose!

Once he finished putting away the projector and screen used for the shadow puppets, the Magician raised his hands, and silence fell over the crowd.

“Thank you so much, you've been an absolutely fantastic audience! But, I'm afraid all things must come to an end.”

You ‘aww’d’ along with everyone else, and the man held his fist to his mouth dramatically, pretending to hold back a sob.

“No, please, no tears. For this, my final trick, is both a classic and my personal favourite!” He swiped his top hat off his head and threw it towards the card table, where it landed smoothly with the brim facing up.

Your heart leapt at the declaration, but of course, you weren't the only one excited to see what would happen. The entire mob swarmed forward, trying to get even an inch closer to the stage.

That's when you saw it; a narrow space in the throng of people.

You hesitated, biting your lip and weighing your options. It was probably the only opening you were going to get, but there was a real possibility you could get crushed in the impending stampede… Was it worth the risk?

“Now I can't do this trick alone. Allow me to introduce a friend of mine!”

At that, The Magician reached into the folds of his satin cape and from somewhere within its depths produced just about the cutest rabbit you'd ever seen.

“This is Bunny! Say hello, Bunny!” The animal blinked lazily, twitching its soft pink nose while the audience cooed at the small creature.

Well, that was easy.

Steeling your resolve, you clutched your picnic basket to your chest and dove forward.

It was mass hysteria; people everywhere bumping into each other and elbows flying. It was also nearly impossible to see, but luckily you could still hear as the Magician carried on with his act.

“Now watch as I place Bunny inside my trusty hat, hiding her under this handkerchief. And with a wave of my hands…”

You could only assume his next few actions. There was a rustle of fabric and then-

“Behold!!” More applause as the crowd ‘ooh-ed’ and ‘ahh-ed’ in excitement. “Have no fear; bringing her back is a simple task for a skilled Magician! First, I re-cover the hat, like so-”

Worried you were going to miss the end of the performance, you redoubled your efforts to wiggle through. And while it took some maneuvering that would've made a gymnast blush, you managed to squeeze into the heart of the crowd unscathed.

Brushing off your dress, you looked up to a perfect view of the stage and the Magician as he laid a deep purple cloth over his empty top hat.

His mask caught your eye first; definitely catlike, with the four card suit emblems painted on the forehead. Pointy green ears and whiskers completed the look, though the ears weren’t the only green feature. Up close and without his hat, you realized the front of his brown hair was dyed a bright shade of green. Unusual, but you found that it suited him handsomely.

“Is everyone ready?”

You were pulled from your thoughts at his Irish-tinged voice, now louder that you were near the front.

“How about on the count of 3?”

Explosive cheers as he took a step back, bracing himself as he lifted his hands towards his hat. “Ok, here we go!”

“1!”

The audience chimed in with his count, yourself included. The look of giddy joy on the man’s face was infectious, and you couldn’t help but laugh.

“2!!”

The crowd was on the edge of its seat, practically vibrating with energy. You gripped your picnic basket tighter, eagerly awaiting the climax of his trick as your heart drummed in your chest.

“3!!!”

Just as he reached the end of the countdown, the Magician turned his head towards the crowd. His eyes swept over the audience, positively beaming, before coming to rest… on you.

Your breath caught in your throat.

It should’ve been impossible to tell; there were dozens of other people crowded around you, and the mask he wore obscured his face. But for some reason you just knew: he was looking at you.

The realization hit you suddenly, and the effect was immediate: a blush heated your cheeks, an uncontrollable smile stretching across your face as the roar of the crowd faded. You thought you saw his eyes widen behind his mask, and you couldn’t help but wonder what colour they were…

A flash of shimmering green light. A cool, tingling sensation that prickled your skin.

You didn’t even have the chance to be shocked as the weight of your picnic basket and the feeling of the uneven grass beneath your feet suddenly melted away.

Sound filled your ears, growing from a soft hum to a high-pitched whistling. The world became a blur and your eyes were forced shut. Your body lurched, rushing up, forward, somewhere and then-

Your shoes slammed back down to earth on a much more solid surface. You groaned, the air punched from your lungs and head spinning from vertigo. Squinting at the too-bright sunshine, you slowly opened your eyes.

Hundreds of eyes stared back at you; dozens of faces you didn’t recognize shouting and waving in a frenzy.

You froze.

...You were standing on stage.

The same stage you were fairly certain you’d just been watching from a few dozen feet away.

A strange, hysterical urge to laugh rose up in you.

This-this wasn’t happening. It was impossible. How?!

Trying and failing to understand what was going on, you were about two seconds from bolting when something soft fell in front of your face. Startled, you made to brush whatever it was aside and noticed a weight in your arms.

You glanced down.

There was a rabbit cradled soundly against your chest, soaking in the warmth of your body.

A very familiar rabbit.

The Magicians-

Your eyes widened as your thoughts caught up with you. Shaking away whatever was hanging in your eyes, you turned your head.

The man standing across from you was no longer the playful, composed performer you’d been watching mere moments ago. Now he was completely red in the face, flushing from the tips of his ears to the base of his neck. His mouth hung open in embarrassed horror, hands raised in shock.

Now that you were this close to him, you distantly realized his eyes were a breathtaking blue.

“THAT WAS INCREDIBLE!!”

“Is she his assistant or something?”

“Must be, they totally match!!”

“Aww, they’re so cute together!”

“Where did the ears come from, though?”

...Ears?

The snippets of conversation drew your attention away from the shell-shocked man, and your face turned a shade of scarlet that rivaled his own.

You… you had bunny ears on. The new feeling and weight of a headband confirmed it.

What. The. Hell.

As for the two of you matching, well... Your sundress… did compliment the blue of his shirt... But that was just a coincidence!

A small voice in the back of your mind whispered something else entirely.

Fate.

The blood pounded in your ears, a combination of shock and self-consciousness coursing through you. But as you turned to look at the Magician again, his face marred with apologetic humiliation, you felt a twinge of sympathy.

Sure, you had no idea how this happened, but apparently, neither did he. And he certainly looked like he felt sorry - if “sorry” meant about to pass out cold.

You looked back at the screaming audience, took a deep breath, and came to a decision.

Moving to deposit Bunny into the awaiting hat on the card table, you then walked to the edge of the stage, where you started clapping. Smiling as brightly as you could manage, you exclaimed, “Another round of applause, everyone! Wasn’t that incredible?”

You hurried to wave the Magician out of his stupor and to your side. He watched you incredulously, but cautiously took center stage.

The crowd’s cheers grew tenfold, and a hesitant smile tugged at the showman's lips.

He was still a little stunned, so you ever-so-slightly elbowed him in the ribs. He yelped, but after your pointed head jerk towards the audience seemed to take the hint.

Clearing his throat, he called over the crowd in a wavering voice, “T-thank you, you’re too kind…”

He fidgeted with the hem of his cape before adding, “And of course, I couldn’t have done it without the help of my-” he shot you a side glance, “-lovely a-assistant.”

Shyly taking one of your hands in his, he brought it up to his lips and brushed a feather-light kiss over your knuckles.

You had no hope of containing the fresh blush his words and actions caused, so instead, you embraced it, turning back to the audience. “He’s truly amazing, isn’t he? Really, how does he do it?”

Then, as a little payback, you leaned down to eye-level, lowering your voice to a teasing whisper. “I sure wish I knew…”

The Magician gulped, and you smothered a laugh as he released your hand.

You both stood basking in the adoration of the audience when you thought of something.

“Bow.”

“W-what?”

