#THE PLAY I WENT TO SEE WAS BAD AND ALL MY ATTENTION DEFICIT BRAIN REMEMBERS IS THAT THE PANDERETA WAS OFF BEAT

[littlx-songbxrd]

Im not back just here to vent about finals KILL ME

[thewidowsghost]

Daughter of the Sea - Chapter 1

So, I started this on my Wattpad, and if figured I'd just put it on here! Just tell me if you want me to add you to the taglist!

Percy's POV

My name is Percy Jackson.

I am twelve years old. I'm a boarding student at Yancy Academy, a private school for troubled kids in upstate New York, and my sister, (Y/n), taking online schooling at home.

Am I a troubled kid?

Yeah. You could say that.

I could start at any point in my short miserable life to prove it, but things really started going bad last May, when our sixth-grade class took a field trip to Manhattan—twenty-eight mental-case kids and two teachers on a yellow school bus, heading to the Metropolitan Museum of Art to look at ancient Greek and Roman stuff.

I know—it sounds like torture. Most Yancy field trips were.

But Mr. Brunner, our Latin teacher, was leading this trip, so I had hopes.

Mr. Brunner was this middle-aged guy in a motorized wheelchair. He had thinning hair and a scruffy beard and a frayed tweed jacket, which always smelled like coffee. You wouldn't think he'd be cool, but he told stories and jokes and let us play games in class. He also had this awesome collection of Roman armor and weapons, so he was the only teacher whose class didn't put me to sleep.

I hoped the trip would be okay. At least, I hoped that for once I wouldn't get in trouble.

See, bad things happen to me on field trips. Like at my fifth-grade school, when we went to the Saratoga battlefield, I had this accident with a Revolutionary War cannon. I wasn't aiming for the school bus, but of course, I got expelled anyway. And before that, at my fourth-grade school, when we took a behind-the-scenes tour of the Marine World shark pool, I sort of hit the wrong lever on the catwalk and our class took an unplanned swim. And the time before that...Well, you get the idea.

On this trip, I was determined to be good.

All the way into the city, I put up with Nancy Bobofit, the freckly, redheaded kleptomaniac girl, hitting my best friend Grover in the back of the head with chunks of peanut butter-and-ketchup sandwich.

Grover was an easy target. He was scrawny. He cried when he got frustrated. He must've been held back several grades because he was the only sixth grader with acne and the start of a wispy beard on his chin. On top of all that, he was crippled. He had a note excusing him from PE for the rest of his life because he had some kind of muscular disease in his legs. He walked funny, like every step hurt him, but don't let that fool you. You should've seen him run when it was enchilada day in the cafeteria.

Anyway, Nancy Bobofit was throwing wads of sandwiches that stuck in his curly brown hair, and she knew I couldn't do anything back to her because I was already on probation. The headmaster had threatened me with death by in-school suspension if anything bad, embarrassing, or even mildly entertaining happened on this trip.

"I'm going to kill her," I mumble.

Grover tries to calm me down. "I'm okay. I like peanut butter -" He dodges another piece of Nancy's lunch.

"That's it." I start to get up, but Grover pulls me back to my seat.

"You're already on probation," he reminds me. "You know who'll get blamed if anything happens."

Mr. Brunner leads the museum tour.

He rides up front in his wheelchair, guiding us through the big echoey galleries, past marble statues and glass cases full of really old black-and-orange pottery.

It blows my mind that this stuff had survived for two thousand, three thousand years.

He gathers us around a thirteen-foot-tall stone column with a big sphinx on the top, and starts telling us how it was a grave marker, a stele, for a girl about our age. He told us about the carvings on the sides. I was trying to listen to what he had to say, because it was kind of interesting, but everybody around me was talking, and every time I told them to shut up, the other teacher chaperone, Mrs. Dodds, would give me the evil eye.

Mrs. Dodds was this little math teacher from Georgia who always wore a black leather jacket, even though she was fifty years old. She looked mean enough to ride a Harley right into your locker. She had come to Yancy halfway through the year when our last math teacher had a nervous breakdown.

From her first day, Mrs. Dodds loved Nancy Bobofit and figured I was devil spawn. She would point her crooked finger at me and say, "Now, honey," real sweet, and I knew I was going to get after-school detention for a month.

One time, after she'd made me erase answers out of old math workbooks until midnight, I told Grover I didn't think Mrs. Dodds was human. He looked at me, real serious, and said, "You're absolutely right."

Mr. Brunner keeps talking about Greek funeral art.

Finally, Nancy Bobofit snickers something about the naked guy on the stele, and I turn around and say, "Will you shut up?"

It comes out louder than I meant it to.

The whole group laughs. Mr. Brunner stops his story. "Mr. Jackson," he says, "did you have a comment?"

