#It's made me depressed and anxious and took away my confidence and sense self worth and given me heart problems and digestion problems and.

[bluethedream]

final working day of 1401, over :)

[thestorybrookeclocktower]

I’ve been abused. This is the first time I admit it to myself.

I’ve been abused several times, psychologically, mostly, but also phisically and sexually. It’s hard to admit it. It’s been harder to realize it.

I was an abused child. Before I dig into it, I’d like to point out that I’m managing to do this only thanks to She-Ra, to Catra, in particular, to Adora, and to this video: https://youtu.be/arsKPegw1Tg . So thank you, Noelle Stevenson, and thank you, whoever made that video.

I’m frightened, right now. I’m scared as fuck. I think I don’t know myself, I think I never did. But I must go on, I must find out who I really am. I owe it to myself. I’ve been hiding for too long.

I was an abused child, and I have to write it down because my mind keeps escaping that. It’s hard to stay focused, and that never happens to me, I’m a writer, when I write I’m concentrated, focused, but now... now it seems like my brain’s floating away. And I can’t let it do it.

My parents divorced when I was two or three years old, I’m not sure about it. I clearly remember the day my father went away, the door slamming, my mom crying and myself trying to reassure her, telling her I was there, she had notHing to worry about. I was always way older than my age.

After that, I guess (my memories are a bit confused in the timeline), my grandmother (so I was told) convinced my father to build a wall during the night in the middle of our house to split it in two. I remember waking up and finding this rough, grey wall. My mom lied and told me there had been a earthquake and that the wall fell down. I didn’t know how a collapsed wall would look like, and believed her. My father left us without a kitchen. As I said, I was two or three years old. Thinking about it now, it hurts me to think of how hard it must have been for my mother to face all of this. My father used to beat her, when they were together. She told me that he broke her cranium, once. I cant remember it, I don’t even know if I ever witnessed when it happened. But still.

Later, my mother fell in love with the man who became my step-father. He was our neighbor, they worked together so they already knew each other.

My father disappeared for two years. I spent one year living with my grandparents in another city, because my mother worked and wasn’t home for days, so che couldn’t leave me alone all that time. I remember missing her, and nothing more.

Then, I remember growing up with my mother’s partner trying to be a father. He couldn’t. He was mean to me. His idea of education was based on yells and threats. He continuously told me that I wasn’t his daughter, that I was nothing, that I was worth nothing.

I also remember that I wanted to be hurt. I wanted to hurt myself and, in my fantasies, when I played alone in my room or in the garden, I imagined my “enemies” kidnapping me and me sacrificing to save my friends. That thing lasted. I would always want to sacrifice to save someone I cared about, but who didn’t care about me as much as I did. I still have to understand why. I just need some time, I guess. After all, I just found out I have wounds.

We moved. My father came back, at some point. He started sending the police at our new home, accusing my mother of child abuse, I guess, and trying to claim me as if I was some kind of property. I guess I started feeling like an object when I spent my weekends and summer or winter vacations with him. He had the right to spend time with me, I didn’t have the right to choose. I don’t think he never treated me bad, he was simply unable to be a good father. He just left me with his friends’ children to play. I had fun with them, anyway. I always insisted to be the victim in our playtime, though. Something bad would always happen to my character. I often played the villain (they were happy with it, none ever wanted to be the villain but me), but my villain always had a reason, a past, a complicated story that led them to the dark side.

I guess I was never really happy. There was always this shadow, this weight on my soul. I still can’t name it. I only know it’s there, but it’s lighter today. Maybe because I see it for the first time.

When I went to middle school, I was depressed. I kept saying “we’ll die anyway, what changes if I do or I don’t do this?”. I also developed a passion for swords and daggers. I always read a lot, especially fantasy books, so I guess it was just natural that I started loving blade weapons.

I also felt guilty for continuously feeling sad. I thought I didn’t really have a reason. My family had money, I went to holiday four times per year instead than just twice, everything I asked they would just buy it to me. But my stepfather would always rub it in. He made me feel like I owed him everything I had, because he was the one who paid the bills. He is an alcoholic. He freaks out every time he gets drunk, and he starts drinking at ten a.m.. He would walk naked at home. I was way too young to see a naked man when it happened the first time. He also spied on me when I was in my room, so I was always anxious that he was watching me and could never relax.

I wasn’t good at school, I only liked mathematics but was terrible at all the rest. I just couldn’t concentrate, and now I know that I had locked myself in my fantasies, in another world, where I was strong, powerful, where I was happy. No, no, sorry. I’m lying to myself again. It didn’t go this way, actually. I locked myself in another world, it’s true, but that world was horrible. I was becoming a teenager and I started watching Buffy, so I was pretty obsessed by vampires at the time, and also I was starting to realize what sexual desire is. The thing is, in my fantasy I was powerful, yes, I was strong, but I was always defeated. I would get captured by this beautiful vampire woman who would torture me to death and then turn me into something different, with magic. I would become her sexual slave. I fell in love with her, in my mind, and I would submit to her. It’s embarrassing to admit it, yeah, it sucks, it’s rape, torture and Stockholm syndrome. But that’s the truth. As I said, I wanted to be hurt.

Also, despite this I never admitted to myself I liked girls. I didn’t even consider it as a possibility, I told myself I was in love with Angel (surprise, with the bad guy trying to redeem himself! Who would have thought that?).

At the same time, my mom got a bad self-immune disease and lost her job. Also, in the same years, one of the teacher at school started targeting me. I was shy and insecure and she would take advantage of it and humiliate me in front of everyone. She seriously damaged me, my self-confidence (as if I had any), and my stepfather made it only worse. I got bad grades from her (even when I was prepared I was so anxious that I couldn’t speak when she questioned me) and he got angry and yelled at me that I was stupid, that I was unable to do anything, that I was an imbecile and that I was worth nothing. Once he threw a school book at me and broke my lip.

My mother tried to comfort me, but I always hid what I was feeling. I was really, really depressed. So much that one day I grabbed one of my collectible daggers and aimed it at my stomach, and I pushed. I wanted to die. I wanted it to end. And I wanted a slow, painful death.

But I stopped. I didn’t even get a scratch, not because I changed my mind, not because I couldn’t find the “bravery” to kill myself, but because I didn’t want to hurt my mom. I knew she would be devastated if I died, and that is the only reason why I didn’t push harder. She still doesn’t know about all of this.

I guess I made myself a promise, that day: I’d be stronger. And it was a mistake, because I locked the doors of my heart doing so.

Years passed by. I learned Kung-Fu, I made some friends, just a few, lost others, this is not the point. They didn’t abuse me.

I started dating guys. Older boys, usually, and I convinced myself I was in love with them. One touched me without asking my permission, and I didn’t stop him. I was so stupid... gah. I wanted people to like me so much that I pretended to be like them. I told them I liked music I didn’t like, stuff like that. Silly, silly young me. I was lost and I didn’t know it.

Other years, more boys. I’m pretty, and I know it, and I used it to flirt with basically any guy I found. Shame on me, I know. I only kissed them. After all, I wasn’t even attracted by them. I liked girls, even if I didn’t want to accept it. I was already different, I didn’t want to be even more isolated.

I also spent a lot of time online chatting and gaming. I used to play to this online role play game by chat, I had found the perfect, fake, fantasy world there. My first character was an elf with positive alignment. I stopped playing her because she bored me. My second character was a sociopathic girl, a sadistic villain. I still have that character, even though I don’t play her anymore. I made her torture and try to kill innocent people several times. She was my dark side. I used her to take out my darkest instincts. I’m ashamed of who I was, now. I became a bully for a couple of years, a dangerous person, a mean person. I hate myself for that.

I was in high school and I was a little more equilibrated when this guy I knew since first grade asked me out. I knew he liked me since then, so I thought I had power on him (because that’s why I flirted with guys, I liked the power I had on them). He took me on his minicar and we found ourself in an isolated parking lot. He was never a healthy person. He was unstable since he was a kid, but he had always been kind with me. He was kind and pleasing even that night. And manipulative. And abusive. He used my ever-present sense of guilt, he told me I had to because he took me in his car and drove for me and waited all of those years, and he insisted for maybe half an hour until I gave in (I couldn’t leave the car, we were in a dangerous block and far from home). I had my first and only oral sex experience with a boy. It disgusted me so I stopped after like three seconds, but he forced me to masturbate him, he phisically did pushing my hand on his d*ck. When he came, he also said I wasn’t good at it. He then offered to give back the favour, I refused and asked him to take me home. Two day later I texted him saying it was over. God, this was hard to write. My heart is pumping in my chest. I need some water.

By the way, I was eighteen then and I still hadn’t had sex yet, and I was the only one in my class and between my friends in general. About them, I lost them all along the way. They simply let me down, not repaying everything I did or gave to them in terms of affection, or treating me like shit when I came out, or just disappearing slowly. I have trust issues for this, it’s hard for me to open up to someone now, but I’m trying.

I found this boy at a party, at that point I felt nothing, I was just curious about sex. We started dating. I didn’t like him, I approached him just because I thought his ass looked good. Yeah, how romantic of me. But, as I said, I felt nothing. I didn’t care about him. He fell in love with me, even though I told him many rimes I didn’t love him. I felt nothing for him, or with him, even in bed. Sex was a delusion to me, and I treated him like shit. But still, he would stay. Poor guy.

During those years (yes, we spent four years together somehow), I finally realized I liked girls. Fate brought me to a convention, where I met the love of my life. I ended the relationship with the boy and started my new life with her.

She changed me, a lot. I was a mess when we met. I was rough, selfish, the bad girl I always wanted to be, unable to love, to have a healthy relationship, unable to find the strenght to be vulnerable. She was patient with that broken, confused me, and I’ll never thank her enough for this. I don’t deserve her. She always supports me and shows me how much she loves me everyday. I’m so grateful for her.

I learned to be humble, I learned to be vulnerable, selfless, a decent humang being. I learned to love. I learned to protect her, not (only) myself. I dismantled almost all of my walls. I don’t know if this one I’m tearing down right now is the last one. I do hope so. I’m so tired of those cold walls. Today, I don’t want all these swords and daggers. I don’t need them anymore.

I wish I was strong as Catra and Adora, strong enough to face myself and let myself be happy. Thank you, Noelle, really. I always believed in the power of stories, but I never thought an animated show could give me so much, that I could relate so much to someone (let alone the importance of their relationship on screen for the LGBTQ+ community, it’s a true revolution). I was attracted to Catra since the beginning, I completely fell in love with her during the fifth season, and now I understand the reasons behind it. I just feel her, deeply. And I also deeply admire Adora, her pure soul, her strenght, her bright heart.

Sorry for the long post, sorry if there are any mistakes, English is not my first language. Thank you again.

[cristalknife]

On Comments, feedback anxiety on both the writer and the reader’s side

 If one could look into  my WIP draw, or take a glance at the fics I’ve actually posted, it becomes clear misunderstandings based on miscommunication is something I seem have a thing for. In all honesty is more of a lifelong study and recurring theme I keep stumbling on or consciously walking into. Preface: I am only human and mistakes can happen, but usually I try to handle the detailed label (also referred as Read the Tin or as written on the tin) of major warning with my writings that is usually missing in any other aspect of life, sort of a lovely user manual/preview so one could know to walk away before getting invested or worse triggered. 

Or at least know exactly what they signed up for.

Is it perfect? No but at least it’s there, as a writer I did all I could to avoid unpleasantness, the rest it’s up to the reader’s discretion. Which leads me to the heart of this post: comments, feedbacks, criticism, politically correctness, manners and the anxiety they produce in both the writer and the reader. 

The picture is big so I’ll divide in sides, but remember that people are made of multiple sides, and sometimes those sides are at odds or outwardly warring against each other. That’s pretty average for any irrational human being with emotions.

From the POV of an overthinking anxious writer:

1)  Ao3′s Kudos are sort of like a watered down thumbs up, after about 4-5 fic posted (or ~15K words of stories out there to be consumed), they became the kind of anxiety triggers feeding thoughts of why so many people/guests left a kudo but the story wasn’t good enough to warrant the time of a comment/review 2) Comments are lovely reminder someone found something in your words that made them react so strongly they felt like sharing that reaction with you was worth their time. 

2.1) Comments are also the cause of anxiety about their content before you have the courage to read what they says...

3) Criticisms and feedbacks can be a wonderful tool to improve your writing for the next story. But not if they are laced with insult, personal attacks in that case they are the kind of black hole that pushes people to stop writing all together, or at least stop sharing what they write. 

4) single emoji (♥), 2 char long (<3) comments takes years of effort and a lot of conditioning to remember to slip in reader mode and appreciate the effort it took to stop and do even that, instead of allowing doubts to gnaw at the back of your head with waaaiiiiit that’s all? was it good? was it bad? arrrghhh what does it even mean??? 

5) Statistics and numbers, those are the evilest of the most buggering things and the most vile tempters that will push you to compare your stories against others (a futile exercise in frustration and pointless reason to shred one’s own self confidence to the tiniest of pieces for literally nothing)

5.1) Especially when you have two writing mind frames: 

 writing the stories you want to read (and usually it is either a niche where you’ve already consumed all you could find so you write it because duh, more content might ignite back the fire please, or you haven’t found yet someone to say it how you want to read it) vs what I simply call 

 exorcism writing (the kind of free therapy exercise when something is bugging the heck out you and not leaving your mind so you put it down to words and then let them fly free, instead of trapping them on a diary you’d just return to read and start the vicious cycle all over again)

5.1.1) and your exorcism stories become more popular than the stories you want to read, because at the end of your raw ranting exorcism you managed to write something that would end up falling within mainstream tropes. Which just makes you sad because those were not the result of love and planning and endless hours of writing and editing that you put in your other stories.

