#Real talk time… I’m slowly accepting I’m fat and also disabled

[shadowbanki]

Me: I love life

(My stomach starts to hurt because I ate too much)

Me: Life is unfair and painful actually

[thankyoufinnick]

Ommgggg, I have been so busy you would not believe it. Just imagine that between my Sept 1-5 New York trip and my Sep 15-28th road trip, I decided to move house! Without taking time off work. Or owning a car. That’s not exactly what happened, but I am effectively doing all the hard parts of moving without actually moving. (I’m moving my stepdaughter, who has a disability that prevents her from being able to do any of the work herself.) I also came home to find that mice showed up while I was gone and the exterminator’s not returning calls, the new microwave is tripping the breaker like whoa, we need all new windows to replace the rotting ones, my laptop is having problems, etc.

Tonight is the first time since the 1st I’ve had a chance to sit down and look at tumblr. I haven’t had time to read or write since I got back from New York, and while I read a bit in New York, I certainly did not write.

But New York was great, let me say! Food, museums, shopping, a friend, Central Park, and tennis from my hotel bed. (I strongly considered going to the US Open, but between my back pain and the fact that my favorite player wasn't scheduled to start until 7 pm, all the way out in Queens (I was staying in Manhattan), I opted for television. Since he did not in fact start playing until 9:40 pm, I am extremely satisfied with my life choices.)

I did knock out that character sketch of Delly right before I left. I don’t know if it’s going anywhere, but I have more ideas. SO MANY ideas. I’m just undecided about--well, about how much time I want to spend on these characters, and about how far down the self-destructive path I want to take them.

Anyway, it’s not ready for AO3, but here’s some Delly, below the cut. You can imagine it post-canon for now (a few years after the war), but if I continue it, it’s going AU. Unless Hunger Games fic continues to take over my life for a fourth consecutive year, I’m unlikely to merge it with Mags’ Heir (although I know exactly where and how they dovetail), but if it’s going anywhere, it’s going Delly/Peeta. I just don’t ship Katniss/Peeta. I think they both deserve better.

ETA: Oh, and post-canon with me ignoring Mockingjay, as usual: Delly’s an only child, and her parents made it out of the bombing of Twelve. BECAUSE I SAID SO.

Content warning: Haymitch has alcoholism, welcome to Hunger Games. Delly has undiagnosed ADD, inattentive type, and she engages in emotional eating. And her parents...have no frame of reference to understand her, so they’re critical, and certainly emotionally aloof, but they’re also doing the best they can with what they have. Oh, an in-passing reference to the existence of abortion (no actual abortions performed).