“Go on, take a bow!” You stepped back to give him the floor, no longer needing to fake your smile.

He nodded jerkily, turning to face his adoring fans. With a show of grandeur, he swept his cape back and bowed low to overwhelming applause.

You grinned despite the absurdity of the situation; he made it easy.

“Marvin the Magnificent thanks you one and all! Until next time, folks!”

His encompassing stage presence seemingly back in full swing, he swiftly turned to offer you his arm. You sheepishly accepted and together you headed backstage, waving goodbye to the crowd.

But as soon as you’d gotten behind the curtain and out of sight, the man - Marvin - whirled around, guilt written all over his features.

“Miss, I am so, so, sorry. I-I didn’t mean to - I swear I know that trick like the back of my hand and I’ve done it just fine all the other times!! But then I saw you and I got distracted and I guess I just... ”

He trailed off, looking utterly lost, and while you had to admit it was a little cute, you didn’t like seeing him so upset.

“Marvin- um, is that your real name?” you asked softly, and he nodded. Happy to finally know his name, you continued, “Marvin, it’s alright.”

You dropped your gaze to your sandals, shuffling your feet.

“I’ll be honest, I’m not usually so good in front of crowds, but whatever that was back there…” You looked up, gazing into his ocean-blue eyes, “It was amazing. Or-” you chuckled, tucking a lock of hair behind your ear- “should I say “magnificent?”

Another blush crawled up his face, disappearing behind his mask. He opened his mouth to say something - probably another stuttered apology - when a figure barrelled out of nowhere, tackling Marvin in a fierce hug.

“Bro, that was awesome!!” the stranger cried, enthusiastically noogie-ing Marvin while he spluttered in protest.

“Ch-Chase, dammit, cut it out!”

Marvin quickly twisted himself out of the headlock, blushing even harder than before.

The new man, who was excitedly bouncing on the balls of his feet, bore a striking resemblance to Marvin, green hair and all. “How'd you do it, huh?” he prodded eagerly, “And why didn’t ya tell us you got an assistant?”

“He didn’t. Ol’ Marvin here just can’t seem to keep it in his pants,” a grating, high-pitched voice said in your ear, and you whirled around to see a man resembling the first two with black gauges in his ears.

His smirk was sharp, as were his teeth, and you let out an involuntary shriek at the deep, crude gashes in his neck.

He cackled at the clear horror on your face. “Aw, don’t worry about these, girlie. Not all of Marvin’s tricks can go as well as this one, ya know?”

You paled, and his giggles only grew louder.

Marvin choked, horrified. “He’s just kidding, I swear!!”

The manic grin on the scarred man’s face did little to calm the frantic beating of your heart, but you chose to believe Marvin rather than dwell on the alternatives.

Swallowing, you tentatively asked, “Wh-who are you guys? More performers?”

The three men exchanged bemused looks, and Scars started laughing again.

Marvin hurriedly shushed him. “Not quite,” he explained. “These are my uh… brothers: Chase-“ A quick nod to the man now fiddling with a Nerf gun he’d pulled from the waistband of his jeans. “-and Anti.“ Another sinister smirk from Scars. “They come to watch my shows sometimes, that’s all.”

“And this one was totally rad!” Chase chimed in excitedly, “Way cooler than his usual stuff - especially that last part!”

Anti leered at you, grinning. “Yeah, Marvie sure can pick ‘em.”

Marvin bristled, moving to stand just a little closer to you. You didn’t notice, though, your curiosity piqued.

“Wait, what was ‘cooler’?”

Chase shrugged. “Normally his “big finish” is just making his rabbit disappear and reappear. Totally lame.”

You blinked. “I thought you had, like, an actual assistant waiting in the wings or something.”

Marvin flinched, rubbing the back of his neck. “No… Like I said, it was an accident.“

“Oh, so were these an accident too then?” You reached up to pointedly tug on your newest accessory, rubbing the silky material of one ear between your fingers.

Marvin’s face went crimson once more as he stammered, refusing to meet your gaze.

Anti’s giggles were back, seemingly unfazed by Marvin’s red-faced glare.

“He really likes bunnies.”

The emphasis behind his words didn’t go unnoticed. The silence was suffocating with Marvin looking anywhere but at you and Anti grinning like a cat who found the birdcage open.

Thankfully, Chase spoke up, blissfully unaware of the lingering tension. “So… you aren’t his new assistant?”

You blanked. “I-I don't think so?” you answered, unsure.

Chase cocked his head, crestfallen. “Why not? It looked like you had fun, and you guys were so cool.”

His reasoning was simple, but you realized that Chase was right nonetheless. As crazy as the show had been, the thrill of performing was something you could definitely get used to. Coupled with the chance to work (and maybe even grow closer) with Marvin? It was a no-brainer!

“I mean… I could be convinced to do another show or two.”

Marvin’s face lit up, and he turned to gape at you again. “R-really? You wouldn’t mind?”

“Sure, so long as you don’t mind training me a bit first.”

Marvin beamed. “Of course! I’ll teach you everything I know!”

“That’ll be a quick class,” Anti muttered snidely.

You frowned at the jab and took Marvin by the hand, who was still grinning brilliantly.

“Wanna go chat for a bit?” he asked, and you smiled, nodding.

His dark cape swung in a blur as he suddenly enveloped you in its folds. You heard Chase and Anti shout, then that cool, tingling feeling returned.

“Hold on!” Marvin instructed, and you wrenched your eyes shut as your body melted and shifted once more. It was much less jarring this time, and when you rematerialized again, you found yourself back at the picnic tables on top of the hill.

Marvin straightened his wind-tousled outfit, grinning.

“I will never get used to that,” you laughed breathlessly, finger combing your hair.

He chuckled, and you glanced over at the wooden tables with a sigh. “It’s too bad. The lunch I packed earlier has probably been trampled to pieces by now.”

Marvin grinned slyly. “Oh contrére!”

The Magician brought his palms together in a single, resounding clap, and as he pulled them apart, your picnic basket appeared, undamaged, and fell into his waiting grasp.

Wide-eyed, you gratefully received your basket and smiled. “I’m not even gonna ask how you did that.”

Marvin shrugged. “Yeah, that’s probably for the best.”

“Care to join me?” you offered, holding up the basket and gesturing to one of the tables. “After all, I think you still owe me some answers. Especially if I’m going to stick around and be your assistant.”

The ecstatic grin on Marvin’s face was adorable. “Absolutely! But, uh, do you mind if we make it a meal for three?”

At your puzzled expression, Marvin reached into his cape and once again pulled out Bunny.

“She’s not used to being upstaged; she might be a little grumpy with me.”

You laughed, no longer questioning the man’s strange abilities as you reached to stroke the velvety-soft rabbit behind the ears. “I think we can manage that.”

[dont-call-me-eds-blog]

You Don’t Deserve to be Ignored

I’ll link part 2 when I finish and post it. Feel free to send requests or prompts! Characters: Richie Tozier, Eddie Kaspbrak Warnings: Language, angst, kissing, cigarette mention, implied internalized fear of being gay. Year: 1990 (Characters based off of every adaptation of IT, including, of course, the novel) Summary: Non-established. Eddie’s been distant with Richie, Richie doesn’t understand, (okay, he might, a little) misses him, and wants to find out what’s up. ___________

“You should have told me you were coming over!” “Nice jammies,” Richie laughed as if he weren’t making a scene of struggling his way through Eddie’s bedroom window. The young man’s palms made a ‘thud’ as they hit the carpet with just enough of his weight that Eddie jumped. He launched himself from his bed to un-snag Richie’s sock from the latch at the bottom of the window sill. Richie crawled to his feet, uttering a quiet, “I got it Eds,” flashing a brilliantly toothy smile. For scaling the back of the house and crawling around the roof, he didn’t seem to have a nick or scratch on him. 