6) I’m not writing fan fiction to be an educator, it is possible that my day job is being an educator, but unless I’m there writing textbooks, as a writer it is not my responsibility to teach the reader something that has to be authentic, realistic and a good practice. I’m just here to tell a story.  Or are you really telling me that you watch superheros movies and series and expect them to appear outside your window? If you just laughed then why are you looking at fanfic smut with the expectation of finding a more interesting and alternative way to have a sex ed lesson? If you subscribe to the school that a story has has to make sense... Let me ask have you ever read some of the greatest literature works like Frankenstain, Moby Dick, The Hobbit, Journey to the center of the Earth, Alice through the looking glass, Aeneas, if you did and subscribe to “fiction as to make sense” then please please enlighten me I’m rady to sit back and hear all the points you can make how any of those are realistic representations of how things go. If you  says that those are just stories told oh so long ago... Lets pick more recent ones, the Harry Potters books, Goosebumps, Twilight, The Shadowhunters Chronicles, 50 shades of , all those are listed as fiction  which yes sadly too many used as a portrait of theme touched in there as realistic because the story was not set in a fantastical world and made the mistake of treating a work of fiction as a documentary... Sorry people I’m a writer, choosing the right words matters, words meanings and definitions matter please  learn to think critically, and learn your words, there is a difference between fiction and documentary  6.1) At the same time it might be that I am the kind of writer who loves to add factually authentic things in my writings, someone who actually had spent hours and hours on research to make sure that what they have been writing is not utter and complete made up rubbish, and that’s ok too. I do not expect readers to assume it is correct or that it is purely made up, and if someone is curious they could use the comment to ask a question, I’ve never turned out a curious question, even when it was difficult to answer it

7) Just because I am writing about something, it doesn’t mean I support it...  Again those are stories, not a scientific report on a lab experiment, I can write about abusive relationships, doesn’t mean I support them, I could write about self harm or depression, doesn’t mean I am encouraging those behaviors, in fact those usually come with a Trigger Warning, why? because a reader should have the option to walk away from what should be just a moment of pleasure and relax, not finding themselves triggered because I didn’t want to spoil the surprise of what was going to come in a story posted on the internet... 8) This far I’ve personally chosen to not push for comment, no beg necessary, I decided years ago to be the kind of self centered bad ass who writes for themselves, who’s not going to dangle the promises of more chapters in exchange for comments, I dislike the practice, and I find too exhausting shouting left and right hey hey I’ve written this read it read it... So I do get why my stories do not have such a large audience, it doesn’t help I’ve actually posted way less than what I’ve written over the years. I do welcome comments, though I have no clue on how to respond to short ones, or a single emoji/<3 to all chapters to those I end up answering only to the most recent one of that person and thank for their support. Longer comments are easier to answer because it gives me something to say back or comment/thanks for, though it becomes weird for me when someone speculate on future developments in what they wish to see, and since I’ve recently adopted the policy of posting only completed stories (even for the chaptered ones that will not be posted at the same time, the number of total chapter is not an estimation it is exactly the number of files I’ve divided the story into for reasons) because I do know whether something of that sort will happen or not, and I don’t want to put someone out of my story if they are too invested in see what they imagined happen... Though as I do write stories I’d like to read I’m quick to encourage aspiring writers to feel free to take that what if and work with it, just to please mention that my story inspired theirs and that I’d love to see what they come up with. Constructive criticisms, I do not have a beta for most of my works, I do not work too well depending on other people’s time, I confess even in the past I received criticisms that were not constructive if we push the boundaries and call those criticisms rather than just plain old complains, which is sort of the reason why I stopped explicitly encouraging communication. Because I do expect respect, you don’t know anything about me or what I believe in, you might make some guesses from my profile because I haven’t been shy and pretty open on them, but I won’t accept being personally attacked or talked to in a disrespectful manner just because you didn’t like what I wrote. I have no problem accepting criticisms, as long as they are criticisms and not just whining. You cannot come to me with “I hate your story” and leave it at that, you already took the time to express your opinion instead of simply walking away, the least you can do is explaining why... Otherwise I seriously don’t get why you wasted both of yours and more importantly my time and energies... From the POV of a spoonie reader who barely has the energy to read: 1)  Ao3′s Kudos are a life saver that allows you to show your appreciation (even if you are allowed only one as registered user) with only a click (and some times even that click takes so much out of you) instead of relegating you to invisible reader, barely visible number (*coughs*ff.net*coughs*)  or forcing you to make a story a favorite/followed 

2) Comments are the source of anxiety, because you might want to show support but would they get that or would it sound strange? will the author understand that a a ghsafdgsakdjfh (read: key smash) happened with excitement and love and you’ve no other words to express it? 2.1) also trying to put your support in words when you are in your pj cozily being a blanket burrito and reading from your phone in bed because there’re no more spoon left for the day it’s hard 

3) The author asked for R&R, or welcomes comments and constructive criticism. You loved the story enough to spend energies to

point out things that were plain plot hole or downright inconsistency or lose ends, pointing out botched translations from your own mother tongue and offering correction that were not google translated, in ao3 case pointing out lack of some appropriate tags, which would have 1 improved your story’s visibility and 2 allowed the reader to choose whether they wanted to read it or not both points that would have benefit you as author...

Only for the author to react: 

- badly with a why are you such a nitpick hadn’t anyone told you that you should just stay silent if you have nothing nice to tell me? - Excuse me you’re the one asking for my opinion not my adoration, I gave you exactly what you asked for, if you cannot handle your work being nitpicked or the holes in your plot being publicly poked then there’re fabulous people called Beta reader who will give you the needed dose of though love in private get one..

- badly with a don’t like don’t read -  legit reader’s counter point is  I wouldn’t have read it if you had given me a way to know then what I discovered now  [personal addendum, on a not that well low energy day it takes me less about 3 mins and half to read 1.5K words don’t came at me on your 1k long story and tell me I could have stopped reading when I noticed it wasn’t that good for me...I was done with it before I could get any warning]

- dismissively because a meet cute  clearly is an AU  - Bless your heart if you need me to point out to you that there is a difference between an Alternative Universe (AU) and a Canon Divergence and the fact that   meet cute is a trope  which in fandoms usually implies different circumstances within the fandom’s canon world  of the first meeting between the characters in the main relationship but doesn’t automatically include different premises for the character example: 

in canon: characters from a magical supernatural fandom one a wizard with magic, one a fighter with superhuman speed and holy weapons, in their first meeting the fighter saved the wizard’s life. 

in a meet cute:  a wizard and a fighter with superhuman speed and holy weapons meet in the middle of the forest where the fighter was hunting for food failing miserably and the wizard took pity on the fighter and offered to share their dinner, if the fighter dared to step inside the wizard’s home

in a No Power/Human AU meet cute: where there is no magic, one of the two is a barista who uses flirty coffee jokes lines to call the other’s person order, and finally discover they are an accountant so instead they start using math puns to get the accountant’s attention. 

Those are all valid stories but as an author don’t came at me believing that just because you mention a trope that is enough to distinguish between the 2° and 3° examples, or that having mentioned the trope gives you the standing to look down at me if I do have my own reasons that you do not know about  for wanting to read only stories like the second pitch and get upset but still tell you in a polite way that there are missing tags in your story, especially when you’ve falsely advertise your 3° like pitch as if it was a 2° one and I get upset and let you know about it and do so with the curtesy of signing it with my name rather than leave an guest/anonymous comment 

- shrugging off issues with the tags with a Oh but I’m bad at tagging  -

then I have 3 things to say to you buddy one) that’s not an excuse if you haven’t learnt how to do it yourself get a beta, get a friend, read more and compare what your story tells with a similar one and how that one is tagged, there’re ways Ignorance is not an excuse; 

two) you can’t claim you’re bad at tagging but then refuse to listen when someone is pointing out to you more tags for your story, dud learn how search engines work, searching by tag is basically having a filtered search, the more tags your fit your story the more venues your story can appear in reader’s search for something to read... which means visibility for your work, are you really telling me that you dislike to have that and would prefer less people reading what you post? then sorry but I think you’re doing it wrong and should get a diary instead, not post them on the internet.

addendum: still claiming to be bad at it after having posted over 40 stories and all posted in recent times in the span of a couple of months, just suggest you lack the intelligence to learn how to do things. Which only encourages me to never ever get close to your works, certainly to never promote or share them if not actively discouraging my friends from spending their time on them.

three) and guess what?  there is a frikking I'm Bad At Taggingtag for that too!!!

As a reader I might be ranting in this post, but the long effect of those is a growing apathy and increased unwillingness to spend my energies for commenting unless I’d really really really really liked or loved a story, or I have something more than a one liner to share, which while I intellectually know it might be unfair to let the whole pay for the disrespect of few, my own survival instinct is glad I’m not spreading myself even thinner...

truthful disclaimer: in all fairness it has been my experience, that those reactions usually come from authors with already quite few stories or a decent word count out there. 

New authors are still very much enthusiastic and happy about even the smallest crumbs of recognition or encouragement, which in return is lovely because it recognise that my own time and energy as reader are worthy, that it does take effort to share an opinion or encouragement or suggestion.

4) The author might never know how that day I posted that single emoji, or two character <3,  it was one of those bad days when even opening a small water bottle to swallow down the painkillers was too much, when using a finger to scroll down the page to reach the end of the story had wiped out more energies than I could really afford and yet I still pushed myself to leave a sign that I was there and appreciated their story

5) readers should be allowed to have the “if you thought writing was hard, try commenting other people words” tag...  because sometimes especially on older platforms (yes ff.net I’m looking at you) as a reader I can’t find the energies to wipe up something to say so I become a silent invisible reader. And sometimes it’s really that I am able to stand only stories with certain characteristics, personally for example I do not have the emotional fortitude to read more a certain amount of Work In Progress at the same time across multiple fandoms because my brain can’t recall all the details and I might not feel to rereading the story from the beginning every single time there is a new chapter... 6) Maybe it’s because I’m way out of my teens, maybe it’s because even in my teens and before stories were my safe place, my escape, I do not expect things to be factually correct in stories, but I am a logic driven person, I will see those plot holes and I might even poke through 'em if I find your story good enough that I feel it would be a pity not pointing those things out. You cannot tell a classic vampire story (not the twilight kind of sun sparkling vampires but the sun burn me to ashes kind) and have your group of vampires prancing about at noon of a clear summer day without some sort of reason for that to work. I promise you, I’m not picky, I will accept ridiculous reasons like they were standing under and umbrella covered from head to toes and none of their skin was exposed to the sunlight, but do put the effort to give me a reason why I should believe it was intentional, or do not cry and complain if I do decide to point out dude you’ve normal vampires that are sunbathing and did not become piles of ashes that’s not plausible... 7) Stories are just that, something to listen to, they don’t have to have a moral for them to be worthy of being shared, they don’t have to be a mirror  of your thoughts, or they could be a mirror of your beliefs, and if I am commenting on them I’m commenting on the story itself not your connection to it. And I do need you to advertise in advance if there’re things that might be triggerish, because what might be  just a mental exercise of stepping outside your shoes, if not done might result in me walking into a panic attack while maybe I was just recuperating for one and trying to find comfort or a distraction. While I as a reader cannot know you author and where you come from, unless you want to make an ass of u and me do not assume you know where I am or what path I’m walking in my life as a reader.  8) I despise people telling me what to do, especially if I didn’t ask for an opinion... If someone (who doesn’t have an economical or authorative position over me) demands me to do something the chances I’ll be do it, especially if I was going to do it before, become nil instantaneously. I’ve been running and lurking in writing circles and fanfictions for closer to three decades at the time this is being written, and from the very beginning I found disgusting and deplorable the practice some authors adopted of bargaining reaching certain numbers of comments/kudos in exchange for the next chapter. I can respect an author saying I don’t want to get this or that, but the final result is that most likely I would walk away without commenting even if it would have been a story I would have otherwise supported. There’re few authors I do know personally, at least superficially through other channels, that have this kind of disclaimers and I still comment. But that’s because I have an appreciation and will to support the person themselves who also happened to be authors. 

[hecohansen31]

Ok imagine: (part 1) you're friend with Michael on a website created for shy people, who don't post any picture and hide their identity to not be bother and one day, because you really like each other, you decide to meet in person. But when you see him, tall, blond, handsome, you can believe he is the lonely boy, bullied by his neighbors and who never even kissed someone. You think he is lying, pranking you and you run away before he could see you.

(A/N): Hello there, lovely!

I am rather sorry for posting this rather earlier and I swear that with tomorrow, I’ll have almost finished all my asks, which is... marvelous, hence I can focus on new writing projects and the beautiful asks you sent on my way!

(If you have more outside of CF’s character, continue to send, also I would love some Xavier’s ones, if you have some!).

With this being said, I hope you’ll enjoy this, I loved this idea, because a while ago, I had a similar, but never got around to write so it was nice to finally do!

Have a nice day, sweetie!

WARNINGS: Body Issues, Self-Consciousness, Depressive Thoughts.

You weren’t exactly self-conscious about your body.

But if you could have worn a paper bag onto your head, you would have gladly chosen to do so.

And not only as fashion statement.