“As long as you're not causing any trouble.” Those are the words Delly's heard all her life. If she's not going to follow in her parents' footsteps, they don't much care how she spends her time. Perched on a stool in the pantry, polishing off the remains of a cold chicken pie, Delly peers out the window. Not quite dark yet. She's got time. She looks over the shelves and picks out a corn muffin and a hunk of cheese. Munching, Delly tells herself that if she goes on a full stomach, she can stay longer. As much as her parents don't want her feeding the whole town (as they call it), she can't very well show up at the house of someone who has less than her and expect them to share, not when her parents feed her so well. No dessert, but all the bread, meat, cheese, fruits, and vegetables she could want. The Peacekeepers may be gone, and with it most of the market for boots and boot repair, but her parents are doing quite well making clothes from dawn to well past dusk. They're hard-working, resourceful, and they wanted a hard-working, resourceful daughter. What they got was a dreamy butterfly. Everyone likes Delly, but no one counts on her. She knows if she were in the studio with them, helping out instead of wandering around aimlessly and eating, they'd be happier, but they gave up on her when she was about ten. She's obedient enough about starting her chores, but her mind wanders. The next thing she knows, they're still not finished and someone's looking at her in disappointment. Delly accepted that about herself a long time ago. It's not worth the effort of getting upset. She's got a pretty good life, all things considered. Her family's still alive, which is more than a lot of people can say. They've always made sure she's had enough to eat, which almost no one can say. And she's twenty-two, living at home, contributing nothing, and they've never told her she had to shape up or move out. They just stopped giving her chores, threw up their hands, and told her to please herself. Finishing the last bite of cheese, Delly peels a hard boiled egg and eats it, then another. Comfortable and full, in her own house surrounded by food, she rests for a while, savoring the moment. She's just starting to cut off a slice of ham to go with her next muffin, when she hears her mother's voice. “Delly? Your father and I wanted to talk to you.” That's unusual enough that Delly forgets all about the food. Turning around, she sees her mother standing uncertainly by the kitchen table, and her father behind her. Behind him, the kitchen window is dark, and the lamp's been lit. She has no idea what time it is or how much she's eaten. Delly comes out of the pantry smiling at them. “What can I do for you?” “Have a seat,” her father invites. They both look awkward, and Delly starts wondering if they're trying to break difficult news to her. She can't imagine what. She just pulls out a chair and sits down, waiting for her parents to tell her why they suddenly decided to stop working and talk to her. They seat themselves across from her. “It's your birthday, Delly,” her mother begins, “and I know we never really connected, but we just wanted to—I don't know.” “You're our daughter, no matter what,” her father says firmly. “Yes, exactly.” Her mother looks relieved. “And I may not have any idea what to do with you, and you may not be doing anything to make us proud, but we could have had a lot worse daughters. You always have a place here, as long as you don’t cause trouble.” “You're the best parents,” Delly tells them, with real enthusiasm. “I want you to know I really appreciate how you always take care of me, even if I eat enough for three.” “That's an exaggeration,” her father says sharply. “Isn't it? You're not taking food to anyone else? You're not fat enough for three people.” “No, Dad, I would never steal from you, really,” Delly promises patiently. “I get hungry, that's all. And yes, I was exaggerating.” “Well, I do wish you would eat a little less,” her mother says for the hundredth time, “but as long as we have food and a roof, it's yours.” Her dad looks uncomfortable. “It's because of you we're alive, anyway.” “Really?” Delly looks at them in surprise. Her mother pinches her lips. “Well, you were so bent on following that Hawthorne kid into the woods. I didn't trust that troublemaker any farther than I could throw him, but we sure weren't letting you wander off on your own. You can't even take care of yourself in a town. In the woods? You'd be dead in minutes.” Somehow, the thought that she did something for her parents makes Delly feel unbelievably good. Good enough to get up and hug them, even though she hasn't done that since she was a little kid. “Well, anyway.” Her father clears his throat after she releases him. “We don't have much money to throw around, but we wanted to get you something for your birthday, something you don't usually get.” “We thought about making you a new outfit,” her mother tells her, “but, well, we thought you'd appreciate a treat more. And you have plenty of clothes.” “So we went to the Mellark bakery.” Bending over, her father passes her a small paper bag from under the table. “Goodness knows you don't need any encouragement to eat more, but that boy can bake, I'll give him that.” Delly claps her hands in delight as she pulls out a fruitcake. She always walks past the bakery and sighs in pleasure at what's on offer, even if no one would ever trust her with spending money. It's just nice to see all the tasty morsels. The pretty ones are her favorites. The fruitcake isn't as pretty as some of the frosted cookies, but it looks delicious, and it's just the thing for eating while you walk. And so thoughtful. Now she wants to hug them again, but even she thinks that's enough for one night. There are people you can hug twice in one conversation, and then there are her parents. Who are now peering suspiciously at her. “That shirt looks a little tight,” her mother says. “Stand up, Delly.” Stalling for time, tugging at the bottom of her shirt to try to make it cover her midriff, Delly obeys as slowly as she can. All her clothes are tight, but she hasn't wanted to say anything. Partly because she doesn't want to put any more financial pressure on them than she already does, and partly because she's afraid they'll tell her the answer is to work more and eat less. She stands, frozen, while they inspect her. “It's fine,” she tries telling them. “It's comfortable, and in such good shape! It'll last for a long time yet.” With a sigh, her mother ignores her and tugs at the waistband of her pants. It has no give to it. “We'll be letting out your seams, then. We saw this coming when we made your clothes, and we made allowances.” Delly's relief is overpowering. That's them, always making allowances for her. “You're the best parents anyone could have. I wish I were a better daughter.” “You're not so bad,” her mother says, again with that sigh. “I just wish you'd try.” Delly doesn't argue. Her parents can't imagine hard work not paying off. But she knows trying doesn't get her anywhere. So she just smiles and lets them fit her for her adjusted clothes. “There, we're done. We'll have these ready for you soon. You're not wandering around in public like we can't make decent clothes.” “Thanks, Mom, thanks, Dad. You're the best, really.” Picking up her fruitcake, Delly heads for the door. “Where are you going?” her father asks, after a pause, like it only just occurred to him to ask his daughter about her life. “It's almost ten.” Delly stops, her hand on the knob, and smiles. “I'm going to Haymitch Abernathy's.” Her mother's eyes bug out. “Why on earth? He doesn't even get winnings any more, he's just living in squalor.” “That's why I go,” Delly explains. “He doesn't have any family, and he needs someone to make sure he eats and takes care of himself a little. It can't be good for him to be alone all the time. I'm not bringing him food, I promise.” “Well, she has a good heart,” her father says under his breath, turning away. “I'd rather she had a good work ethic, but it's her own time she's wasting.” As Delly's opening the door, and her parents are heading back to work, suddenly something occurs to them. “Delly!” She freezes. This is more interaction than they've wanted in the last year. What now? “You know what happens if you get pregnant, right?” “I know, Mom,” she assures her. “I have to get rid of it. Don't worry, I don't want a baby. I can't even take care of myself, remember?” “All right. You just remember that. We'll take care of you, no one else.” On her way to Haymitch's house, Delly eats her fruitcake thoughtfully and thinks about what just happened. About them telling her she wasn't a total disappointment, and getting her a birthday cake. It feels...good, and a little weird. She doesn't know whether to hope it lasts. She liked the attention, of course. But if they start expecting things from her, they're going to be disappointed, and she doesn't want to put everyone through that again. She remembers the despairing conversations, not quite arguments, when she was a kid. “I've tried everything to teach her responsibility. I don't know how to get through to her. I don't believe in beating children, even if I thought it would work. She's had teachers yell at her, for all the good it did them. She's willing enough if you stand over her and walk her through every step, but she doesn't seem to learn, and I can't be doing that all day, every day.” “We've done everything we can. If all she wants to do is sit around like a lump on a log, at least she's not hurting anything. We'll keep supporting her, what else can we do?” “What is she going to do when we're not around?” “If she doesn't outgrow it, maybe she'll get married. Then it'll be her husband's problem.” “If she can find a man willing to take care of her. She doesn't cook, she doesn't work, she's not picking up any skills, she's such a slob...” “But she has friends. Everyone likes her. And she's pretty enough. She'll find someone. And if not, well, not our problem once we're gone.” Delly doesn't want to be anyone's problem. She just wants to sit and talk to people. People are nice, people are interesting, people like it when she smiles at them and asks them questions about themselves. Even Haymitch once admitted, when he was drunk, that he'd probably start drinking earlier in the evening if he didn't have her visits to look forward to. And then, scowling, that he'd kick her out if she told him to stop drinking so much. But that's not Delly's style. As long as he's not hurting anyone else, she'll even fetch a bottle out of the cupboard for him if he asks. But she'll put food in front of him, too.