Eddie pulled Richie to his feet when it was made clear that he hadn’t hurt himself, or at least not too badly. “Don’t call-” he cut himself off, beginning to ramble in a very aggravated, yet hushed tone. “That was so loud, you could wake up my Mom! What are you thinking, seriously, if she catches you in here this late, she’s gonna-” “I couldn’t sleep.” Eddie silenced himself, watching the corner of Richie’s mouth falter for just a moment. He wasn’t about to pry, but that little flinch signified that something was off about his friend tonight. “So you decided to some free climbing?” Richie only chuckled in response, pushing heavy frames up the bridge of his nose and straightening his tee-shirt back over his chest.

“Okay. Okay, sit down,” Eddie ushered Richie to the foot of his bed, taking a seat at the corner of the mattress. The two were quiet while Eddie listened for any thumping or shouting, but all that his peeled ears picked up was the sound of cicadas and crickets from outside. It was rather soothing. Though waiting for Eddie to listen for his mother always seemed to drag on, Richie was relieved when the boy was satisfied after only a couple minutes, turning to Richie expectantly. “Am I a library, all of the sudden? Why are you checking me out?” before Richie could throw his friend a wink, Eddie’s head dropped, shoulders heaving with a deep sigh. “It’s not like she’s gonna climb those stairs just because something woke her up.” “She would try!” Eddie’s posture straightened again, in a fruitless effort to meet Richie’s height. The two had been whispering so heatedly, they hadn’t noticed, until now, just how close their faces had gotten. Eddie’s eyes dropped from those horn-rimmed glasses to the mess of freckles across Richie’s cheeks and nose.  He backed off, muttering. “You should have told me. Just be more careful.” “Sorry for getting stuck on your window,” Richie threw his hands up, in mock surrender.  “Well, I could have helped you through if I had known you were coming.” Eddie wanted to stop complaining, but his mouth seemed to be working overtime while the initial fear subsided, gradually to be replaced by happiness. It definitely wasn’t the first time Richie has snuck into his bedroom, though it had been a few weeks, and he couldn’t deny to himself that he was glad Richie was here, even if he would have appreciated a warning. Regardless, Richie himself comfortable, reclining, propping himself back on his hands. “Eddie,” he began, pausing to catch the other’s gaze. His breath shook as their eyes met. Eddie’s brows knit with concern. It wasn’t like Richie to be so subdued. Turning to face him, he crossed his legs. “I’ll let you know next ti-” “It’s fine.” The bespectacled teenager beamed, sliding out of his shoes before pulling his legs up onto the bed as well, but again, his smile twitched with a tiny click of his tongue. It wasn’t too prominent in the dark, but he seemed to be growing redder. “ ‘Knew I could come to you. You’re such a good guy... Is something wrong?” The question came out of the blue and caught Eddie off-guard. Was something wrong? He’d assumed there was something wrong, but that the one who supposedly couldn’t sleep, and who’d been acting almost nervous since he came in would know what it was. “What do you mean?” “Am I pissing you off more than usual? You could tell me if I was, yanno,” Richie breathed another laugh before continuing. “I’m not always the best at picking up hints, but it feels like I’m getting the cold shoulder lately.” Eddie’s chest hurt as if his heart had dropped into his stomach at the prospect of his being distant hurting Richie. Suddenly, his mind began racing. “No, you’re fine,” Richie interrupted him. “I know I’m fine,” he got a wink in this time, “but you’re not mad at me?” “No,” the smaller boy gnawed at the inside of his cheek for a moment, “and I’m sorry.” He tore his gaze away from Richie, casting it to his sheets. “I’m not trying to ignore you.” Eddie lost himself in his own whirlpool of thoughts before the presence of a warm hand on his shoulder snapped him back into focus. “I guess I just kinda miss you lately,” Richie sat up, and Eddie was hyper-aware of every inch closed in between them with that one, small movement. It always seemed that the less he thought about it, the closer he’d let himself get to Richie Tozier. They’d become so comfortable alone with each other that their alone-behavior was starting to become more commonplace around their other friends. Of course Richie still teased, but it was becoming increasingly obvious to everybody that Eddie didn’t entirely hate it. Richie would pick Eddie up sometimes, carry him or swing him around when the gang was out by the quarry, but would never let him get hurt. He kind of liked it when Richie would dip him or twirl him, even if they were just playing around. Eddie would sit between Richie’s legs and lean back against his chest or lean his weight against Richie’s side, Richie would sling a lanky arm around Eddie’s shoulders, and it felt so natural and secure that he would actually catch himself thinking about Richie’s arms when he was alone, cold, or afraid, But that wasn’t all that drove the young man nuts. When he looked at the stars for too long, Eddie was reminded of Richie’s freckles. Certain songs, the more pleasant smells of summer, even the mess of multicolored vitamins in his fist every morning reminded him of Richie. Throat beginning to tighten, Eddie peered over to his nightstand for his aspirator. Even if he knew what to say, he wouldn’t be able to get it out. He didn’t want to distance himself from Richie without any warning or explanation, but it felt like the only option. This wasn’t him, it just couldn’t be. Maybe they’d spent too much time together, but he’d hate to admit that his mother might even be a little right about his friends. He’d been so utterly terrified of what those feelings meant, he didn’t want to know what they meant, and he’d done a stupid thing to his best friend.  After one puff from the inhaler, he moved back toward Richie, throwing his arms around the boy’s shoulders. Eddie buried his face into the crook of Richie’s neck, immediately feeling the gentle embrace of those arms around him. Eyes burning with wetness, he squeezed them shut, holding onto Richie until he could speak again, at which point, he lowered his arms to drape about Richie’s waist. “You don’t deserve to be ignored.” Richie inhaled deeply. He seemed to be taken aback. “Oh, fuck, don’t pity me, Eds.” There was a completely foreign rasp in Richie’s voice.  A tiny splash of liquid hit Eddie’s elbow. Pulling back carefully, Eddie froze when he saw a tear running down Richie’s cheek to linger on his chin. Holy shit. When Eddie looked up to meet his eyes, the tip of his nose nearly brushed against Richie’s. Eddie’s heart started to race so fast that if he weren’t transfixed on the way he could just barely feel Richie’s soft breath on his lips, he might be afraid that Richie would hear it, and he might also note the rapid bumping against his own palm, which had made it’s way to Richie’s chest.

Staring, wide-eyed at each other’s mouths, the boys were flushed red from having been crying, and from what felt like every single word ever left unsaid written plainly across their faces. They were still. Somehow, Eddie’s fist had balled into the fabric of Richie’s top. Richie’s hands came up to rest firmly on Eddie’s shoulders, and pull him in for a swift, clumsy, but warm kiss right on the lips. Eddie’s brows shot up, and his whole body felt light and airy, but his lips were buzzing, and his ears were burning. He faintly tasted cigarettes, but also blue raspberry, which was a strange combination, but definitely not a terrible one, he decided. Before he could react, Richie pulled his lips away and jumped back, giving Eddie a onceover and clamoring hurriedly to his feet. “Eds,” he licked over his teeth, glancing back toward the window. “Wow, I am. Hah, whoa. So sorry.”  Eddie’s lips were gaping, and his breath was shallow, eyes still blown wide open. “Wh-,” “I’m gonna go,” Richie swiveled and fled for the window. Eddie stood, but Richie was already climbing back across the roof by the time Eddie remembered how to walk or talk again. It was official. Richie Tozier had kissed him for real. And Eddie liked it. 