You didn’t remember exactly where your self-consciousness had begun.

Some part of you wondered, whether it had always stuck with you.

Your friends had introduced you to “Faceless” a new social network where people could upload mostly status and quotes, without the need of an image to represent them, being indeed “faceless”.

It could have alarmed your “stranger-danger” sense, but your friends always used it as a way to facelessly make fun of somebody, resulting in it being an extremely mean place.

Except for you and Michael.

You had met Michael after you had discovered you liked the same artist.

You had published some of his art, resulting in Michael commenting about how he had recently visited an exhibition of his, which he had loved, and asked if he could share of the photos he had made there, with you.

You hadn’t minded, although you had been ready to block him if he even thought about sending you dick pics, which he didn’t, sending you the exhibition’s photos indeed, and you couldn’t help but appreciate the sweet gesture.

From then on, you couldn’t help but feel like there were more and more things that linked you two together.

Most importantly your self-consciousness.

Michael admitted that he had discovered “Faceless” on his own, meanwhile he was skimming through the internet and had been rather pleased to discover that he didn’t have to show his face and show himself around to talk with people.

He didn’t feel in the slightest confident because of his grandma, who had kept him segregated at home, till her own evilness had gotten to her and she had died from some lung malfunction due to the perpetrated use of cigarettes she had done.

She had died screaming at her nephew and Michael had never been able to forgive himself, thinking that he had been the one who had killed her.

Thankfully after this bad experience he had been able to move on, being moved to a new house and meeting Mrs Mead, who took care of him lovingly and brought him to exhibitions and galleries, since he didn’t mind in the slightest the painter life, although “he wasn’t very talented” according to him.

He used “Faceless” also to publish his sketches and you had eventually gotten him to submit his art to a context for unexperienced artists.

“It isn’t even that good” he had written to you, after he had submitted.

And guess what… HE HAD WON.

In the end, time had come, and after you had exchanged phone numbers, you had thought about seeing each other in person, since you didn’t live far.

You felt extremely nervous but the possibility of finally meeting Michael, somebody who understood you and cherished your fidgety and self-conscious personality, made you extremely excited and daring.

You were still scared that he might end up being some kind predator, hence you had suggested to meet at a park, in order for it to be full of people, but also somehow private and they would both be wearing something that could make them stand-out.

Him a yellow shirt, and you a polka dotted dress.

Since you were anxious and excited, you ended up being a few minutes early and examined the elegant place, watching through your lashes anybody that came down from your avenue, meanwhile you tried to fake being absorbed in the book you were reading, although nothing would make your mind stick to it.

In the end, something yellowy caught your eyes, but it was just a young boy going around with his parents, who raised him slightly off the ground, to make him giggle.

A truly adorable scene that got you distracted enough that when an older boy with a yellow shirt passed in front of you, you didn’t stop him.

But immediately your gaze was fixed onto him, and you were unable to stop yourself from staring at the gorgeous angel in it: he was desperately handsome, in an ethereal way, almost shy to his own light, made by his golden curls, decorating perfectly and styled around his face.

His pretty eyes held some kind of shyness to them, and insecurity brought them to shine duller, in a greyer shade of ocean, still appreciable but you couldn’t help but wonder what they would be like at it brightest.

They had to be stars, shining in a dark sky.

He was the kind of guy that you would see outside and take a good look, dumbfounded, but then you would turn away, knowing he was waaaayyyy out of your league, hence it got you even more depressed than usual.

But the fact that he was wearing a yellow shirt made you ogle at him even more, trying to make some sense into what you were seeing: was there a possibility that that handsome boy was your Michael?

The shy and not confident Michael, who thought he looked like Frankenstein’s creature and didn’t like going out, since everybody made fun of the way he walked, talked and even looked with gangly arms and clumsy legs.

But that boy was in no way any of those things: he was a classically handsome man, a Michalangelo’s human carved statue and with an androgynous shape that brought interest and uniqueness to him.

A truly masterpiece.

… that didn’t match with the image of Michael you had been given.

You, at first, thought it was just somebody with a very yellow shirt, not your Michael, but then you had seen him look around, almost as if he was waiting for somebody and this got to you.

It was truly Michael.

But not your Michael.

Not the one you had known through internet.

Maybe it was stupid but the fact that he was gorgeous made you uneasy.

It almost felt like you were being played a cruel joke by Michael.

Maybe he had just wanted to gain your confidence then to break your heart, making fun of you, some people did that, although it seemed disturbed.

And you just felt extremely uneasy, enough that you just picked up your book and moved away, before he could glance at your polka dot dress, as you tried not to let your waterworks open in that moment, worried that it would make you seem even more an idiot, and when you were behind the walls of your house, you crouched to the ground.

Your view became hazy for your tears, and before you knew it, you were clutching your chest in a fetal position, unknowing of what the hell was going on, trying to make sense, in how cruel the Destiny had been.

It had given you finally somebody who understood you and cherished you for all your fears and insecurities, and then he had taken him away in such a horrible and embarrassing way.

You couldn’t help but feel grateful that he hadn’t noticed you, since it meant that he wouldn’t have to witness your embarrassing form.

You would stay faceless, but you were a bit glad to have known such an angelic face.

… although you would never be worth of it.

After you felt a bit better, since your stomach basically grumbled back to life, you brought yourself out of your miserable self-pity and onto the kitchen table and there you had left your bag, probably after you had smashed it onto table, in your mental breakdown.

Something inside it was ringing, probably your phone.

You had expected it to be your friend who had known about your little “blind date”, and was worried sick about you meeting a stranger on the internet:

“What if he tries to kidnap you, (Y/N), haven’t you thought about it?”.

“You seriously think that there would be anyone interested in kidnapping me?”.

But it wasn’t your friend: it was Michael.

You let your phone ring, till it got exhausted and your screen showed you a few of the many messages Michael had sent you, which you looked into from the preview, in order not to give away the fact that you had read them.

The first ones were nervous and shy, asking you whether you had found the right spot and were already waiting by him, or if you were some minutes late.

“… if you are late, don’t worry, I just thought I’d come here early”.

“I am nervous, I honestly am scared to meet you in real life”.

“Hey (Y/N), you are coming, right?”.

“Did you have some problem at home?”.

“Hey… aren’t you coming?”.

“Gosh, (Y/N), I am honestly worried… did something happen to you? Please call me!”.

And then he had started calling you indeed, almost frantically, and you were pretty sure that you would find something in your voicemail, but you didn’t check it, and eventually just let your phone ring.

Till you had enough, and you finally replied.

“Won’t you leave me alone?” you sputtered, knowing that it was just a stupid cruel joke, made by an ignorant jock.

“Oh, thank God, (N/N) you replied!” he didn’t seem to acknowledge in the slightest your tone, just happy as a puppy waggling his tail at his owner “… I was getting worried honestly… did something happen this morning? We can reschedule…”.

“I did come today” you felt an uncomfortable silence go through you, but you didn’t let it affect you, pushing yourself further “… and I freaking saw you, Michael, you are certainly not an ugly ducking”.

“Oh, then if you saw me… why didn’t you…”.

“Why don’t you do us all favor and drop this act?” your voice was harsh, your mood quickly swinging from sadness to rage “… I know that you had quite the fun, convincing somebody that you were nothing but an ugly nerd, to make them believe and confide you, just to make fun of them when you finally met them face to face”.

The other line was silent, before a slight hiccup was heard.

“I don’t know what you are talking about (N/N), I honestly had no ulterior intentions than to meet you, face to face” his voice was a rollercoaster of emotions, swinging from calm to whiny and then full-blown teary “… I honestly would never ever make fun of you, you have to believe me”.

“I am barely a five, on a scale from one to ten, Michael…” you mumbled, calming a tiny bit down, mostly because Michael’s voice seemed damnably honest, but you knew better than to trust easily people “… and you are a freaking eleven… so I think that it is better for us to never see us again”.

“No, no wait… (N/N)… if I did something… I am sorry, but please don’t…” his voice right now was extremely sad, and you were absolutely sure that he had started crying “… you are one of the few people with whom I can be myself and seriously the sole thought of you leaving me, make me sick…”.

“I am sorry, Michael, but it is better for both of us, with time, you’ll come around”.

You didn’t want to be hurt.

Even if this wasn’t a joke, Michael was too good for you and eventually he would grow out of a crush on a stranger he had idealized, and to make it even more clear, you chose to send him a photo of you, mostly because you thought that once he saw you, as the mess you were, he would have finally understood.

You then decided to switch off your phone to sleep a bit peacefully, something that might help with your broken heart, but you couldn’t help but keep on replaying that morning meeting, although it always ended up badly: Michael would reveal himself to be a pompous prick and you would end up humiliated in a corner.

When you had woken up, mostly because your roommate had come back home, you had switched on your phone remembering about your friend’s worry, but it wasn’t any message of hers that caught your eyes, it was instead… Michael’s reply to your picture.

One of your favorites, because you smiled brightly and the dress you had chosen made you definitely feel pretty, but you didn’t think that it would even come close to Michael’s beauty.

Still he had replied that you looked gorgeous and that maybe the true reason why you hadn’t wanted to meet him was due to him not being enough for you.

And he had heartbreakingly replied, with a last message, that he wouldn’t have bothered you in the slightest.

The thought of it made you slightly sad, but you were resolute.

Your new week without your “best friend” ended up being extremely difficult, at first you were confident you wouldn’t be missing him too much, but you had had to delete the “Faceless” app from your phone in order not to check it continuously, alongside having to push the laptop away from you.

Your anxieties still didn’t go away, but you were able to reach some kind of balance on the second week, unlike Michael, who had tried to send you some messages, mostly to check in on you.

You never answered, because they reminded you of what it might have happened, had you seriously met.

But it still made you nostalgic, you were completely unable to feel like you had somebody who understood you, who you could talk with no judgement.

It almost made you feel like you might have overreacted the entire thing, almost as if the thought of risking it with Michael might have made it all worth it, had you succeeded in your whole plan.

But maybe… as life had proven you many times, you might have ended up with one more reason to hide yourself from the world.

That morning you had been out for some grocery shopping, and meanwhile you were moving in the street from the little supermarket to pick up some food, to the florist’s shop so that you would be able to have some flower to brighten your dark days.

But as you were coming inside, you saw a movement, and turned around, but soon found a pair of unknown arms around you, startling you enough that you couldn’t help but sigh and try to push yourself away, thinking it was some kind of way to run.

But your mysterious assaulter ended up revealing himself to be a blond angel, you knew all too well: Michael.

He immediately realized your discomfort and he distanced himself slightly, blushing awkwardly and standing there with a hand onto his arm, looking down, before he muttered a shy “hello”.

You couldn’t help but be embarrassed a bit by the entire scene, although your heart roared at knowing that Michael had wanted to make you receive such a genuine reaction, something that convinced that maybe… just maybe… he hadn’t meant anything.

And that somehow… he liked for what he had seen and known.

“… I am sorry, I know that you said that you didn’t want us to meet each other again, but I just… I just felt the need to finally meet you… and hug you… but…” he twirled one of his blond curls between his fingers “…you must think I am a psycho”.

“Just a bit” you replied, softly, trying to make some sense in what was going through your brain “… I honestly have to say I have overreacted a bit… I have missed you in these days…”.

“I have missed you, too” he replied gingerly, meanwhile he went to kiss a bit sloppily your cheeks, making you laugh a bit, at his enthusiasm “… I was hoping that we would be able to finally meet each other… I prayed for it each day…”.

You blushed at his eagerness, and at the fact that it was what you had thought all the time you had spent away.

“I…” you didn’t know what to say anymore, and just stared at Michael’s pretty eyes, thinking that maybe… for one day… it was good to try things, to risk it all “…think that maybe we have closed one door, but we might start again, face to face, instead of ‘faceless’ “.

Michael giggled at his corny humor, and meanwhile you offered a hand for him to hold, he guided you in another soft hug.

“Well then it’s nice to meet you, I am Michael”.

[ginnyzero]

Success is a Journey, Not a Destination

Last Friday, my father called me before he left work. I have a fairly close and adult relationship with my dad. He's the one I talked to before deciding to self-publish. He's a pretty non-judgemental guy with a out of left field sense of humor. We are often told we share a brain, which when it comes to working together can be detrimental because we really don't. I can't read his mind. It can't be frustrating.

But, I don't talk to him about my creative endeavors. I didn't talk to him about my fashion projects or my creative writing. I sat in the office of his shop and between screens loading with his old accounting and job building software frantically typed the first draft of the Lone Prospect and an office manual for said software. So, I was pretty happy when I published the Lone Prospect in paperback that he actually bought it even though he knows I only get 34 cents from the sale. He's not an ebook reader type of guy. I wasn't even sure if he'd read it.

My dad's reading taste is pretty eclectic. He works a lot so seeing him read anything other than the Bible or machinist magazines was pretty rare when I was growing up. When I was a teenager, his reading habits were whatever book you left laying unattended in the living room. I learned quickly not to leave my books unattended. He had the ability to flip open a book I was reading (and may not have even finished yet) and find the one sex scene in the book (that I hadn't gotten to and didn't know existed.) Embarrassing. As a teenager I didn't want him to know I was reading about sex, just as much as I didn't want to know that he and mom still had sex. (Oh the stories from my sister and cousin whose bedroom was over my parents.) When I was in college, I didn't really want to know that my father knew I wrote sex scenes. When I found out from my mother that he'd found my fan fiction LJ accounts and had looked into what I was doing online, I f-locked the accounts. (I was in my early twenties for God's sake.)