My face is totally red, I think. I answer, "No, sir."

Mr. Brunner points to one of the pictures on the stele. "Perhaps you'll tell us what this picture represents?"

I look at the carving, and feel a flush of relief, because I actually recognize it. "That's Kronos eating his kids, right?"

"Yes," Mr. Brunner says, obviously not satisfied. "And he did this because..."

"Well..." I rack my brain to remember. (Y/n) would have known the answer. She was nuts for this kind of stuff. "Kronos was the king god, and —"

"God?" Mr. Brunner asks.

"Titan," I correct myself. "And...he didn't trust his kids, who were the gods. So, um, Kronos ate them, right? But his wife hid baby Zeus, and gave Kronos a rock to eat instead. And later, when Zeus grew up, he tricked his dad, Kronos, into barfing up his brothers and sisters—"

"Eeew!" says one of the girls behind me.

"—and so there was this big fight between the gods and the Titans," I continue, "and the gods won."

Some snickers from the group.

Behind me, Nancy Bobofit mumbles to a friend, "Like we're going to use this in real life. Like it's going to say on our job applications, 'Please explain why Kronos ate his kids.'"

"And why, Mr. Jackson," Brunner says, "to paraphrase Miss Bobofit's excellent question, does this matter in real life?"

"Busted," Grover mutters.

"Shut up," Nancy hisses, her face even brighter red than her hair.

At least Nancy got packed, too. Mr. Brunner was the only one who ever caught her saying anything wrong. He had radar ears.

I think about his question, and shrug. "I don't know, sir."

"I see." Mr. Brunner looks disappointed. "Well, half credit, Mr. Jackson. Zeus did indeed feed Kronos a mixture of mustard and wine, which made him disgorge his other five children, who, of course, being immortal gods, had been living and growing up completely undigested in the Titan's stomach. The gods defeated their father, sliced him to pieces with his own scythe, and scattered his remains in Tartarus, the darkest part of the Underworld. On that happy note, it's time for lunch. Mrs. Dodds, would you lead us back outside?"

The class drifts off, the girls holding their stomachs, the guys pushing each other around and acting like doofuses.

Grover and I were about to follow when Mr. Brunner said, "Mr. Jackson."

I knew that was coming.

I tell Grover to keep going; then I turn toward Mr. Brunner. "Sir?" Mr. Brunner had this look that wouldn't let you go—intense brown eyes that could've been a thousand years old and had seen everything. "You must learn the answer to my question," Mr. Brunner tells me.

"About the Titans?"

'"About real life. And how your studies apply to it."

"Oh."

"What you learn from me," he says, "is vitally important. I expect you to treat it as such. I will accept only the best from you, Percy Jackson."

I mean, sure, it was kind of cool on tournament days, when he dressed up in a suit of Roman armor and shouted: "What ho!" and challenged us, swordpoint against chalk, to run to the board and name every Greek and Roman person who had ever lived, and their mother, and what god they worshipped. But Mr. Brunner expected me to be as good as everybody else, despite the fact that I have dyslexia and attention deficit disorder and I had never made above a C– in my life. No—he didn't expect me to be as good; he expected me to be better. And I just couldn't learn all those names and facts, much less spell them correctly.

I mumble something about trying harder, while Mr. Brunner takes one long sad look at the stele, like he'd been at this girl's funeral.

He tells me to go outside and eat my lunch.

The class gathers on the front steps of the museum, where we can watch the foot traffic along Fifth Avenue.

Overhead, a huge storm is brewing, with clouds blacker than I'd ever seen over the city. I figure maybe it was global warming or something, because the weather all across New York state had been weird since Christmas. We'd had massive snow storms, flooding, wildfires from lightning strikes. I wouldn't have been surprised if this was a hurricane blowing in.

Nobody else seems to notice, though. Some of the guys are pelting pigeons with Lunchables crackers. Nancy Bobofit is trying to pickpocket something from a lady's purse, and, of course, Mrs. Dodds isn't seeing a thing.

Grover and I sit on the edge of the fountain, away from the others. We thought that maybe if we did that, everybody wouldn't know we were from that school—the school for loser freaks who couldn't make it elsewhere.

"Detention?" Grover asked.

"Nah," I said. "Not from Brunner. I just wish he'd lay off me sometimes. I mean—I'm not a genius, not like (Y/n). She seems to know everything."

Grover doesn't say anything for a while. Then, when I think he is going to give me some deep philosophical comment to make me feel better, he asks, "Can I have your apple?"

I don't have much of an appetite, so I let him take it.