Rambling: I’m slightly concerned that Delly’s turning out superficially too similar to Cashmere, especially their people-pleasing, non-confrontational approaches, but they are wildly different underneath. Cashmere has C-PTSD and is scared to death, all the time. Delly doesn’t have the greatest self-esteem, but she doesn’t have an anxiety disorder (or at least she hasn’t informed me she has one yet). She’s pretty mellow, financially and largely emotionally secure (what she didn’t get from her parents, she’s gotten from the rest of the world), and inclined to take the path of least resistance.

A lot of things are hard for her, so rather than keep trying, she shrugs them off and goes and does something easier. There’s a certain amount of avoidance here, but there’s also self-acceptance. She may not know why she is the way she is, but she has a sense of self-worth above and beyond her abilities.

You can see a convergence of environment and genetics at work there. Her parents take care of all the practicalities, so she’s not forced into doing things that are hard by sheer necessity. If she had to support herself, she’d be thoroughly stressed all the time. So it’s sort of a luxury that she can be so relaxed about life. But it’s also her personality. It means she doesn’t find ways that work for her, but it also means she doesn’t suffer through the self-blame and anxiety of constant failure. Her parents are disappointed and think she’s lazy, and she’s sorry for that, but she doesn’t know how to change, so she’s not going to keep trying things that don’t work.

And that is way, way not Cashmere. Delly’s nice to people because she likes them. Cashmere’s desperately trying to please them before something bad happens.

Also, Cashmere thinks she’s stupid and bad at simple things because 1) she had a very limited childhood and wasn’t taught to do things that weren’t fighting or pleasing sponsors, 2) was discouraged from asking questions or showing curiosity, 3) was gaslit into thinking she was a scatterbrain (I’m not sure how much of that people picked up on, since I never spelled it out, but all of her interactions with Brutus that led her to believe she was disorganized, losing track of time, misplacing things, and clumsy, were 100% gaslighting).

Delly thinks she’s not terribly bright and is bad at simple things because she legit has trouble focusing or planning ahead, and she’s not been given any of the tools or helped to find any of the ways that might work for her. Delly’s also more or less accepted that she doesn’t have whatever other people have, whereas Cashmere is desperately straining to keep up while she self-flagellates. But they have the same cheerful exterior, which might lead you (or in-universe characters) to confuse them.