So far, sex hasn't come up in anything I've published. I can put off this dilemma for another day. (Thank Goodness.)

Last month, he told me he was reading Honor Harrington. Hard political science fiction mixed with hard core space battles. I was pretty floored. Not what I expected. Friday, he told me that he'd read my book and was actually reading it again. I asked him outright if he liked it because he won't tell me these things unless I do. (Working for him was a pain because I never was sure I was doing a good job.) He did. (He also found grammar errors and missing words in the first 70 pages that have been through three Microsoft products, two format changes and then adobe products and losing words is what happens when too many software formats collide and I refuse to touch it again or else I'll scream. But he notices these things! Engineers.) His approval and enjoying my book made me really happy. Because I want my father's love and approval. In fact, he wanted to know if there were more books.

If this was the pinnacle and definition of success, then I'd reached that goal. Success achieved.

Of course, that's not really where my goal of success lays. But it's a good, life affirming step.

Being a successful published author isn't easy no matter if you're a self published author or if you're a traditionally published author. You end up doing a lot of the marketing work yourself. You aren't just a writer. You're an entrepreneur of your own brand. And it's work. It's a journey, a road, an experience not for the faint of heart. Because you can spend hours and hours writing something, publish it, grind your tailbone flat marketing and promoting and get no response, and then spend an hour dashing off a meaningless dribble and be an overnight sensation. You just don't know how it's going to play out.

I'm at the beginning (2020 here, STILL at the Beginning it feels like) of this original work self-publishing journey. I published my first book in August of 2016 and I know that it may be years before I get more than drips of sales. I'm still on the "what type of promoting is going to work best for me" stage. (Especially since I have no money to put into it.) It doesn't make me a failure. It means I don't know where I'm going yet. I'm at the fork in the road and trying to determine which way looks the best. (I may look back at this in a few years and go, oh Ginnikins, you naive little sod.)

Everyone's journey is different. Everyone has their own realizations about themselves, their writing, creative process and what is important to them at different times. Sometimes, the first step of the journey as a writer is to realize that you can't stop writing. Then the next is whether or not it's important to you to share that writing. The journey is about yourself, the inner you and while other people may come into this journey, they aren't the stars of it. Trying to make someone else the star of your journey is at least a very big distraction. During the journey, you can grow or you can stall and stay the same.

Eighteen years ago, I started writing in order to connect with a friend. Fifteen years ago, I was writing fanfic. Where the hardest thing after having a successful story was writing the next story and trying to duplicate that success. Ten years ago, I was a big name fan (BNF) running a pairing community and hosting awards. Nine years ago, I burnt out. I switched fandoms. I stopped posting WIP. I stopped posting stories all together. I faded out of fandom. No one looked for me. Six years ago or more, I said I'd never publish an original book. Because I didn't want to lose creative control of my characters, plots and writing style. Four or five years ago, I finally had an emotional breakthrough and came up with my ideas for the Lone Prospect. Two years ago, I looked at my health and faced reality that I needed to try to get another source of income that I could get while sitting on my couch, writing. I started querying agents. Six to eight months ago, I decided to self-publish because even if I got an agent to look at my writing, it'd be another two years before I was published by a publisher. And in two years, I could publish 5 books myself plus whatever short stories I wanted.

Who knows where I'll be in two years? I don't.

Even if I'm not getting a lot of sales. Even if I'm working part time jobs or as a consultant or whatever I need to do to keep a roof over my head and food in my fridge. I won't be a failure. I will just be at another part of my journey. As long as I don't give up and I keep writing. (I can't stop writing. I get frustrated and depressed if I stop writing.) Then I'm still a success because I'm moving forward slowly, one step at a time.

One of the major realizations I had in this journey is that I don't need outside affirmation that my writing is good, that I have good stories to tell. I know I'm a good writer. I know I'm a creative person. There are stories I write, that I only share with one person because I know she'll like them too and she wants them. And if I didn't have her, I wouldn't have to share the stories with anyone else. Because they are for me. (Self indulgent character driven stories of properties I don't own and one or two I do.)

The stories I write and that I do share, they're for me too. I share them because I hope others will also enjoy them. I hope that others will find meaning in them even if it is a few hours of entertainment. But it took a great deal of time for me to come to this realization and that if people have problems with the stories I write and the way I write them (outside of technical things like grammar and missing words) then they aren't the audience for my stories. Their opinions don't have to sway me from doing what I love to do.

I don't say this out of arrogance or hubris. I say this out of confidence. I know what I do well and while I may stretch myself in order to grow and improve, it won't change my style and method of writing. There are things I can't do and don't need to do in order to tell my stories. And I acknowledge those things and move on. There are enough people out there that could and would tear me down and shred me apart that I don't need to do it to myself. (And there are lots of lovely people out there too that could build me up.)

I say this because the moment I let an outside opinion define my success, then that person has power over me. That lack of power can undermine my confidence, make me second guess myself. It takes way from me being single minded in my goals to write. This leads to fear of not being good enough, of being rejected and of being a failure. Fear leads to depression. Depression leads to being paralyzed.

And then I'd be stuck on my journey, not willing to go forward, unable to go backwards. And even if you're just taking that first step in your journey by opening a document and writing the first sentence, you've come too far to stop now.

As long as you keep going, as long as you stay on your journey, then you can't be a failure. There may be mountains and molehills or turning molehills into mountains. There will be flat spaces where it's happy and easy and storms when it's hard and you're anxious and stressed and not sure if getting out of bed in the morning is worth it. There can be twists and turns. Sure, maybe your journey will veer away from writing. Maybe there will be a new passion and a new place to put your energy. But that doesn't mean you're a failure as a writer or a person. It just means that there is a new exciting path ahead of you.

Please, don't give up on it.

[hanabbott-blog1]

have you met HANNAH ABBOTT yet? SHE is aTWENTY year old CIS FEMALE HALF-BLOOD. they live in HOGSMEADE VILLAGE, but they’re originally from BALLYCASTLE, NORTHERN IRELAND. they are best known for being a BARMAID AT THE THREE BROOMSTICKS, and i hear they’re pretty CHARMING yet also SELF DEPRECATING at times.

hello everyone , my name is ri . i’ll be playing miss hannah abbott , i use she / her pronouns. i’m twenty one plus and an absolute sucker for aesthetics, so there’s that. feel free to message me with any questions you may have about hannah. under the cut you’ll find bits and pieces of her character  ! 

   name : hannah sophia abbott

   age :  twenty , born october 3rd.

   former house : hufflepuff

   current occupation : barmaid at the three broomsticks

   affiliation / loyalty : order of the phoenix / dumbledore’s army 

   romantic / sexual orientation : bisexual / biromantic

   patrounus : the hummingbird ––– THE HUMMINGBIRD IS A VERY CAREFREE PATRONUS, AND SHOWS A FREE SPIRIT. THESE ARE THOSE WHO WANT TO ENJOY EVERY ASPECT OF LIFE AND EMRACE IT TO IT’S FULL POTENTIAL. THEY ARE SOCIAL, BUT THEY ALSO NEED AN AMOUNT OF TIME ALONE TO TRY AND FIND THEIR OWN PATH. THEY ARE SENSITIVE AND INFLUENCED EASILY BY WHAT OTHERS SAY ABOUT THEM. THEY TRY TO ACT AS THOUGH THEY ARE INDEPENDENT, BUT THEY TAKE EVERY COMPLIMENT AND INSULT THEY RECIEVE WITH EXTREME CONSIDERATION. THEY WANT TO PLEASE EVERYONE. THE MOST COMMON HOUSE FOR A HUMMINGBIRD PATRONUS IS HUFFLEPUFF. THE MOST COMMON SIGNS ARE LIBRA AND CANCER. (x)

    moral alignment : lawful good

BIOGRAPHY : 

you are born into a soft world, there’s nothing but beauty for you to admire, for you to bloom beneath. your mother brings you up to be nothing short of whimsical, of someone who finds things to admire within the simplest of things. the winds, the flowers, the trees that surround you, they all carry something within them that draws you towards them. you’re a magical being, a bright young witch who finds herself comfortable within the confides of the hufflepuff common room. within the house known for loyalty, you find yourself thriving. there, you find, you’ve found a sense of belonging. 

it isn’t long before you are followed by the shadows, before you give in to your darkest thoughts. a girl so beautiful, so kind. how could she ever think of herself worthy of anything more than the simplest of things? it’s because of this, because you were led to believe that there was nothing ethereal about the way you’d stumble your words in an anxious rage, or the way you’d crumble beneath the pressure of looming deadlines. you were bright, there’s no denying that. but the ghost of laughter as you struggled to articulate your words, as you sat at an empty table on the weekends your classmates wandered around hogsmeade struggling to find the words. 

hannah suffers from anxiety. she’s never truly been comfortable in her skin and so she found being in hogwarts made it worse in the sense that she’d never really considered herself intelligent. she’s a very soft girl, someone who was easily influenced in her early years. so, when others began to laugh, began to shun her for her insecurities, she began to believe them. she wasn’t worthy of anything good, anything decent. she, a fragile girl who crumbled beneath the pressure that exams, essays, and classes caused her. she distanced herself from anything academic in her spare time if only to free her mind of its turmoil. it seemed foolish to some. 

it generally causes her to fall into a spiral of self - loathing. while she may be appearing to be perfectly poised on the outside, sunshine spilling from her skin  on even the darkest of days. inside, hannah finds her own thoughts about herself eating away at her flesh, heart decaying and left to rot in a pit of self deprecation. 

she often says things that are taken in a joking manner. because, as people would point out, she was a blonde. an airhead. a girl who was pretty enough to get by in life. that’s what they told her, and so she began to believe it.

by the time you’re in your fourth year , hufflepuff finally receives the recognition it deserves. you support cedric, you surround yourself with him if only to soak in any confidence that he may exude. to you, he’s the perfect champion. to you, he’s being robbed of any glory no thanks to harry potter. you can’t blame him, as much as the rumours say he’d done it himself, and as much as you turn up your nose at the boy. it isn’t his fault, but the pressure of your peers eats away at you and in turn, your image suffers. you’re seen condoning a bullying in which you’ve only ever endured before. it pains you, yet you continue. it’s cedric’s death that shakes you all the most. he was your light, your hope, he represented everything that was worth being in the world. yet, he’d fallen as easily as anyone else. 

voldemort returns, and your depression hits a high point. you find yourself yearning for any sort of power, anything that doesn’t make you feel so god damn fragile. you find it in dumbledore’s army. you stand behind harry, for he’s felt pain more than you could ever imagine. you fight and you listen and you learn. you find that there’s something worth value in being good at herbology, at being able to brew a potion better than half your class. yet, you keep these things to yourself. you’ve got a role to play, the insecure girl who finds comfort in hearing that she’s kind, who finds glory in knowing that she’s seen as beautiful. your blonde hair grows longer, it’s loose curls against your slightly freckled porcelain skin and when you cast your first patronus, locks of light blonde fly through the room and you swear you’ve never felt more powerful. 

sixth year is a blur. you board the train, you go to the feast, but your only real memory of that year is the loss of your mother. the news that she’s been murdered, found dead alone within your home in ireland. it was a cruel twist of fate. and your usual calm and composed self finds a breaking point. screaming into the void, ripping sheets and drapes and ruining the dormitory that took you away from the one person in the world you loved most. you leave, tell yourself you’ll never return to the place that had never learned how to appreciate you anyways. you’re alone, orphaned, living in a small coastal home. you spend your nights curled up, a sorrow filled song bird, humming aimlessly into the night as your mothers room remains untouched. professor sprout offers her condolences, offers you a place to stay within your old dorm for holidays, asks you if you’d like to return. you decline, you ignore. your life is filled with silence, it’s filled with darkness. the world loses its beauty, and you in turn lose your hope. 

you return, and to no surprise, you have to retake your sixth year. people snicker. and you hold your head high because your mother had never taught you to be a coward. you face the world with a new outlook. something stronger brews beneath you. when neville approaches you about dumbledore’s army, you’re quick to swear fealty to whatever it is he’d concocting. you spend your nights comforting the children who meet the carrows in darkened halls and over crowded classrooms. 

hannah was heavily involved with dumbledore’s army throughout her (second) sixth year. she found herself spending more time in the room of requirement than in her own dormitory, hiding out and acting as nothing short of a maternal figure towards cowering children. the beauty faded, but her soft exterior remained. in place of her insides is now something likened to steel. 

she stands by neville, stands behind harry, and takes part in the battle of hogwarts. walks away with nothing but scrapes and bruises

your heart breaks, and you cannot help but recoil into a silent solitude. your seventh year goes by in a blur, and the castle still smells of death to you. it’s that year that you find yourself becoming closer with madame rosmerta, and she sparks something inside you. perhaps it was like bringing a corpse back to life, to see hannah smile. so it doesn’t come to any surprise that after you graduate, a year later than you’d hoped to, you begin working for her at the three broomsticks. she finds you a nice flat in hogsmeade and helps you pack up the childhood home in which you shared with your mother. there’s a photo, particularly beautiful in its nature, of her on your vanity. she walks with you everyday, you swear she’s by your side. perhaps you never got to mourn properly. 