[deafmanscharade]

Let's Talk: Even Then Food Don't Taste that Good. Drinks ain't Doin' What it Should

As I was saying, ED became my lover.

Before I get into that though, let's get into more background because Lanta knows when I'm dead and gone and some sleuth discovers my music or the thousands of projects that are half finished or have been shot down, the masses will want to know the story of the foo fighter obsessed Hanson fan who wrote a jazz album full of country songs.

Okay, I'm exaggerating to the nth degree but you can't blame me because I want to be the female Nick Drake and I'm nothing without my flair for the dramatíc.

I will say, if you are in treatment for ED or thinking you need help, I AM NOT CONDONING EATING DISORDERS. I am working through shit by word vomiting and explaining things as I saw them. As I felt them. Something it's taken me 15 years to do. So, either skip this post or read with this in mind: if you don't get a hold of your ED it will hunt you down and kill you. There are people that want you here. You are here for a reason. Love you.

Back to it. Childhood is full of milestones. Sunny days filled with bike rides, corner store stops, skinned knees and scraped hearts. I was a late bloomer to nearly everything, except the scraped heart. That thing has been scraped so many times that most days I'm positive it's a wilted brown apple core.

I never learned to ride a 2 wheel bike. To the point that when I got too big for normal training wheels the local Chrysalis centre gave me a custom bike with 2 adult size training wheels. Which was incredibly cool and gave me my first real taste of freedom, until it got me bullied harder.

I don't remember the first time someone said something nasty to me because of my CP. I do remember the things they did.

I love to swim. I went to the local outdoor pool when I was about seven years old. I put my glasses in an unlocked locker because I trusted that people were good and I didn't have a quarter. When I came back and went about re-dressing my glasses were nowhere to be found. As I fumbled home while my eyes stung with chlorine and strain I found them shattered in the gutter. I picked up their bent frames and wondered how they got there.

When I was 8, I really wanted to play with the other kids but since a cripple couldn't be a teammate they made me the ball. Remember tetherball? I do too. Because I was tied to the tether pole and spun around it all recess until the janitor came to get me down. Kids threw tiny playground rocks at me by the handful hoping they would get in my AFO's, which SUCKS. There were so many instances and that was only at school. Home was a different,darker hell thats still a few posts away.

The first time I denied myself food I just wasn't hungry. It was one of those moments where you're so down that the last thing on your mind is food. I knew I should eat, but I didn't. And you know what? I felt better. This body that I was stuck in that took all my control from me was listening to me. Here's how the conversation went:

Body: Feed me.

Me: No.

Body: But... not even a little??

Me: I said NO.

ED: Good, see how easy that was ?

What? Who was this other voice? Hello? Who's there?

ED: It's me, darling. You know me. Come, you have that choral piece to learn, English homework to finish and you should probably figure out how you're going to fake your way through that dance number in act 2.

Me: okay. Yeah. Yeah that sounds... oh god that dance number...

ED: I know, love. I've got you. We'll put on Phantom and get through this. You only need me.

Power is intoxicating. I felt empowered by the seduction of denial. I started losing weight and gaining the praise of my appearance obsessed mother, my moreso appearance obsessed grandmother, and my peers. I started to score bigger parts despite limitations.

I was high on it. It's difficult to stop something that makes you feel better than anything else ever has. The reason that I referenced Phantom above is because I know EXACTLY how Christine feels toward him. Romantic manipulation. I have what you want. If you do this for me, you can have it. I'm the only one who knows and accepts all of you.

Food hates you. It only makes you bloated and pimply and full and who wants that? Gross. You didn't eat that second mouthful. You replaced it with water. See how beautiful you are? I'm so proud of you.

It was like riding my own personal Milky Way. As long as I was holding ED's hand I would be okay. If I worked hard and kept listening and stayed in control of my pesky body, it would all come to fruition.

You know what I wish someone had done when I was that kid dropping blazing fires and screaming that I would change the world? I wish they had taken me into their lap and stroked my hair and told me they knew and understood how much I wanted to theatre. I wanted to theatre so badly it was the verb, the adjective and the noun. But sometimes life isn't fair. It isn't always dependent on how much or hard you love something. How hard you work or how many librettos you can cram into your brain. Unfortunately, I chose to love something that is based almost entirely on image, marketability and your ability to be a product. No matter how many miles I hobbled, how little food I ate (or later, how much I threw up), how much reconstructive surgery I got, or how much I honed the talent I DID possess, I still had my CP limp, shakes, tremors and everything else. And sure, is done a lot of community theatre, even gotten paid a bit, and gotten one or two leads, but that didn't mean I was ever going to make it to Broadway and I needed to stop making that my goal.

... Maybe they did. Maybe I couldn't hear because everything was so loud. But ED was always there. Always pushing. And sometimes he was harsh but mostly he was Hollywood romantic. He held me. He praised me and loved me and said all the things I needed to hear.

He cradled me as I threw 86 theatre school rejection letters in a drawer for motivation and went back to stretching. Or singing, or studying. I was a hamster on a wheel that was dead set.

It wasn't until I got rejected from my last option for theatre school that I went into shock and had to regroup. I sat in a ba in my living room floor for two days trying to figure out who I was without theatre or instruments. Was everyone right? Was I a worthless cripple? I didn't have an identity or an answer.

That was the first time o tried to kill myself.

The next morning I was alive and knew I had to find something. There was a band whom I still love to this day that toured around often. I cashed what I had aside for college and followed them around for a couple years. I soaked my wounds in vodka and dirty guitar while my head filled with perfect five part harmony.

Some of the band members had their own demons. Which prompted one of them to take me by the shoulders in the midst of my third vodka cran of the evening. He told me he loved me and that I needed help. Somehow his voice overpowered ED's and I went and got help.

Gradually Luc (so named in treatment and short for Lucifer) got quiet and went seemingly dormant. But even then, as I saw sunshine for the first time, I knew it wasn't over. It's never over. It's a second by second struggle at times. I have relapsed more times this year than any other and I'm not afraid to say I liked it. It was comfortable. As I get older, CP gets more and more control and it felt nice to take it back for a minute. Crack the whip and shout "Mine Damnit!"

But then I remember the look of pure desperation in the eyes of someone I hold so dear and I find it in me to kick Luc in the balls again. For now.

[audiodiaryofasuperhero]

About that Unannounced Hiatus...

Hi, y'all. Remember us? We took a pretty long unannounced break from… well, just about everything to do with the public side of this show.

While we can’t go back & make this hiatus have never happened, or hell, even go back and handle it better, we can explain how & why it happened. If we can’t fix it, we can be honest about it. Maybe we can even bring about a little awareness in the process.

Note: This post is almost entirely about the past year & a half. We will write a separate post covering what’s going on now & what’s next for ADoS. We don’t want to cram those things onto the end of this long post when those are the things worth getting excited about!

Now, to do this, I need to address you as Laura Henderson, the writer/producer/nearly everything on this show. Because the reasons behind the Unannounced Hiatus of Suffering pretty much all have to do with things that were going on in my life.

Hang with me - this is a long explanation.

Some content warnings before proceeding. This explanation includes anxiety, depression, suicidal ideation, self-harm, mania, hypomania, dislocations, & doctors being shitty people who are bad at their jobs.