[ceaselessly-into-the-past]

the miracle

Today I made my 10,000th dollar busking, and then some. According to my records, I started on the 15th of September - the day, four years ago, that I met my first and only girlfriend, Megan, who I still remember sometimes with a quietly aching poignancy - and I’ve busked a total of 37 days. With $10,174.58 to date, I’ve averaged $274.99 per night. Considering a rough estimate of an average of three hours per busk, that comes out to a neat $91/hr hustle.

Breaking down the numbers like that is what give my insides a sense of structure.

I was recently interviewed by an intern at CNN about my busking - it’s now publicly available on their website for all 0 of the readers that care. I gave them conventional reasons for what I do - real, valid reasons that I definitely hold, but especially chosen to sell on television. I predicted the questions I would be asked and prepared answers the night before, reading them over and memorizing the general ideas and some specific wordings that I felt that I should nail. A few of those prepared phrases came up in the final product - one, which seemed to resonate with viewers, was that ‘nobody is listening and everybody is listening at the same time.’ It was widely misinterpreted - as things usually are on the internet - as a sort of statement on the way society overlooks the deformed and outwardly strange. These people showed their hearts and expressed their love in the digital comments section of CNN’s Facebook post. This was never my intention. What I had meant was that playing in the subway station meant that the majority of people walking by were commuters, and most would not really give a shit about some defective Asian kid playing a musical instrument. However, you never knew who would happen to take the time to stand there and engage themselves. Thus: nobody and everybody at the same time. It was a Schrödinger’s Cat of an audience, and people took it as a heartfelt comment of self-pity.

In fact, the entire interview was framed in this way: the tragic, malformed youngster sharing his talent. That was never the focus of our discussion, but of course the press ran with what would sell to a suckup audience. I had talked far more about my experiences at Juilliard, what it meant to be a musician today with social media and all this shit going on and making content so readily easy to generate and available that it was hard to make any of it mean anything. Far more interesting topics - but they ran with the sob story that ultimate made me out to be some kind of self-pitying asshole.

If you couldn’t tell, I’m still quite irritated by what that CNN intern made out of our conversation, and by extent by what her takeaway was from the conversation. The story, based on a fifteen-minute interview, was originally meant to be 10 minutes long - the final product was just barely over 2 or 3 as all the non-disability-related fat had been trimmed. 

To write a story on an individual who attempts to define himself outside of his disabilities and then frame that story solely around his disability is a frustrating paradox if you think about it. True transcendence of the appearance barrier would be to treat the subject as a completely valid intellectual unit apart from his physical form.

But we can’t have these nice things in this world, apparently.

I was not surprised by this take, though - which is why I prepared my responses. I tailored the ones pertaining to my disabilities to be usable in such a framing, hoping that it wouldn’t be the focus but anticipating that it would be a focus among many. And, anticipating that attitude, I excluded the largest reason I do what I do: it gives my life structure.

Saying to myself each week that I had a task to perform on days x, y, and z from time a to time b to yield the tangible, constructive end result of money was a stable, real thing I could center myself around. I didn’t live for that - my practice was still for myself and for my future, and I didn’t spend every waking second thinking that I could be making money right now - but it was something real to hold onto. Like a girlfriend. To be completely honest, if I were dating someone right now - some mild, feathery cute girl with a quick wit and unabashed enthusiasm for things, perhaps - I would not be busking. I wouldn’t need to - I would trade in my cash for the feeling of warmth and home that I felt four years ago with Megan when I held her close on her best and worst days. The numbers and figures filling my logbook would be the analog to the messages I would send her late at night, affirming my care for her, affirming that she was indeed the shit. I would not bat an eye in accepting that change.

In fact, I’m fairly certain that a someone I could hold onto would be worth far more than $10,174.58.

But that won’t come. No matter how skilled or talented or respected I may become, that love, that magical, painfully beautiful thing I discovered with that being, that miracle four years ago will never return. Even if I land a date at some point, their hesitation will be subtle but evident, and inside I will slowly cower. I will know that they will always have their reservations around me because of what I am. Despite the pomp and circumstance that CNN piece may have granted me, it’s done nothing to change the fact that I am, on a genetic level, broken, and that nothing can be done to change that.

That love will not find its way back to me ever again.

By my guess, I should be able to make close to $14,000 next semester. That’ll have to do. 

I also hesitantly believe that I may have an onset of high-functioning depression. But I should address that another time.