there’s nothing more comfortable than the three broomsticks. hogsmeade is out of the way of london enough that you don’t come into contact with many from your school years. it’s sad, but you like it that way. they’d see nothing in you now that they didn’t back then. perhaps even say that this life was a life they’d always envisioned for you. for, you’ve wasted your talents, but you don’t need them to tell you that. loyalty first, happiness second. it’s what you tell yourself when rosmerta tells you she needs you more oft than not. you’re happy to be alone, it’s safer this way. you see susan as much as you need to, and daphne pops in to make sure you’re alright. goes out of her way to cook you meals to make sure you’re eating. it’s something you’re not used to anymore. someone putting your needs ahead of theirs. 

hannah lives a quiet life. she’s slightly ashamed of her lost potential. given in to the idea that she herself failed. it’s this that drives her to become a healer later on in life, that drives her to take night courses and begin her studies when she garners enough confidence to be okay with being studious once more. 

she paints. sunflowers, oceans, anything that brings a splash of colour into her life. she doodles on her skin, on napkins, on parchment. always artistic. 

she believes in the good in people. it’s this reason alone that hannah doesn’t believe in the persecution of any of her fellow students. that they should be on the end of a wicked witch hunt so to speak. she believes in second chances, and that people are only as good as their circumstances.

hannah’s mother was a pureblood who fell in love with a muggleborn man who’d left her upon finding out she was pregnant. it’s the reason hannah carries the abbott name. her father’s identity has never been important to her. 

her mother was her hero, a renowned cursebreaker and a wonderfully brave woman. hannah was in constant awe of the artifacts her mother would bring home, and the plethora of stories she’d provided her with. 

her boggart is failure. lmao it’s ironic because she feels it everyday.

she’s got an orange tabby cat named des ; short for desdemona. 

she’s gifted in herbology and potions, always has been. once again, hannah is very self deprecating and it was this trait that people found easy to pick at. the more they’d told her she was daft, the more she began to believe it. it’s a big trigger to her anxiety. 

she’s a soft and i love her to death and i’ll fight anyone for her. facts are facts.

she’s scarred from the war, depressed and anxious. but she smiles through it because she’s got no other choice. other people lost brothers, sisters, mothers and fathers. her happiness has always come second. she doesn’t believe she’s got the right to grieve, to properly mourn. and so she bottles it inside and helps others. 

[thewayshefeels1]

Dear Mike

Hey, it’s me. Comin at ya at 12:30AM from my bed. Insomnia sucks. It’s so frustrating tossing and turning until you finally find that perfect position and then you’re off. Time goes by so fast when you’re asleep. It’s like you were up and then bam the hours pass by and now here you are… again. I have to pee but I’m too lazy to get up. Why am I telling you this? I have my best thoughts this time of night, or my worst depending on how you look at it. I think about you, I have been. You texted me last night and it made me really nervous. I was going to ask you “what did I do?” But I didn’t. Instead I just sucked up my upset and took my anxious ass downstairs with a bad of edamame. I watched these videos on my computer. They’re pretty interesting. The last 3 years of my life I’ve made a video each month. I told my mom if anything were to ever happen to me to watch these videos so she could find out who I really am; she could see the truth. And I guess that’s why I’m writing this to you now; I don’t even know if I’ll give it to you, if I’ll read it. I wrote to you before but who knows where that is now, on moms laptop I think. I may just write for catharsis, and in a few months or years look back and reflect on what I’ve learned, laugh at my younger, naive self or cry… it’s all relative at this point. You asked to see me tomorrow, which I guess is today. I don’t know what’s going to happen… I don’t know why you had to text me and make me worry. But I guess we’ll find out soon enough. I know what I have to say to you. They say the truth will set you free… and that’s all any of us really want isn’t it? To be free? So here goes… I briefly remember the first time I saw you. We were in the back room having a huddle by the truck line. You were slightly hidden but you were tall enough to peer over the people nearest you. I was hiding around the corner like I usually do. I was trying to sneak a glance, without looking interested. You were wearing a bright red shirt and you were next to someone whose name I will not mention. The next time I saw you; there you were again, next to he who shall not be named. We might’ve made eye contact, we may have not. The third time I was introduced, by a “friend”. I probably smiled and most likely was feeling self-conscious. You were behind me and I was wondering what I looked like. Were you looking at my ass? This time we had our huddle by the dressing rooms. My friend said we were married or something and I had hoped you disregarded this because my friend is not my type but you were. Fast forward to your last day and I recall holding my breath and calling your name to invite you over or ask for your number/some combination of the two and praying I didn’t sound like a thirsty weirdo but thinking “ah what the fuck” if I did. I remember my two confidants Christa and Jeremy both being oh so very proud and me doing a celebration dance in the aisle (success!) after. I remember you standing outside my house and my mom using her creepy camera to ask which is the hottie I was talking about but I couldn’t decipher between you and Zack. And when they were playing poker truth or dare and someone asked “if you could fuck anyone in the room who would it be” and you were sitting next to me holding a beer and I was going to say you but somebody asked me to get them something so I got up and couldn’t say it (saved by the bell) I remember showing you the photo of Casper in Dina’s room and you being so fascinated and me being so fascinated by your fascination; which may or may not have been real but I don’t need to know (or might’ve been the alcohol) Blame it on the alcohol. Then I remember showing you my room and you being the only one I took upstairs and my mom asking me about that the next day (oops?) I remember someone mentioning he noticed the way I looked at you. “Is it that obvious?!” I said embarrassed… You texting me saying you had a really good time and despite the fact I was ridiculously tired and you didn’t work at target anymore me feeling a sense of success. I remember asking Christa what I should do because I wanted to see you again, then the way I felt when you asked to see me again, subtlety but you did nonetheless. And you see THIS dear friend is when everything changes. But I knew it. I knew everything would change - I’d hope for the better; which I’m not saying there’s no happy ending to the story (stay tuned) but what I am saying is it’s like when you’re about to jump into the deep end and you hold your breath for what’s to come, or maybe you do a belly flop. Maybe you’re a great swimmer, maybe you float or maybe… you drown. I braced myself because I said “Lauren what are you getting yourself into? This isn’t a good idea and you know it” somehow I keep taking chances and I see it as a flaw. The whole romance department is a total weakness cause as much as I’d like to camp out in the woods where no one can find me, I keep coming out of hiding and give it another shot. But I’d rather not.. I can’t risk getting hurt and that may sound cowardly but good I don’t care. I am a coward I’ll admit it. I don’t have courage and I’ll be the first to say it. The whole saying “I’d rather loved and lost than rather have not loved at all” doesn’t ring true for me. I just don’t find it worth it anymore. But I digress..

(Continuation 11:45AM next day)

Hello again. This time I’m on my mom’s laptop. Much easier to write this way than a cell phone except her period key is broken so that’s an annoyance. I had a nightmare last night so I crawled into bed with mom. My jaws been hurting every morning so I think I have a teeth grinding problem.. Great, just great. Any who, you said you wanted to get to know me better so I will tell you a little bit about myself. You may know already that I love cats and pigs are my favorite animal. You may already know my favorite color is purple, I’m a carboholic who loves country music and exercise. Yoga keeps me as sane as possible and reading and writing are some of my favorite past times. You may know the basics but do you really know the person sitting next to you? You know what I’ve told you.. Maybe you know what you’ve observed. I’m self-aware, sensitive and reserved. I am emotionally honest and personal, but moody and self-conscious. I withhold myself from others due to feeling vulnerable and defective. Typically I have problems with melancholy, self-indulgence, and self-pity. At my best I can be inspired and creative. By seeing myself as fundamentally different from others, I sometimes feel isolated from everyone else, and consequently that no one can understand or love me. When I am healthy I’m self-renewing, introspective and individualistic. Generally I’m a very revealing person; gentle, some may say funny and hopefully strong. But at my worst, I’m self-inhibiting, angry, especially at myself; I become depressed and alienate myself from others. I become blocked and paralyzed. Ashamed, fatigued and unable to function. This leads to further torment and delusion - self-contempt, self-hatred, and morbid thoughts. I blame others, but mostly myself. I drive away anyone who tries to love me. Despairing, hopeless, self-destructive, obsessive and addictive behaviors come into play. To the fullest - breakdown and thoughts of suicide may occur. On a daily basis when I’m somewhere in the middle, normally I’m a very romantic, aesthetic, passionate, imaginative girl. Now you may be saying, OK lady, just get to the point already, where do I fit into this? I know you like to skip all the mumbo jumbo and hate small talk. But maybe that’s where I’m going with this? I sort of don’t know where I’m going. You see… I don’t know anything about you. I could tell someone your favorite color is blue, I could tell them as of a week ago I now know your middle name is James, that you have 2 pit bulls, you go to a gym in Patchogue, that you and I used to work at Target together. I could maybe tell them a few minor details about you. All the things on the surface, but I couldn’t really say who you are. Did you know I’m an organ donor? Do you know why? It’s not that I don’t want to know you – quite the opposite. I want you to see my bucket list, I wanted you to know my dreams and I wanted to know yours. I want you to look over my tattoos – learn why I got them; to understand the meaning behind them. I’m a writer, a lover of details, I soak in the little things in life. But from what I’ve observed, you like to skip the introduction, the plot. You want to get straight to the point; and that’s totally fine. But for me, life is like climbing a mountain, it’s all about the journey, the whole story, not Sparknotes. I’ve learned it’s not about the destination because once you get there it’s usually not what you expect it to be. And then you’re onto the next one. It’s about the lessons you’ve learned and the people you’ve met along the way. I’m not judging you, we’re all different – you’re not a bad guy – you’re a nice guy – a normal guy. But I won’t put labels on you and tell you who/what you are because it’s not my place to do so. I’m just some girl you met a few months ago. The first time we went out was Saturday January 28th. We hung out approximately 25 times. I might’ve missed a time or two, but I wrote each time we saw each other. Is that weird? I just didn’t want to forget. I like to remember incase my memory fails me which it so often does; it’s very frustrating. I hope I haven’t caused you any pain but I can’t say I don’t think I have. I know I’ll never get girlfriend of the year award, although I do try, and I know you do too. We did have some fun in the beginning, but due to timing and circumstances, we aren’t as happy as we could be. Truthfully, my depression is pretty bad right now. It’s not because of you, nobody can make you feel a certain way. Intimacy and relationships hit a trigger point for me - just being close with someone has the potential to flare up certain memories due to previous traumas and I hope one day it’ll lesson. I take responsibility I’m not available for this relationship; if I’m not as present as I thought I would be. I’m so afraid of getting hurt that I subconsciously make sure I never invest past a certain extent. I think I act like I don’t care so I won’t get hurt if you go away, so I push you away instead. It’s funny how we sabotage ourselves sometimes so that we can confirm our beliefs. Not funny, but ironic rather. And I hope you don’t think this is just all one big excuse. If it was, I wouldn’t be taking days and hours to write it. I mean, you could just rip it all up or burn it. If I do decide to give it to you, do with it what you must, tell me to fuck off, yell, I understand. I’m writing since you know by now I’m bad at expressing my feelings. And we’re all entitled to our feelings. I really do like you Mike, but I can’t keep doing this, we both can’t, not like this. I know you said things will change, but do you really believe that? Or do you just hope they will? I know from personal experience, from my own experience, that it’s not that simple. Just because the weather changes and you get a few extra hours to spend in a week.. Doesn’t put you both in a good place. You’re not a bad person and I hope you don’t think I am either. I don’t want to hurt you anymore and I don’t believe you want to hurt me. But I fear we are doing more harm than good by prolonging this – you think I’m hiding stuff from you and that makes me sad. I wouldn’t go behind your back; I have more integrity than that and I respect you too much to do that. I don’t expect you to give me 100% trust, but you need to give people the benefit of the doubt sometimes. You can’t just take their phone, or look through their shit hoping to find something, because if you’re searching, you’ll make crap up in your mind to confirm it. You don’t think I have trust issues? I know we all have our insecurities and things to work on, but believe me, if you want a satisfying relationship, you can’t let that come between you and someone. It will eat away at you. I’m sorry if this isn’t what you want to hear. The silence between us lately has been deafening. You have been lovely but it would be wrong to keep you around for myself when underneath I’m still lonely. It’s nothing a man can fill, not a void I’m looking for another person to satisfy, but something I need to figure out myself. You have helped me to realize that. When I became involved with you, I thought I was ready to date again; I thought I had moved on from my past but they say you meet people for a reason, a season or a lifetime. I hope you don’t feel used by me. I know our time together might feel cut short. You may be boiling inside [maybe not, I can’t read you sometimes] nevertheless, I’m getting to know myself better each passing year. I hope you can say the same too. You’re smarter than you give yourself credit for. I’ve learned that I am not ready to date, I am not fully over what happened and it’s not fair to act like everything’s A-OK. My scars aren’t fully healed and I need to love myself 100% before I can begin to let another person into my heart. I thought I was there but I’ve come to accept I’m not. It’s hard for me to let go, but it’s becoming easier. It’s a necessity in life, but still challenging. I can’t fake happiness anymore, I’m working on becoming a more authentic version of me. I think people can tell when you’re not being honest, and that’s a good thing. We could keep trying at this but I think we should both be 100% in, and it wouldn’t be right.. It wouldn’t feel right, at least not to me. So in conclusion as our high school essays would say, there’s been many good times (& food) as well as some not good times, but clearly you need to focus on your job and whatever floats your boat and it would be best for me to focus on keeping my boat afloat as well as physical and mental health. I told you I despise clichés because they sound so fake but sometimes they’re true, so don’t hate me for saying I hope one day we can be friends but in my life right now I can’t make a relationship my top priority. I will stop reading/talking now and give you a chance to process and take all this in. I hope things don’t get awkward but chances are they mostly likely will. The end.