I made an announcement right before the hiatus, publicizing what was meant to be a small break in production while my household dealt with a clusterfuck of a moving process. What I didn’t mention was the fact that I was struggling with some worsening anxiety & depression issues as well.

As soon as we’d moved, when I was meant to be finishing episode six, three different things happened. 1) I got caught in one of the worst depression spirals of my life. Like, I hadn’t felt so terrible since middle school. I struggled with awful focus issues, self-harm, & suicidal ideation. 2) I got a promotion to sales lead at work. This sounds fancy, but it functionally means that I became the lowest tier of management at my store. With our staff numbers dropping post-Holidays, my hours ratcheted up to 35 hours a week. Plus school. Plus chronic illness. Plus mental health issues. Which all feeds into - 3) I wasn’t happy with the draft of episode 6. I needed that script to do five different vital things, & at the time, it did maybe two of them. I recorded that draft, but ended up deleting it out of frustration at what it didn’t set up for later plot. With everything else going on, it was easiest just to… put it down.

Spring came & my depression receded, although my focus issues increased. This was just in time for me to dislocate my knee pretty majorly. With EDS (an illness I share with Adira), dislocations are pretty commonplace. But most of them are small, slide back in nearly immediately with little to no intervention, & do very little damage to the tissue surrounding the joints. Others are major, where the joint slides farther out of place than usual & stays out of socket until manipulated back into place, doing a fair bit of damage to the surrounding tissues. This was definitely the latter. I was in pain for weeks, & all my spoons were spent trying to get through my shifts at work.

The knee eventually healed. My first night out dancing after it healed, some asshole stepped on my ankle & dislocated it. Not my foot, mind you - my ankle. (I am still very salty about it.) Wash, rinse, repeat from above.

Then things really started to go to hell.

In late June, I started seeing a psychiatrist for my focus issues. My dad has ADHD, & we’d begun to wonder if I may have inherited. The psychiatrist, understandably, chose to start by treating my depression and anxiety instead. She also indicated that she suspected I may have a bipolar disorder. She prescribed me Zoloft, & told me I should call her immediately if I started experiencing suicidal ideation or mania.

Lucky me, I got both.

By week two, I was drifting into a mixed affective state, where I’d be slightly uncomfortably energetic but also a bit depressed. By week four, I was on a little carnival rollercoaster. I was energetic, anxious, depressed, & had a very small voice in my head suggesting awful but non-fatal things I should do to myself. By week six, I was riding a Six Flags thrills rollercoaster, with celestial highs & infernal lows. I felt like I was going to vibrate out of my skin, I went from aggressive cheer to rage at minor provocations, and the voice in my head was nearly indistinguishable from my regular thoughts, telling me all the different ways I could & should kill my self. I was manic. I would have been suicidal if my friends hadn't been acting as voices of reason. I called my psychiatrist in tears & left a message with her receptionist. She never called me back. I stopped taking the pills.

Needless to say, I found a new psychiatrist, an awesome guy who believes in evidence-based practice. We started experimenting to find a good balance of meds. We started with the assumption that there was a low but substantial probability that I had a bipolar disorder, but that it was more likely that Zoloft was responsible for most of the mania symptoms. As the milder medicines mostly failed to stabilize me, we adjusted the probabilities of bipolar upwards, eventually concluding with a diagnosis of bipolar 2. 

While we were still in the early stages of medication experimentation, & I was mentally stable enough to sort of function & get a bit optimistic, my body decided it was its turn to be a melodramatic little bitch. 

Everything started dislocating. Everything. 

My knees, normally prone to minor dislocations around 4 times a week or so, started going out constantly. And then my hips got in on it. And then my ankles. And my ribs. And my shoulders. I went from using a cane, to using crutches, to using a rolling walker. I usually had more joints out than in.

I tried to work through all of this, but it was a nightmare. At one point, I was sitting in my walker at the cash wrap, twisted around to grab something from behind me, and both my hips popped out with an audible “snap.” I tearfully handed the guest what I’d been grabbing for them, then backed myself away from the register to cry for a moment.

Right at the end of October, I asked for a medical leave of absence from my job, with the intention of seeing my rheumatologist to update her on the situation and see what could be done.

When I went to see her, I had a list of ten things that needed to be accomplished. I managed none of them.

When she arrived in the little room, I started explaining what had been going on with my joints for the past two months. She cut me off.

“I can’t help you with that,” she said impatiently. “I can’t help you.”

She went on to add, “But I see you’ve been losing weight - that’s excellent.” (I’d been in too much pain to eat.) “And I’m glad that you went dancing,” (referring to the ankle dislocation from June that had been giving me so much trouble since). “You should exercise as much as possible.” (Ignoring that I’d been trying to tell her I could barely move.)

At this point, I was very teary. My joint doctor was telling me that she could not help me with my joint condition.

“You should look into being treated for depression. You seem very upset.”

To say I left her office devastated is a bit of an understatement. I sobbed in my car in the parking lot for twenty minutes.

I called my auxiliary brain, my most rational, anti-suicide friend. 

“Please, come keep me company. Make sure that I don’t do anything stupid,” I pleaded.

He had some errands to run, but I sat in the car with him. On the interstate, I had to fight the urge to open the car door and throw myself into traffic.

But he got me through that awful day. The next month and a half was a long, drawn-out depression swing.

At the beginning of December, my manager called me. 

“Are you coming back?” she asked.

“I - I don’t think I can,” I admitted.

“I’ll consider this your notice, effective immediately,” she said. “Get better, Laura.”

Things slowly got better. My body calmed down. One of my psych meds was able to pull double-duty as a joint pain medication. I could walk again, even if I wasn’t quite comfortable dancing. I became happier, and if I was hypomanic or in a mixed affective state more so than even-keeled, it was better than being manic or depressed.

I withdrew from my college program, and applied to an online program. While the new program was not my beloved data science, combining information technology with mathematics was close enough.

I was accepted too late to start spring classes.

In early February, I managed to find a new rheumatologist, after calling four offices who explicitly said they weren’t comfortable treating me. She didn’t do terribly much for me, but she explained what she was going to watch for. She referred me to an orthopedist.

By this point, I was thoroughly bored of sitting around the house. I re-applied at my old work place, and was welcomed back with great enthusiasm.

Then my psychiatrist cancelled an appointment. It was nearly impossible to get ahold of his office to reschedule over the phone. Every time I went in person to reschedule, there was no one at the desk. I started rationing my medication, and then I ran out. Things, rather predictably, went pear-shaped.

A few weeks ago, summer classes started for me. I finally got back on medication. My work place started a big hiring push, which reduced my hours to my betterment.

After all that shit, I’ve finally begun to feel like a person again. It was rough and it tested me in ways I hadn’t been tested before. It made social media seem like an overwhelming prospect. I couldn’t manage a huge undertaking like my beloved podcast. But now....

Audio Diary of a Superhero never once left my mind, and now I’m ready to get it up and running again, better than ever before. I’m healthier, happier, and very motivated.

I’m not going to talk about what comes next in this post. But it’s coming. Look out.

[carrottheluvmachine]

@riddlerbird I finally got that little fic written for ya!

Warnings include stuffing, weight gain, and a blowjob.  You have been warned.  Original post here.

Christmas that year was a quiet affair. Oswald had given everyone a week's vacation and he and Ed had the mansion to themselves.  Of course this meant that the job of cooking Christmas dinner would fall on Ed and thankfully the man was all too grateful to tackle it head on.  Oswald did what he could to help, acting as an assistant, but Ed did most of the work.