Love or whatever word I don’t know I should use,

Lauren   

[hello-alittlewritercub]

Letting Go

So I do believe I have a story to tell. 

I mentioned in one of my posts that I was reading “This is Me Letting You Go,” by Heidi Priebe to help me with some recent experiences I was and still am going through. I promised to explain later. 

Well dear reader, now is the time! 

My family moved to Pennsylvania when I was 9 years old, and we’d lived here for a few years previously. We aren’t by any means wealthy, and we made our home in a garage on our cousin’s property. We renovated it and called it the “Tiny house,” a fitting name. It was about 700 square feet, for a family of seven. Though it was small, we lived there for five years, and I formed some of my favorite memories there. I was a happy kid. 

When I was twelve, I joined the youth group at my church. I was extremely anxious about it; I’ve always struggled with anxiety. Even though all the girls were nice enough, I didn’t feel like I belonged. The ones who were my age saw me as awkward and unpredictable, which I was, even if they liked me. A few of the older ones took pity on me, and one wonderful young woman, four years my senior, took me under her wing. 

I felt desperately alone and out of place, even with my caretaker-friend. I would leave class to “use the bathroom” four or five times in a single hour, or  tear up in the middle of class for no apparent reason, and leave the room to spend the rest of the meeting by myself. A couple times, this young woman followed me and comforted me to the best of her ability. I absolutely loved her for it. I decided to let go of my fears and be more like her. She however, was a bubbly, confident, sweet, very extroverted girl, and the more I tried to be like her, the worse I must have appeared! I started opening up about my strange preferences - “Can we bring pickles to the breakfast party?” and trying to be as confident and engaging as my friend. While my confidence did improve, and I was happy in her company and she was proud of me, I could feel that something was off. I wasn’t being myself - and it felt wrong. I still didn’t have anyone I counted as a friend except her (although this was probably my doubt coming into play - I assumed the other girls were only nice to me because they were good people, and because I stayed with my extroverted friend, who was, to put it simply, popular.) Even though I trusted this girl, it never occurred to me that I could confide in her. I felt so alone (I didn’t even have my puppy yet at this point) that I would talk to the showerhead when I needed to pour my thoughts and feelings out of myself. 

Then, my brother entered the youth program. I started really trying to be his friend, because I didn’t want him to feel the loneliness that I did. And it worked! Though we weren’t nearly as close as we are now, I started getting a sense for what a real friend felt like, other than my caretaker friend, Elizabeth. 

When I was fourteen, Elizabeth moved away, to go to college. Right then is when my family decided to move to where we are now, and three days after we moved in, my new baby brother was born. It was a hectic and lonely time for me. After we settled in with our new family member, we started going to our new church. At first, not having Elizabeth and being in a new place with new people and new family members, was utterly exhausting. The girls and boys were divided, so I didn’t get to be with my brother. I felt swamped by the other people. I hardly spoke in any of the meetings, and I would cry myself to sleep every single night. I was angry with God for doing this to me. 

Finally, one night after a youth activity, I stood outside and poured my heart out through my streaming tears to the starry night sky, imagining I was talking to Heavenly Father. I explained how hurt, confused, and lonely I was. I felt a slow, achingly beautiful feeling of being loved wash over me. I remembered that I could simply open up - maybe the other girls were as afraid of me as I was of them. I could be brave and open up. 

I did my very best, though my natural awkwardness didn’t help my case. There was one girl, a garrulous, pretty Aisian who seemed to like me (I’ll call her Anna). She encouraged me to try to be friends with her best friend, an extremely quiet girl (who I’ll call Brianne).  I had noticed the girl before, and had liked her. She was quiet, but she didn’t mind. She was talented, but humble. She was everything I wanted to be. However, she wasn’t as bubbly as her friend, which led me to believe that she didn’t really like me. In an attempt to become emotionally close with Anna, I confided that I was scared Brianne didn’t really like me. Anna contradicted that Brianne was just shy, and when she felt out of place, she’d respond with apathy. I tried to accept what she’d said, hoping that maybe I could still make friends here. 

Well, Anna told Brianne’s parents that I had told her that Brianne hated me. This led Brianne’s mom (the leader of the girl’s group) to confront me about this. She told me I was being rude to their group by not opening up, that I should help them achieve unity, and that I was completely misjudging Brianne. I needed to be more accepting, she said. I was a disappointment, she said. 

While she didn’t say those things exactly, it was close enough. I’m sure she was only trying to help, but my sensitive, hurting spirit couldn’t take it. Anna had betrayed me and all I got from Brianne was carefully polite looks. I was growing much closer to my brother, but I gave up on any other friendships. 

That was when I met Taylor.

At one activity, I saw a small, very quiet girl sitting in the back. She wore tall unicorn socks, and I was amazed - I was too self conscious and afraid to even wear my favorite shoes outside the house, which had small flowers on them and reminded me of Elizabeth, who loved floral print. I  was intrigued, and I didn’t want the poor girl experience the same thing I was - so I went up to talk to her.

The two loners of the group, we immediately hit it off. Soon after, she asked for my contact information, and we became best friends extremely fast. Right then, Taylor’s family moved - not far from my house, but she wouldn’t be coming to the same church activities anymore. I was desperate for Taylor’s company, as I felt insecure and terrible without her. She contacted me everyday, and I could tell she struggled with some deep family and personal issues - and that made me decide that she needed a friend as much as I did. I was determined to take care of her.  Shortly after, I became depressed. I hate to admit it, but I had a few suicidal thoughts. My parents and brother became very worried about me, asking if my relationship with Taylor was healthy - but I pushed them away, convinced that Taylor needed me as much as I needed her, and that she was the only thing keeping me from becoming completely drowned in my depression. Little did I realize that Taylor, with her deep family issues, was also severely dishonest and manipulative, and that the reason I was her favorite person was because I was so easily manipulated, which was also the reason for my depression. She isolated me, convinced me that I belonged to her.  I defended her, and never suspected a thing. 

Shortly after, something happened where I was a little picked on, and though I did my best to be mature, my feelings were very hurt. Taylor didn’t help me, defend me, or take my side, but instead defended the person who had hurt my feelings. While she was right in that the person didn’t mean to hurt me, she was wrong in telling me that he was right. She manipulated me by feeding me mixed lies about the situation. Taylor’s friend, Ella, of whom I’d been told many faults by Taylor, came to my rescue. She helped me talk to the person who’d hurt my feelings - I explained that while I was sure he didn’t mean it, what he’d done was hurtful. He apologized, and I felt happy. Things were cleared up! 

A couple days after, I was arranging for Taylor to come to my house - and she was being very passive aggressive. I asked her what was wrong, told her she could confide in me, as I so often confided in her about my feelings of depression (which she told me were selfish and imagined). She responded angrily, saying that I had gone over the line, that I was immature, self absorbed, jaded, manipulative, and a couple other things. She said that by talking to the person who had hurt my feelings, I had completely broken her trust, and that she was severely disappointed in me. I was shocked, horrified, and terribly hurt. I ran out to my tree and sobbed heartwrenchingly for who knows how long. Not knowing what else to do, I asked Ella for help. She’d helped me before - I hoped she’d help me again. I explained to my parents and brother why I was crying, wanting them to tell me if I was overreacting, if what Taylor had said was true. Ella and my family responded similarly; Ella was furious that Taylor would treat me in that way. She asked me to show her my texts with Taylor, which I did, and Ella explained that Taylor was manipulating and gaslighting me. My parents told me that everything Taylor said was a lie, and they encouraged me to do what I thought best. Ella told me that I should block Taylor. The thought flashed through my mind - but Taylor needs me. She’s hurting and she needs me. 

But then I thought back. Did Taylor really need me? I considered what Ella and my family had said, and came to my own conclusion. I couldn’t talk to Taylor anymore. She was slowly killing my soul. Ella and my family supported me wholeheartedly. I realized that my brother, my parents, and Ella were true friends. I had thought that a good friendship entailed helping the other improve, telling the other of their faults - but that was me defending Taylor’s nasty, vicious words. What had she ever really done to help me? Nothing. She constantly told me of how terrible I was, or how good, because I was hers. She simultaneously made me feel worthless and worth the world - but I was only worth the world to her, she said. I belonged to her. She only told me I was worth something because she was worthless. When I would try to help her, she would dismiss me as irrelevant. She was a terrible friend, and as much as I still wanted to help her, I couldn’t stay in contact with her if I wanted to be happy. So I blocked her. 

I expected to feel heartbroken. I expected to feel lost. But in truth, I felt wonderful! I finally felt free, and I finally saw the wonderful friend I had in my brother, and the new friend that was opening up in Ella. I did wonder if I was labeling Taylor wrongly - but no. My parents have experience with diagnosably manipulative and toxic people, and they recognized the patterns in Taylor. I wasn’t overreacting. I prayed for her, but I didn’t speak to her. And I felt wonderful. 

But then, a month later, I began to feel insecure again. Being in such close contact with a person who was so deeply manipulative, dishonest, and toxic, had left me in a different state of being. I didn’t believe in my self worth, and I was governed by fear. I began to worry that I was being a bad person by cutting Taylor off. What if she was struggling too? I could be strong enough to take care of her, I would, I promised myself. I could handle both of us. 

So I reached out to her. I told her that I hoped we could be friends again, and asked her if we could both change so the relationship could be healthy. I told her I loved her and prayed for her. 

She responded by saying she hadn’t changed and wasn’t going to. Saddened, but not surprised, I told her that I couldn’t go back to talking to her again. I said I was sorry, but I didn’t think our friendship was healthy for either of us. 

She quipped that she was glad we weren’t friends anymore. She told me I’d been holding her down, that I was manipulative and hurtful to her, and that she was glad she wouldn’t have to come in contact with me again. This caught me off guard, and I believed her, hating myself for my pretended crime. But I had the thought to ask my parents. Was she just lying again? 

My Dad said heck yes, she’s lying to you. She sees that she’s lost control over you, so she’s just trying to hurt you in any way she can before you leave. He told me she was deeply screwed up, and that I was letting my love and idealism go to far. Going back to her was hurting myself. He assured me that re-blocking her was the best thing to do. 

So that’s what I did. It’s only been a couple weeks since that happened, and I’ve been experiencing very mixed feelings. I am happy, free, light, but I also feel terrible and get hot bouts of loneliness sometimes. Which is why I bought, “This is Me Letting You Go.” I thought it was a book for letting friends go, for infps. It’s actually a book for everyone, about letting go of the people we loved. It still helped me tremendously. It taught me that I am my own best friend, and that I deserve to make myself a better person, chase my dreams, and help others. I highly recommend this book! 

Slowly but surely, I am healing and becoming a better me than this version that Taylor molded me to become. I have found my best friends (See previous post!) and some promising people. Dear reader, I am proud of you for reading all the way to the end! This was a long and especially heavy post. Dear reader, I hope you have let go of painful people in your life to become your best self. I hope you learn to act out of love for yourself and others, and never fear. Dear reader, best of wishes. 

-littlewritercub

[blackwhitefrancis]

A Light in the Darkness

A Story of Black and White: Part 1

It took me a while to gain the courage to see you again. I reached for the key dangling on a hook a few feet away from your room. I carefully unlocked the door and stepped inside. You were lying on the bed, facing away from me and towards the floor-to-ceiling windows. There was nothing but storm clouds in the horizon. Trees of various shapes and sizes with trunks like charcoal and leaves that resembled burnt newspapers grew rampant. They started out so few, but I suspect that in a matter of years, we might as well be living in a forest.

I walked quietly to your bed and sat beside you, careful not to make contact. You didn’t stir, even though I knew you were awake. I had to squint and let my eyes adjust. I forgot how bright you were. Your snowy white skin glowed against the drab blankets. In this dark, confined place we call our sanctuary, you flickered like a candle in a cold, dead, moonless night.

“I miss you,” I whispered. I heard you sigh, but you didn’t move. I understood why you didn’t want to look at me. You hated what I’d become. What I’d let us become. I didn’t blame you. I just hoped that deep down you knew that I did it all for you.

I remained where I was, basking in your warmth as I reminisced our youth. You were always so carefree, so kind. You trusted people, and always chose to see the good in them. You did the right things just for the sake of it. You had the best intentions at the heart of everything you do, letting your emotions dictate your actions.

I remember when you used to read so many romance novels. You were so addicted to the idea of love and romance. You couldn’t wait to meet your soul mate and fall in love. When you weren’t reading, you were playing video games, eager to play the hero who saved the world. You wanted to help people, even in an imaginary world. You liked watching TV shows and movies where the protagonist wins and the ending a happy ever after. No matter what you did, you always empathized with characters, be it from a video game, a TV show, a movie, or a novel. You felt their pain, wallowed in their misery, feared for their life, and reveled in their happiness as if they were your own. You treated people in the same manner like individual characters with their own stories.

You confused me to no end. I followed you around like a shadow questioning your every move. Why do you do what you do? How could you not see the evils in the world? Did you truly not notice them? Pretended they didn’t exist? Or just ignored them? Either way, I admired you for your courage to live the life you wanted.

Even I knew that wouldn’t last. You were so innocent and so naive that you didn’t see that day coming. That day you were betrayed by people you thought you could trust. That day you started doubting everything you believed in. We were just 16, our senior year in high school, and on that day, your world crumbled around you.

I felt your fear during the days until you could finally leave. Anxiety settled in every time the handful of people you could still call friends left you alone. You felt like you were standing under a street lamp in the middle of nowhere. You stood there, anxious and paralyzed, not knowing where to go and unsure of the dangers the pitch-black night would bring. Every sound, no matter how small, made you flinch. You wanted to cry, but you didn’t want to show any weakness. The fondness with which you used to look at people was replaced with wariness. For the first time in your life, you felt helpless, afraid, and alone.

I wept for you, but I had to step up and be the person you couldn’t be. I didn’t have a choice. I had to. For both of us. I lashed out at anyone who was remotely a threat. Like a cornered animal, I fought back and scared everyone away, no matter the intention. I used words like acid rolling down my tongue and poison written on pieces of paper. Sarcasm, pessimism, and cynicism flowed out of me in waves. But it worked. No one had the gall to even try and get close. For a while, that was enough.

When an opportunity arose for reconciliation, you convinced me to go. I was skeptical but you were insistent. I caved and let you have the reins. That turned out to be a mistake. Not only was there no reconciliation, but the same people that betrayed you made you feel unwanted, as if your presence was so toxic that you should be contained in a vault in a corner of the universe that could not receive any heat or light. Your sense of loss was overwhelming, like drowning in the ocean and seeing the light of the surface fade away.

That was the day I decided to lock you up in this room. You tried to resist, but I gained too much strength in a short amount of time. You were no match. I did it not because I didn’t want to let you out. I did it because I didn’t want anyone else in. I built walls around our sanctuary. One wasn’t enough. The more, the better. I made bricks out of the memories of every single person who reminded me why I was doing this. I built walls as high and as wide as I can, as many as I can. I promised I wouldn’t let anyone hurt us. Never again.

I decided to take in all that pain and regret and made it into an armor for myself. It looked hauntingly beautiful, made of heartbreaks, broken trusts, and empty promises. It was heated in the fire of tranquil rage then cooled in a river of tears. Still, it kept breaking, but as they say, what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. If there was one thing I learned, it was that people are always capable of doing anything. There was never a shortage of materials for me to use. I forged, and reforged the armor every time it broke until it could break no more. I had it fit my body so tight that no one would even know I was wearing any unless they were close enough to touch. Not that they would get a chance.

The armor wasn’t enough. I needed something else. A disguise. Something to cover the armor. I made it with less effort that I thought I would. I took people’s misconceptions and first impressions and weaved them into vestments fitting a new persona. Someone who seemed shy at first, but kind and genuine. Someone slightly intimidating, but respectable. Someone who liked to please others, and maybe even make them laugh every now and again. Someone confident in their own skin. Someone trustworthy and reliable. The mask sporting a simple smile was the last piece of the ensemble. It was more than enough to hide my mistrust, reservations, frustrations, and occasional thoughts of aggression.

I felt unstoppable. Invincible. I could exist in this society as what was expected of me, but never exposing much of myself. Like an undercover agent, I maintained my cover in the presence of others. I would spend the day as another person, then enjoyed my own existence in the comfort and solace of the night. There were some people perceptive enough to see past the disguise, but never too close to see the armor. It was perfect. As time went on, I was able to finely tune the deception to the point of fooling myself. Where did this persona end, and where did I begin?

Years passed by, but they have not been kind. There were days that a fog of depression descended around me, so thick I could barely breathe. There were days that the rumble of anxiety overhead was too loud and I couldn’t even go outside. There were days I had to wade through a bog of negativity and the grime stuck to me wherever I went. There were days that self-doubt fell in sheets and I couldn’t see anything else. There were days I felt so lost that I thought nothing I did, nothing I do, and nothing I will ever do will matter.

There were days that I wanted to give up and escape, but you convinced me that we had to stay and that we owe it to people who stuck with us all this time. That wasn’t enough for me. I said I needed a good reason, and you told me to look for one. That did it. For once, I had a goal: to find a purpose in this wretched and despicable world.

Your touch snapped me out of my thoughts. The sizzle resulting from the contact of your warm hand with my frigid one filled the silence in the room. How long had I been daydreaming? I didn’t even notice when you turned around. You were looking at me with so much concern on your face. A face exactly the same as mine. I looked away and quickly glanced at the window. Some people had broken down sections of the outer wall again, but I felt too tired to rebuild it.

That reminded me of why I came here in the first place. I stood up, took off the disguise, neatly folded each piece, and laid them on the foot of your bed. The confusion on your face almost made me laugh. I had to stifle the urge when I unclasped pieces of the armor, making a dull metallic clunk as each one fell on the floor. I expected you to realize that I was leaving these to you. It was up to you if and how you want to use these.

I stood before you, naked with all the scars and bruises that I had endured all these years noticeable despite my dark skin. I noticed the effort on your part not to look away. They were the remnants of my battles with as many wins as losses. They were nothing to be ashamed of. As long as they weren’t on you, I would proudly display them as proof of success.

“I’m tired. I can’t do this anymore.” I wondered if my voice had enough power to carry the conviction of my words. I turned around and walked back to the door, trying to hide the tremble in my knees. I could feel your gaze on my back, but didn’t hear you get up. I gripped the doorway hard and took a long breath as I felt the last of my strength fade away.

Without looking back, I said, “I’m going to rest. Try not to need me.” Some words I left unspoken. If you need me, I’ll know, and I’ll be there.

It didn’t take me two seconds to leave another parting remark. “And oh yeah, get rid of the trees, will you?” I couldn’t resist peeking at your reaction. The smile on your face made everything worth it.

Before you could say anything, I left the room with the door wide open.

[keyboardmeditation-blog]

The tribulations of seeking help; and the magic of medication.

I always wondered why it was so easy for me to be supportive and positive about other people’s lives when I am so hard on my own. It’s not like I don’t know how to be grateful and optimistic - so why do I keep getting stuck on thoughts of self-worth and dragged down by the to-do lists I make but don’t finish. This self-awareness has always made it so hard to talk to people about my mental health: friends, family, or professionals. It can make me seem very detached from my feelings, and it is why I believe medical professionals can find it hard to believe just how debilitating these feelings can be.

I used to keep everything a secret. I still have secrets, and I don’t divulge every feeling to everyone in my life, but getting help required telling someone other than my boyfriend about what I was struggling with. I didn’t feel comfortable telling my family or friends that I was struggling without having a definite diagnosis. What if it was all in my head? What if I told them the wrong thing? What do I even tell them? Am I depressed? Do I have bipolar? I wanted an exact diagnosis to give them, to make things clear and easy for them to understand.  So I went to see a doctor. I’d spent enough time putting the appointment off and trying to figure it all out online that I knew I probably wanted some form of antidepressant and to see a psychologist. I thought that if I bared my soul then someone could tell me what was wrong and then everything could be fixed.

But mental health doesn’t always work that way. In fact, I believe it probably often doesn’t. It’s not like popping a dislocated shoulder back into place. It’s complex and hard to explain. You’re not always going to know what is a symptom of your mental illness and what is a symptom of just living.

Whenever I feel like I’m dipping back into a depressive episode I’m plagued with uncertain questions. Do I have a headache because maybe I watched Netflix a little longer than I should have? Or is it because of my mental illness? Have I been sleeping less lately or am I just imagining it? Have I been eating less? Have I been eating more? Is this a physical sign of my depression returning? Am I more irritable than normal because of my mental illness or am I just in a bad mood or bad situation or surrounded by people who get on my nerves? Am I crying because of my mental illness or because of something that was just really sad or upsetting? Why does my body ache? Why do I feel lightheaded? Why does my gut feel sick? Why am I so hot and clammy?

One of the most prominent emotions I used to feel before I accepted my mental illness and started sharing it with other people was shame. I felt ashamed of my own feelings and how it was all affecting me. I felt weak and like I was over-exaggerating things. It was damaging not only because of being such a negative feeling, but because it stopped me from telling anyone what was wrong. It was an overwhelming and choking position to be in.

The first doctor I saw solidified all my fears of talking about my mental illness. Which is tragic, fortunately not for me because this isn’t the end of my story, but for everyone living with a mental illness who doesn’t seek help or goes to seek help and is put off by a bad experience.

This doctor grilled me on everything I was feeling, as though she could decipher from my answers whether or not it was all in my head or not. Even though I already felt like maybe it was, spending the vast portion of my time wishing I were dead or crying or feeling exhausted gave me the nagging feeling that took me to the doctors in the first place - I knew I needed help. Yet here I was in the doctors office feeling like I was trial to decide whether I really did. I ended up in tears, the emotion pain I was in exploding wet and hot, while I explained as best I could. Yet I could see her frustration growing. “When had I first started feeling depressed?” “Well that was complicated, but probably in my last year of high school, though there was a period where I felt okay again, but then it got worse.” “And do I feel depressed all the time?” “No, sometimes I’m really happy but I also cry all the time.” She wasn’t impressed. My answers didn’t make sense. I didn’t make sense. My mental illness was a crushing weight that I thought about every day and here she was trying to gauge just how much it was affecting me, and if it was even real. To her I was just an emotional youth. I bared my soul like I had never done before to a complete stranger who just didn’t seem to care. Everything was so matter of fact and “mhmm okay”. I was in shock at the reaction. I felt the shame building up inside me. Maybe it was all in my head?  This doctor gave me a referral to a psychologist four weeks from then. Looking back I’m shocked at how trivial she thought it all. I had told her I thought about killing myself on a regular basis and she had just referred me and left it at that. Like it was no big deal. No skin off her back. She had done her job.  I didn’t go to the psychologist appointment. I cancelled. I felt absolutely humiliated and emotionally fragile after divulging everything to this cold and matter-of-fact doctor. I couldn’t handle talking to someone again so soon. But I didn’t get better. The reason I had even seen the doctor to begin with was because my mental illness was affecting my relationships. I would end up in tears nearly every time I had a conversation with someone. I was so irritable and mean. I lashed out verbally all the time and felt crappy and regretful afterwards. I’m a loving person but I just couldn’t manage to be loving. I was a whirlwind of emotions and I was drowning in them. I wasn’t sleeping well or at all. I had headaches all the time. My body ached. So I tried again a few months later. But this time I didn’t go to the university doctor, which was free for students. I researched doctors in my city that specialised or were interested in mental health. I tried to stay confident that this would make my experience better. And I’m glad I did. But it’s scary to think of all the people being waved away to a psychologist matter of fact. People in desperate need of help that are scared off professionals by the down-the-nose treatment. People who can barely function being all but ignored because their answers don’t seem convincing enough. We shouldn’t have to convince people that our mental illness is real. It’s exhausting. I found a doctor in the city. I would have to pay and I could barely afford it but I knew it was important. This second doctor listened to me as I once again wrapped myself in shame and bared my soul. But this time, she actually seemed to care. She was concerned. She didn’t try to pretend at being unaffected when I cried. She gave me a referral, booked me in for a check up appointment, and gave me a prescription that changed my life. An antidepressant called Escitalopram.

I felt instantly gratified and it was at this point my shame finally started to lift. After I attended my first psychologist appointment I opened up to my family and I started to feel hope for the first time in a long time. I learnt that you don’t need a diagnosis to open up to people, and maybe you’ll never have an exact label for what you’re going through. But people can’t be there for you if you don’t let them be. However, I’m sorry to say, my disappointment in professionals didn’t stop there. My psychologist was nice. But after 6 appointments he never used the words depressed or anxious, which was all I felt. He told me I was just super sensitive. I cared too much about what people thought and that was why I always felt like dying???? I felt blamed. I was too sensitive, he “diagnosed”. I was getting upset all the time. I was causing these problems myself. I told him I felt better from my antidepressants (which for the most part I thankfully did) and stopped going. I haven’t been back to a psychologist. I haven’t felt like going and getting another referral, and I’ve moved cities so I would have to talk to a different doctor which doesn’t make the list of top things to do in life. But despite this, the prescription that second doctor gave me saved my life. I was lucky to find an antidepressant that worked without side effects the first time around. I went on Escitalopram, commonly called Lexapro. I’m on a high dosage but instead of feeling like a train wreck I feel like I can actually control my emotions for the first time in my adult life. It still took time to practice being mindful of my emotions, and I still getting anxious and depressed because of certain triggers in everyday life, but my medication gives me the mental capacity to actually deal with it. And though I still don’t feel super confident in medical professionals, I’ve found that the few different doctors I’ve seen for a prescription of Lexapro have been more than happy to provide it. And I’ve never been more grateful.