Looking back, they probably should have realized that they had gone a bit overboard.  Two people could not possibly eat a small turkey, a bowl of stuffing, mashed potatoes, mushrooms, dinner rolls, asparagus, and stuffed artichokes by themselves.  Still, they had prevailed and worked their way through what they could.  Oswald had only begun to regret it once he waddled his way to the couch to relax as Ed cleaned up.

His belly was bulging beneath the ugly Christmas sweater (which featured a penguin wearing a Santa hat) that Ed had made him wear.  It felt hard to the touch and Oswald found that he could barely breathe.  He had always had a big appetite but it had only begun getting him in trouble lately.  Slowly, he was putting on weight.  At first it wasn't noticeable, but now Oswald had gotten to the point that his little pouch couldn't be hidden beneath his suits.  Sometimes he got down on himself about it, but most of the time he ignored it.  He was far too busy being mayor and working Gotham's crime world to worry about something as petty as his weight.

Maybe he should have started eating less though since his belly was very angry at him at the moment.  He moaned, letting his head fall back against the couch.  “I ate too much.”

Ed's hand came to rest on his stomach, making Oswald jump.  A small hiccup escaped his lips before he settled down, watching Ed's hand working circles over the bulging form of his belly.  “Ed!  Don't scare me like that!”

“I told you to pace yourself,” Ed chided, looking down at Oswald's stomach.  Without warning, he pushed the sweater up, revealing the taut skin to the cool December air. Oswald shivered as Ed's warm hand made contact with his skin, letting out a sigh as Ed began to massage some of the pain away.  “You've got such an appetite, Oswald.”

“What're you doing?” Oswald asked, fighting to keep his eyes open.  He was feeling so sleepy from eating far too much.

“Helping you digest.” Ed answered, not looking away from Oswald's bloated belly.  “Belly rubs stimulate digestion.  Not only that, but they're very pleasant, aren't they?”

Oswald hummed in the affirmative, his eyes slipping shut.  “That...feels amazing, Ed.”

A smile curled on Ed's lips, his fingers gently poking into Oswald's taut skin, testing its give. “You really stuffed yourself, didn't you?”

“I guess.” Oswald answered, opening his eyes after he felt Ed's lips on his belly.  He arched an eyebrow in curiosity.  “Ed?”

Ed slipped from the couch and pushed Oswald's legs apart to sit between them.  He placed his hands on either side of Oswald's belly, his fingers lightly gripping at the love handles that resided there.  Oswald wondered just when he had developed those.  Ed didn't seem deterred though.  Instead he started showering every inch of Oswald's pained skin with kisses, making Oswald gasp out loud.  He ran a hand through Ed's hair, grabbing it to keep him from going anywhere even though he doubted Ed would be moving any time soon.

Ed's tongue came out to lap at the heated flesh of Oswald's belly, running little kitten licks along what was exposed to him.  His hands followed the curve to the front and worked at the button on Oswald's pants, popping it open.  Oswald was shocked when the zipper slid down on its own accord, like a hot knife through butter.  Had his stomach just done that?  Maybe he was a lot heavier than he originally thought.  He made a mental note to go on a diet and perhaps start exercising—but the thought flew from his mind the moment Ed began licking at the angry red marks that his pants had left behind.

“Lift your hips up.” Ed instructed some time later.  Oswald wasn't sure how long he had sat there gasping from the attention he was being lavished with.  He obeyed, lifting his hips as best he could, the heavy weight of his belly working against him.  Ed slid his pants and his underwear off of his body, tossing them aside and snuggling in close again.  He forcefully pushed Oswald's legs apart, fitting himself in between them, and while keeping one hand on Oswald's belly, he took Oswald's cock in hand.  Oswald gasped at the lick to the head of his cock, staring down at Ed who had started taking him in his mouth in by painful inch.  Oswald hadn't even realized how hard he was until Ed's mouth was working its magic around him.

Ed held him at the base, pulling out to lick a stripe up the underside, near his vein.  Keeping his eyes trained on Oswald, his tongue flitted across the slit at the tip before taking him in completely once more.  Oswald threw his head back, chest heaving from a combination of the belly rub and the blowjob.  Ed was entirely too good to him.

His cock hit the back of Ed's throat and the bespectacled man swallowed around him, hollowing out his cheeks.  A growl tore its way from Oswald's throat and he fisted Ed's hair that much tighter.  If it hadn't been hard to breathe with a belly full of food it was nearly impossible with the way Ed was making him pant and moan.

“E-Ed...I-I'm gonna--”

Ed just nodded, though he was unsure if Oswald saw it or even if he cared.  He was ready and all he had to do was press a finger to Oswald's perineum.  With a cry, Oswald came down Ed's throat, hips rising up off the couch as he rode out his orgasm.  Ed greedily swallowed down every drop, milking him for all he was worth before letting Oswald's spent cock slip from his mouth. He bathed it with his tongue before helping him back into his pants, which he left unbuttoned.  After dropping one last kiss to Oswald's stuffed belly, Ed climbed back onto the couch and took Oswald into his arms.  The Penguin fell limply against him, his eyes closed as he struggled to catch his breath.  

Ed kissed his lips, prompting him to open his eyes and look up into the beautiful face of The Riddler. “Remind me to stuff myself more often.”

Ed simply replied with a chuckle.

[themomsandthecity]

20 Things We're Not Telling Little Boys - but We Should

We are familiar with the pressure and obstacles that young girls have to face in today's society - body image, rape, princess culture - but with boys, most of their struggles surround society's idea of what a "man" is like. YourTango shares 20 things we should start saying to boys to reinvent the idea of masculinity. No, he doesn't need to "man up." I thought it would be easier to raise a boy. Back when I was pregnant at 21, barely a woman myself, I anguished over the thought of having a daughter. I didn't think I was ready to take on all that comes with raising a girl in today's society - the body image struggles, princess culture, rape culture. No, no, no. A boy would be easier on my heart, I thought. Maybe he'd come home with a black eye, maybe he'd be rejected from a sports team, but it had to be easier than raising a girl. I was a girl; I understood the obstacles. My wish was granted. A boy! And boy was I way off base. Turns out, raising kids of either gender has its challenges. It only took about a year to realize that boys have a different kind of pressure weighing on their psyches, a different kind of expectation to live up to. By the time he was 4 years old, my little boy (who, as a toddler, loved princesses, fairy wands, and My Little Pony) heard grown-ass adults say things like, "Boys don't play with pink," and, "Stop acting like a little girl." He heard audible sighs of relief when he started his superhero obsession ("Oh, he's a normal boy!"). He heard the phrase, "Man up!" more times than I ever wish a little boy would hear. A girl who rolls with the boys and plays sports is celebrated for her strength - "Stop telling little girls they're pretty," we all scream loudly - but what about the boys who'd rather play quietly with dolls, who like the color pink, and who feel the need to cry every once in awhile? We tell them to MAN UP. Toughen up. Stop being a sissy. Our boys hear these things, feel these things. I know my son did. Where's the conversation on helping young boys be caring and sensitive without it being a statement of their sexual orientation? All children should be allowed to have emotions, not just children with a vagina. Empathy, kindness, love - these aren't feminine qualities; they're HUMAN qualities, and important ones at that. Rather than teach our daughters to dodge sexual bullets and jump over societal roadblocks, why not teach our sons to help move those roadblocks out of the way? To be respectful, kind, caring, sensitive, empathetic - these should be emphasized, not touted as signs of masculine weakness. Instead, we ridicule and emasculate our smallest boys; we make excuses for them. "Boys will be boys," we say, shrugging our shoulders. Well then, maybe we need to redefine what it means to be a boy, a man. Maybe we should start saying these things instead: 1. There are many ideas of what it means to "be a man." But the true test of manliness is how you treat others, especially those smaller and weaker. 2. You aren't just a man; you're a human. And the most important qualities a human can possess are kindness, empathy, and a loving heart. 3. In many parts of the world, girls don't have the same rights as boys. This isn't fair, but it's important to recognize the inequity. 4. It might not be fair that men hold such power in the world, but it's our reality. And like Spider-Man says, "With great power comes great responsibility." 5. It's OK to cry, to be sensitive, to feel. This is what makes you human. 6. I can handle your tears and vulnerability without cringing from the social pressures around me. Having a little boy can challenge our ideas of masculinity on a subconscious level, and we have to be honest about that - about our fears, our stereotypes - if anything is going to change. 7. There are no "right" ways for boys to act or "right" ways for girls to act. These are social constructs, and social constructs are largely bullsh*t. Be you. Be good. Be respectful. 8. It's OK to feel the need to be physical; it's hardwired into your DNA. It's also OK to shy away from violence. Gender has a spectrum, just like everything else in life. Find healthy outlets for your physicality, rather than suppressing and demonizing it. 9. Masculinity isn't something you have to prove, not ever. Femininity isn't something to avoid or ridicule. Although there are obvious biological differences between boys and girls, we all deserve respect. You're capable of treating people, all people, with compassion and respect. 10. When someone says "no" or "stop," you listen, especially if it concerns someone else's body. You aren't entitled to put your hands on anyone, and you should expect the same in return. "No" isn't a bad word; it's an important word. 11. It's OK to feel angry. I can handle your anger. I can hear about your dark thoughts without judgment. I can see that your anger is coming from a deeper hurt, and that it might be easier to express it in the form of aggression. Find the sadness. Find your vulnerability. It's OK. 12. You aren't defined by your gender role or cultural expectation. It's easier for society to lump us into categories with neat and tidy distinctions. In reality, life doesn't have such clear boundaries. 13. You also aren't defined by your clothes, car, bank account, muscles, or girlfriend (or boyfriend). You're defined by your character. 14. If you fall in love with a boy, it's OK. I just want you to be happy and at ease with who you are. 15. The key to getting the date? Confidence and self-respect. 16. Speaking of self-respect . . . If you have to convince someone to date you, then he or she isn't the right person for you. If he or she starts playing games, is at all unsure or wishy-washy, then walk away. The best kind of relationship is the kind where both people are equally excited about it. You deserve more than lukewarm uncertainty, no matter how good-looking he or she is. 17. It's normal to masturbate; it's not dirty or sinful. But it's also a private act, so take it to the bedroom, and close the door behind you. 18. There's a strong social and emotional component to sex, and oftentimes girls feel it more strongly than boys. Be aware of it. They won't teach you that in sex ed, but it's true. 19. Your penis will be a big deal in your life; take good care of it. It'll want to be in the driver's seat from time to time, controlling what you say and do. Remember: YOU are in control of your actions. 20. Be vulnerable. Be open. It might feel scary to be vulnerable, especially as you get older. The cultural stigma can feel heavy, like a weight dragging you down. But as scary as it is, being open to hurt, failure, and uncertainty is the only way to be fully open to love, to take big risks, and to engage your humanity. More great reads from YourTango: Quotes The 7 BEST Birth Control Methods For Women Over 30 13 Reasons to Be Jealous (Yes, Jealous) of Single Moms Dear Sons, Don't Make These 3 Relationship Mistakes. Love, Dad What My Son's Death Taught Me About Men http://bit.ly/2s2XsE9

[ouraidengray4]

The 6 Most Embarrassing Questions You Hear as a 28-Year-Old Virgin

Here I am, totally feeling this great gold dress.

A few hundred hang-ups kept me from having sex until my late 20s.

When I did take that leap, yes, I did tell him it was my first time, and no, he didn’t run from the bedroom screaming… which was how I’d imagined he’d react in the movie version of this scene that had been playing out in my head for years.

While the gent in question was perfectly lovely about my being a virgin at age 28, not everyone had always been so kind. Considering that the average woman loses her virginity at 17, I heard plenty of difficult questions during those atypically sexless years....

1. So… what’s the deal? Do your panties come with a padlock on them?

Let’s cut to the chase: My parents didn’t hover over me about my relationships and sex life when I was growing up. While I was raised Catholic, religion was more related to the Golden Rule than it was about action in the bedroom. Like many Midwestern families, we lived in a "Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell" environment regarding anything slightly salacious, which probably didn’t help my comfort level regarding all things sexual, but wasn’t horribly restricting. Still, I took a sex-ed class in both high school and college (yep, you can get science credits for that!), and I was well aware of all the ins and outs. #punintended

I’ve never been a wallflower, and I don’t dress like someone who’s especially repressed, either, as proven by my go-to gold sequin pants...

...and a double-sided tape-required Rent the Runway dress.

My decision to wait was never related to being shy, religious, or a square. I was just a weird virgin with no easily explainable reason for being one... well, besides being wickedly insecure about being a virgin, which at some point became a Catch-22.

2. What are you afraid of?

Look, there’s no doubt that I was totally afraid of my body during puberty, when my weight skyrocketed from 120 pounds to 180. I felt lumpy and lethargic, so I started hitting the gym and quit hitting the drive-thru, eventually shrinking back down to 120, which was a pretty healthy weight for my body.

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But since I was encouraged by all of the positive comments—especially those from my first-ever boyfriend—I kept pushing myself to lose more. By the end of my high school days, I ran and starved myself down to 94 pounds… which made me feel skeletal and sick.

It took another five years or so for my body and brain to moderate. By my mid-20s, I felt confident enough showing my body to someone to become a Brazilian wax devotee, and finally felt self-assured in a bikini.

3. Is this sex toy party making you so uncomfortable?

It’s a bit awkward to play that "Never Have I Ever" game where everybody holds up their hands and goes around the circle, putting their fingers down and giggling about the questions, like if they’ve ever given road head or whatever… especially when you’ve never actually seen a man with his clothes off before. But it’s not like I was particularly afraid of the idea of sex. (And no, I’m never judging you, and I don’t think you’re a slut for being more experienced!)

After coming to terms with my body, I was more afraid to admit my lack of experience than I was scared to actually get laid for the first time ever. This was probably part of the reason why I couldn’t fully commit to a relationship until I found the guy I was comfortable enough with to share my secret. I’d hop around from crush to crush, but after a couple months—when things felt like they were moving forward—I’d run for the hills.

So yeah, the admission was scarier than the act for me... but when it comes to checking out toys, that 8-inch, 10-speed toy will always be intimidating, in my book.

Feeling much more confident these days. :)

4. What do you tell guys you date?

When I was a virgin, I’d tell them as little as possible about anything of substance, to be honest. I was queen of small talk, but the moment things started to get deep, I’d divert. I’d struggled to find and keep friends in junior high and high school, and was often on the sidelines or completely left out of the "cool kid" parties. So why invest when people are going to ghost? Something as intimate as my virginity was definitely not on the table for discussion with basically anyone.

Eventually, I found my core group of friends—the ones who I’d call if my car broke down or my grandpa received a scary medical diagnosis—and realized the more I put into a relationship, the more I get out of it. And that, in turn, led to being more emotionally open and honest.