[yourdlmatchmaker]

MatchUp

Hello, I have arrived with my long matchup (lol)! Thank you for working with me! ~ I’m female, Gemini(Constellation Zodiac), Snake(Chinese Zodiac), 4'11" AND ONE QUATER (very important :P), long wavy dark brown hair I tie back in a low ponytail, hazel brown eyes, a curvy babydoll-like body, a round face, small hands, and moderately thick brows with small moles sprinkled around (I have one on my finger and under my eyebrow). I have a semi-formal to casual to cute fashion sense and I normally wear a headband or barrettes to keep my hair out of my face since it’s so thick. My hobbies include drawing (which is my talent), creating stories/planning them out, organizing, singing (when no one is around), discovering new music to listen to, watching shows that catch my interest (mostly anime lol), making puns, reading manga (if you couldn’t tell I’m a nerd haha), learning about things that catch my interest (ex. Architecure, languages, playing instruments), and occassionally playing games (YuGiOh, Fire Emblem Heroes, OFF, mostly easily accessible things). I don’t have a variety of hobbies outside of art and anime mostly because I’m a very quiet person with mild trust issues and difficulties interacting with new people. I’m a generally secluded introvert that can get very awkward, over analytical, and curse. I don’t go outside a lot. Physical contact also makes me a little uncomfortable mostly because I’ll get really embarrassed and slightly panic since I’m not used to it (so I guess touch-starved? It’s on a pretty high level). To add on to the “seclusion side-effects”, I’m physically inactive but try really hard when I need to, my time has been spent mostly on the internet (where I get my meme humor), my self-confidence is pretty low, I constantly question myself, I dissociate and/or drift off into my own thoughts where I consider possible conversations/scenarios and formulate responses and actions, can easily get anxious, and I tend to get nervous around new people and mostly males in general. There isn’t much I can dislike since I try not to focus too much on hate because it’s really energy draining for me. Especially since I get these depressed moments that can last for a long time and fill my head with suicidal + self-hating thoughts. This occurs pretty often during the school year and makes me tired/lethargic although I want to do so much. My temper will go up and I will reject positive feedback due to self-doubt. This kind of feeds into my need to be independent and do things myself because I’ve been raised that way and if I don’t do it I feel worthless. I can be ambitious with my projects (school or art related) and stress myself out trying to do my best and get a good product since I pride myself in my art. And when I do, I sometimes miss the big picture and focus on details too much. I also used to read a lot when I was in elementary school, but stopped because I got bored. It really helped me with writing though. I’m kind of a people pleaser since I like seeing others happy and making them laugh. There are limits to how far I’ll go though and I’m an honest person so I try to say what’s on my mind in the most peaceful way. I’m also a sentimental and nostalgic person since I look back to the past to reflect on myself. A fear I have is loss. Losing the people I care about whether it be their trust or the person themselves and losing my sight, voice, and hands. In fear of losing these, I may sacrifice something else in attempt to keep them or fight to keep them since I can be protective. I’m a respectful person, so I’ll listen to what someone has to say, but if they’re not convincing then I won’t listen. As a person I don’t really have that much of an interesting personality since I’m really quiet with strangers. But once I’m close with someone I’ll make a lot of jokes, get curious about random things, invest time in them, and support them in anyway I can. My friends have described me as kind, thoughtful, controlled, a little rebellious, sassy, and hardworking. I get praised a lot for my artwork, but everytime they do they deminish themselves and it makes me sad because it took me 10years to get this good and they only just recently started. .°(ಗ-ಗ。)°. I have also been told that I’m over critical of others and myself, emotionally unaware, and a difficult person by my mom. Which is 60% true, however I’d beg to differ on emotionally unaware because I’m really good at reading situations and assessing the actions of others. I don’t have that many secrets, but I’m a slight pervert (I’m good at hiding this since I avoid the subject) and I like dancing. I don’t dance often because I tend to give it my all and I worry that it attracts attention since I don’t like being in the spotlight. Same goes for singing. But secrets aside, I also do stupid/weird things at times (ex. I stole sillybands from a tourist shop, I ruined 2 plates in a microwave, etc.).

Thank you for your time!

Admit Abi~

No, thank YOU for YOUR time! I’m sorry it took me a while, but I hope it was worth it!

Your romantic match up is…

Shu!

Can we please see how much you both share?

At first the lack of motivation (*cough* laziness *cough*) from Shu didn’t help much with your depress moments. However, you started to analized his patterns only to find out that he also suffered from depression…just like you! You (as the good person you are) decided instead of worring about yourself, focusing on him. You helped him little by little, either by talking about random stuff or your funny/clumsy moments, which brought a smirk from Shu each time.  But what made your relationship bloom was the fact that you both shared that fear of loosing someone dear to you. That made your bonds to became stronger, real and official. You are both artistic people: he’s into playing intruments and you draw. Your hardwork and kidness was payed when one day he pull you to cuddle with him AND shared his music with you. At first it made you feel really nervous/uncomfortable, but the delicacy and calmness of Shu made you think that maybe once in a while…wasn’t that bad, right? You both can have an enjoyable evening (at home, because “it’s troublesome going outside”) sharing his earphone listening the new music you recommended to him. You have a positive attitude towards life, which also help with both your recoveries. Shu won’t force you to do stuff that you don’t feel like doing (except for taking your blood, that’s a must) so the pressure you sometimes feel will vanish! He asks you to sing for him from time to time (he discovered it…sorry). It’s funny because just as you, Shu is very analytical and he saw right through you…”You’re a lewd woman, stop pretending”. He would tease you…so be prepared xD Just have patience with him, you see he will show you “a whole new world”, he’s also kind of touchy but don’t worry~ they say it’s worth it ;)

Stay away from…

Azusa…

Please, stay away from him. Even though he’s a cinnamon roll, he’s not for you baby. You see: he sees pain as pleasure. You can get very sad and with his…confusing way for looking at life…no, it wouldn’t go right. He’ll try his best, but you need to avoid “dangerous similarities”. Also, he self-doubts himself a lot and has low steem as well, which we need you to improve not the other way around. Though you can try being friends, but some friendships can sink us more. I personally think that Shu could provide you with that final push your self steem needs. Stop being so insecure and let all know that talktive, artist, kind, critical and pervy you are sweety, I bet people would love you just as much as Shu does~

Hope you liked it! ;)

[incendixry-blog]

So I finally finished this.  I’m going to put it under the cut because it is long af! But please if you actually read it and think it’s a good idea give this a like, or comment maybe?  I could use the feedback but anyway enough stalling.

So since I ‘revamped’ Milo again I’ve been having… issues.  Mainly with myself but also with him.  As usual the cheeky little shit just does what he wants and flips everything I try to do upside down,  but this has been different.  Despite thinking I had developed a character I could be happy with; there were holes in his story- things that just didn’t make sense and more to the point he was acting strange, some days he could experience some extreme mood swings, sometimes at the drop of a dime seemingly.  Sometimes he would pester me for hours on end when I wasn’t in a sociable mood and others I’d have muse but he’d be unwilling to do anything.   While trying to figure out what the hell I created the term “Bipolar Disorder” crossed my mind and it seemed plausible enough at first, but the more I researched it; it began to fill in the holes I couldn’t make sense of. For starters Bipolar disorder (or manic depression if you prefer) has no specific cause but many feel that it can run in families like many other illnesses- mental or otherwise can.  This isn’t the only cause as also stress and trauma can contribute or be a cause for it, we’ll come back to this later.  With that though I must point out something else, there are technically two types of Bipolar disorder:  Bipolar I, and Bipolar II disorder.  The difference between the two are as follows: “Bipolar II disorder is not a milder form of bipolar I disorder, but a separate diagnosis. While the manic episodes of bipolar I disorder can be severe and dangerous, individuals with bipolar II disorder can be depressed for longer periods, which can cause significant impairment.” - (mayoclinic.org 2017) To compare the two would be like comparing apples to apples in my personal opinion as someone who has dealt with sever depression, either way both are life long and life altering, they affect the day to day lives of those who suffer; however it can be managed. Now how do I place Milo as having Bipolar disorder?  Well where his “highs” and “lows” are concerned he meets and serpasses the minimum qualifications for sure, and not every second of every day is someone who deals with Bipolar disorder switching between their hypomanic/manic and depressive episodes.  Each person is different; someone might rarely have an episode while someone- like Milo for example, will have several.  There are periods of time where a person can be themselves and not be affected by their illness.   Now with that said Hypomanic and Manic episodes are two separate things but their symptoms are the same.  Mania will cause more noticeable problems in a person’s life and while the symptoms may not seem that severe a manic episode could trigger a break in reality also known as psychosis which is far more concerning and will require hospitalization.  Both Manic and Hypomanic episodes need at least three symptoms to be classified as such (the severity will determine what kind of episode from what I gather) but instead of listing all of the symptoms I’m only going to list the ones that apply to Milo.

- Abnormally upbeat, jumpy, or wired - Increased activity, energy, or agitation - Exaggerated sense of well-being and self-confidence (euphoric feeling) - Decreased need for sleep - Racing thoughts - Poor decision making (for example impulsively buying things, taking sexual risks, or making foolish investments)

In a hypomanic episode, the exaggerated self-confidence and poor decision making, could be seen as Milo just being a cheeky little shit.  But the idea that it could also be aggravated by, or aggravating his illness (with the latter being the more plausible) is just too coincidental.  As for being “jumpy, upbeat, or wired” it is more like he has a worse time staying still than normal.  If in a calm state he could very well be willing to curl up on the couch with someone, or just sit down and read.  During a hypomanic episode it takes a lot to get him to sit down and stay still, during a manic episode though; forget it you are lucky if you are able to get his attention at all.  That being said out of the eight symptoms listed on mayoclinc.org, Milo has six he only needed three for an episode to be classified as hypomanic. Now let’s move on to the opposite end of the spectrum.  For a depressive episode to be classified as such Milo needs to be experiencing five out of nine symptoms; again I’m only going to list the ones that apply to him to save some time.

- Depressed mood - Loss of interest or feeling no pleasure in any or most activities - Significant weight loss or weight gain/decrease or increase in appetite - Sleeping too much - Fatigue or loss of energy - Excessive and inappropriate feelings of guilt/worthlessness - Thinking about/planning/attempting suicide

Now addressing the elephant in the room, Milo will have thoughts of suicide, and at his worse he will plan it but he at this point he has only attempted once, and that was during his first experience with psychosis. (more on this soon) There are other symptoms for bipolar disorder, such as psychosis which I briefly mentioned before, and anxious distress both of which Milo has, had or will experience.  Unlike the weight loss and gain symptom- which I admit I added because it made him feel more human to me, the anxiousness as well as other symptoms listed are like some quirks he had back when I first made his blog.  Moving on it’s said the illness can be considered as “mixed” or “rapid cycling” with mood swings/episodes being affected by a number of things- “triggers” if you will, such as the seasons.  As far as Milo goes what I can tell is that the time of day actually affects his mood swings/episodes.  Long of the short is he tends to better at night than during the day, which when I think about the lifestyle he leads makes sense.  Speaking of which it’s kinda funny, while Milo is aware he is bipolar he does pretty much everything he’s been warned NOT to do because of his illness. Let’s start back at the beginning, the probable cause.  His mother Ann has been dealing with Bipolar II Disorder which more than likely was part of what caused the divorce between her and her husband.  However the fact his mother had the illness isn’t the sole reason why Milo has it as well.  Because Ann never was treated- never having been formally diagnosed, she dealt with her mood swings in her own way.   But at the cost of her son, Ann feared what she’d do to Milo in her mood swings, during her hypomanic episodes her son became a nuisance getting in the way of her work and her life, and during her depressive episodes she’d guilt herself for not being a better mother both episodes she’d been known to have a temper and to lash out.  Fearing physically harming her son after she’d fought so hard to get custody of him (which in honesty was a in part of hypomanic episode, and not solely out of spite) she locked herself in either her room or study to work through her mood swings.  Leaving Milo to whoever she’d hired to care for him, this lack of affection and later on aggression towards Milo would cause him to seek the attention he yearned for in other ways.  I won’t go into the nitty gritty details but until he met his now ex, Milo struggled with bipolar II his depressive episodes being far more frequent than his hypomanic, and his self-worth.  However upon getting with Asher things took a turn for Milo, until this point he at least had a positive influence and support in Wes @timidshot but Asher made sure he never saw his friend again after taking control of Milo’s life.  His illness became worse as he began suffering manic episodes, and this lead me to the biggest hole that just irritated me.  Milo leaving Asher, see a person subjected to so much abuse just doesn’t leave their abuser, so what would make Milo leave?  Suffice to say I found my answer, you see at one point after Wes left Milo had to face the reality he was horrifically alone.  He’d let Asher ruin everything from his education (forcing him to drop out), to his mental state getting worse and worse.  The one time he saw his mother after he’d moved in with his “boyfriend” he had been at his lowest and needed something to keep him going.  But she met him with utter indifference, Ann had accepted Milo abandoning everything as her own fault but seeing him again she assumed was him trying to piss her off- as he was prone to do.  Unable to find it within her to be angry, she just acting indifferent when in reality if she had acted angry even if she had acted happy to see him in some way, it would’ve made him want to live just because in his mind someone cared.  But indifference, killed the last flicker of hope Milo saw as an escape.  His mind snapped and that night slit his wrists not caring who saw or what happened because at that point death was the only escape possible to him.  He has few memories of the next few weeks but when he came too he was in a crisis center.  He underwent psychiatric evaluation and was diagnosed with Bipolar I disorder, it was this time he realized how out of control he really was from his life.  So when he was released into his mother’s care.  He begged Ann to let him move to New York, claiming it was to get away from Asher, in reality it was to get away from everyone.  She allowed it again unwilling to fight when she wanted to try to fix their relationship after almost losing her only son, she bought his ticket and gave him enough money to get started.  But now left to his own devices he doesn’t take his medications, and instead lives as he wants lying to himself that he needs to be in control for a while before he can listen to some doctors.  If you asked him about Asher he’d lie and say he left on his own accord, it’s too the point he’s convinced himself that the relationship he had with Asher wasn’t toxic and abusive and it “failing” was his fault.   This is where I wrap things up, I’ll be updating the blog pages within the next week or so.  But honestly I don’t do justice for Milo or for the illness as a whole because it’s a lot more than how I make it seem.  Anyway, thanks for taking the time to check this out! ^ w ^