5. Have you seen The 40-Year-Old Virgin?

You bet. And I laughed just as hard as you did at the "AHH KELLY CLARKSON!" scene. Not all late bloomers are socially stunted; interestingly, scientists at the University of Texas at Austin have found that those who wait to have their first sexual experience until the "late" era of their life—defined as 19 or older—tend to experience happier adult relationships.

Regardless of what happens on The Bachelor, sex is a very personal decision.

Why? Those who wait may naturally err toward a "secure attachment style," causing us to be fully invested in a relationship before taking the next step. Or we might just be downright pickier regarding partners of all kinds. I think that when a relationship is built on common interests and friendship first, rather than physical attraction, there’s a solid groundwork present that can last a lifetime.

6. Do your parts even work?

They’ve been officially put to the test, and hooray! They do! Turns out, you're not necessarily "broken," wrong, or Steve Carell-levels of awkward if you don't have sex until later in life. Regardless of what your girlfriends tell you—and definitely regardless of what happens on The Bachelor—sex is a very personal decision. I'm glad I waited, because with all of the other baggage I had to work through (hey there, head-to-toe body insecurity!), I don't think I would have been mentally or emotionally ready in my teens. But that's not to say that everyone needs to wait until their late 20s before losing their virginity. You do you.

Karla Walsh is a social media editor and freelance writer based in Des Moines, Iowa. Follow her adventures with fitness, fashion (often of the sparkly variety), food, and more on Instagram @karlaswalsh.

from Greatist RSS http://ift.tt/2kaVnWd The 6 Most Embarrassing Questions You Hear as a 28-Year-Old Virgin Greatist RSS from HEALTH BUZZ http://ift.tt/2kBe7yq

[themomsandthecity]

20 Things We're Not Telling Little Boys - but We Should

We are familiar with the pressure and obstacles that young girls have to face in today's society - body image, rape, princess culture - but with boys, most of their struggles surround society's idea of what a "man" is like. YourTango shares 20 things we should start saying to boys to reinvent the idea of masculinity. No, he doesn't need to "man up." I thought it would be easier to raise a boy. Back when I was pregnant at 21, barely a woman myself, I anguished over the thought of having a daughter. I didn't think I was ready to take on all that comes with raising a girl in today's society - the body image struggles, princess culture, rape culture. No, no, no. A boy would be easier on my heart, I thought. Maybe he'd come home with a black eye, maybe he'd be rejected from a sports team, but it had to be easier than raising a girl. I was a girl; I understood the obstacles. My wish was granted. A boy! And boy was I way off base. Turns out, raising kids of either gender has its challenges. It only took about a year to realize that boys have a different kind of pressure weighing on their psyches, a different kind of expectation to live up to. By the time he was 4 years old, my little boy (who, as a toddler, loved princesses, fairy wands, and My Little Pony) heard grown-ass adults say things like, "Boys don't play with pink," and, "Stop acting like a little girl." He heard audible sighs of relief when he started his superhero obsession ("Oh, he's a normal boy!"). He heard the phrase, "Man up!" more times than I ever wish a little boy would hear. A girl who rolls with the boys and plays sports is celebrated for her strength - "Stop telling little girls they're pretty," we all scream loudly - but what about the boys who'd rather play quietly with dolls, who like the color pink, and who feel the need to cry every once in awhile? We tell them to MAN UP. Toughen up. Stop being a sissy. Our boys hear these things, feel these things. I know my son did. Where's the conversation on helping young boys be caring and sensitive without it being a statement of their sexual orientation? All children should be allowed to have emotions, not just children with a vagina. Empathy, kindness, love - these aren't feminine qualities; they're HUMAN qualities, and important ones at that. Rather than teach our daughters to dodge sexual bullets and jump over societal roadblocks, why not teach our sons to help move those roadblocks out of the way? To be respectful, kind, caring, sensitive, empathetic - these should be emphasized, not touted as signs of masculine weakness. Instead, we ridicule and emasculate our smallest boys; we make excuses for them. "Boys will be boys," we say, shrugging our shoulders. Well then, maybe we need to redefine what it means to be a boy, a man. Maybe we should start saying these things instead: 1. There are many ideas of what it means to "be a man." But the true test of manliness is how you treat others, especially those smaller and weaker. 2. You aren't just a man; you're a human. And the most important qualities a human can possess are kindness, empathy, and a loving heart. 3. In many parts of the world, girls don't have the same rights as boys. This isn't fair, but it's important to recognize the inequity. 4. It might not be fair that men hold such power in the world, but it's our reality. And like Spider-Man says, "With great power comes great responsibility." 5. It's OK to cry, to be sensitive, to feel. This is what makes you human. 6. I can handle your tears and vulnerability without cringing from the social pressures around me. Having a little boy can challenge our ideas of masculinity on a subconscious level, and we have to be honest about that - about our fears, our stereotypes - if anything is going to change. 7. There are no "right" ways for boys to act or "right" ways for girls to act. These are social constructs, and social constructs are largely bullsh*t. Be you. Be good. Be respectful. 8. It's OK to feel the need to be physical; it's hardwired into your DNA. It's also OK to shy away from violence. Gender has a spectrum, just like everything else in life. Find healthy outlets for your physicality, rather than suppressing and demonizing it. 9. Masculinity isn't something you have to prove, not ever. Femininity isn't something to avoid or ridicule. Although there are obvious biological differences between boys and girls, we all deserve respect. You're capable of treating people, all people, with compassion and respect. 10. When someone says "no" or "stop," you listen, especially if it concerns someone else's body. You aren't entitled to put your hands on anyone, and you should expect the same in return. "No" isn't a bad word; it's an important word. 11. It's OK to feel angry. I can handle your anger. I can hear about your dark thoughts without judgment. I can see that your anger is coming from a deeper hurt, and that it might be easier to express it in the form of aggression. Find the sadness. Find your vulnerability. It's OK. 12. You aren't defined by your gender role or cultural expectation. It's easier for society to lump us into categories with neat and tidy distinctions. In reality, life doesn't have such clear boundaries. 13. You also aren't defined by your clothes, car, bank account, muscles, or girlfriend (or boyfriend). You're defined by your character. 14. If you fall in love with a boy, it's OK. I just want you to be happy and at ease with who you are. 15. The key to getting the date? Confidence and self-respect. 16. Speaking of self-respect . . . If you have to convince someone to date you, then he or she isn't the right person for you. If he or she starts playing games, is at all unsure or wishy-washy, then walk away. The best kind of relationship is the kind where both people are equally excited about it. You deserve more than lukewarm uncertainty, no matter how good-looking he or she is. 17. It's normal to masturbate; it's not dirty or sinful. But it's also a private act, so take it to the bedroom, and close the door behind you. 18. There's a strong social and emotional component to sex, and oftentimes girls feel it more strongly than boys. Be aware of it. They won't teach you that in sex ed, but it's true. 19. Your penis will be a big deal in your life; take good care of it. It'll want to be in the driver's seat from time to time, controlling what you say and do. Remember: YOU are in control of your actions. 20. Be vulnerable. Be open. It might feel scary to be vulnerable, especially as you get older. The cultural stigma can feel heavy, like a weight dragging you down. But as scary as it is, being open to hurt, failure, and uncertainty is the only way to be fully open to love, to take big risks, and to engage your humanity. More great reads from YourTango: Quotes The 7 BEST Birth Control Methods For Women Over 30 13 Reasons to Be Jealous (Yes, Jealous) of Single Moms Dear Sons, Don't Make These 3 Relationship Mistakes. Love, Dad What My Son's Death Taught Me About Men http://bit.ly/2mx68kk