I watch the stream of cabs going down Fifth Avenue, and think about my mom's apartment, only a little ways uptown from where we sit. I hadn't seen her or my sister since Christmas. I want so bad to jump in a taxi and head home. Mom and (Y/n) would hug me and be glad to see me, but Mom would be disappointed, too. She'd send me right back to Yancy, remind me that I had to try harder, even if this was my sixth school in six years and I was probably going to be kicked out again. I couldn't be able to stand that sad look she'd give me.

Mr. Brunner parked his wheelchair at the base of the handicapped ramp. He ate celery while he read a paperback novel. A red umbrella stuck up from the back of his chair, making it look like a motorized café table.

I am about to unwrap my sandwich when Nancy Bobofit appears in front of me with her ugly friends—I guess she'd gotten tired of stealing from the tourists—and dumps her half-eaten lunch in Grover's lap.

"Oops." She grins at me with her crooked teeth. Her freckles are orange, as if somebody had spray-painted her face with liquid Cheetos.

I try to stay cool. The school counselor had told me a million times, "Count to ten, get control of your temper." But I am so mad my mind went blank. A wave roars in my ears.

I don't remember touching her, but the next thing I knew, Nancy is sitting on her butt in the fountain, screaming, "Percy pushed me!"

Mrs. Dodds materialized next to us.

Some of the kids were whispering: "Did you see—"

"—the water—"

"—like it grabbed her—"

I don't know what they were talking about. All I know is that I was in trouble again.

As soon as Mrs. Dodds is sure poor little Nancy was okay, promising to get her a new shirt at the museum gift shop, etc., etc., Mrs. Dodds turns on me. There was a triumphant fire in her eyes as if I'd done something she'd been waiting for all semester. "Now, honey—"

"I know," I grumble. "A month erasing workbooks." That wasn't the right thing to say.

"Come with me," Mrs. Dodds says.

"Wait!" Grover yelps. "It was me. I pushed her."

I stare at him, stunned. I can't believe he was trying to cover for me. Mrs. Dodds scared Grover to death.

She glares at him so hard his whiskery chin trembled.

"I don't think so, Mr. Underwood," she says.

"But—"

"You—will—stay—here."

Grover looks at me desperately.

"It's okay, man," I tell him. "Thanks for trying."

"Honey," Mrs. Dodds barks at me. "Now."

Nancy Bobofit smirks. I give her my deluxe I'll-kill-you-later stare. Then I turn to face Mrs. Dodds, but she isn't there. She is standing at the museum entrance, way at the top of the steps, gesturing impatiently at me to come on.

How'd she get there so fast?

I have moments like that a lot, when my brain falls asleep or something, and the next thing I know I've missed something, as if a puzzle piece fell out of the universe and left me staring at the blank place behind it. The school counselor told me this was part of the ADHD, my brain misinterpreting things.

I wasn't so sure. I go after Mrs. Dodds.

Halfway up the steps, I glance back at Grover. He is looking pale, cutting his eyes between me and Mr. Brunner, like he wanted Mr. Brunner to notice what was going on, but Mr. Brunner is absorbed in his novel.

I look back up. Mrs. Dodds had disappeared again. She is now inside the building, at the end of the entrance hall.

Okay, I think. She's going to make me buy a new shirt for Nancy at the gift shop.

But apparently, that wasn't the plan.

I follow her deeper into the museum. When I finally catch up to her, we are back in the Greek and Roman section.

Except for us, the gallery is empty.

Mrs. Dodds stands with her arms crossed in front of a big marble frieze of the Greek gods. She is making this weird noise in her throat, like growling.

Even without the noise, I would've been nervous. It's weird being alone with a teacher, especially Mrs. Dodds. Something about the way she looked at the frieze as if she wanted to pulverize it...

"You've been giving us problems, honey," she says.

I do the safe thing. I reply, "Yes, ma'am."

She tugs on the cuffs of her leather jacket. "Did you really think you would get away with it?"

The look in her eyes is beyond mad. It was evil.

She's a teacher, I thought nervously. It's not like she's going to hurt me. I say, "I'll—I'll try harder, ma'am."

Thunder shakes the building.

"We are not fools, Percy Jackson," Mrs. Dodds said. "It was only a matter of time before we found you out. Confess, and you will suffer less pain."

I didn't know what she's talking about.

All I can think of was that the teachers must've found the illegal stash of candy I'd been selling out of my dorm room. Or maybe they'd realized I got my essay on Tom Sawyer from the Internet without ever reading the book and now they were going to take away my grade. Or worse, they were going to make me read the book.

"Well?" she demands.

"Ma'am, I don't..."

"Your time is up," she hisses.

Then the weirdest thing happens. Her eyes begin to glow like barbecue coals. Her fingers stretch, turning into talons. Her jacket melts into large, leathery wings. She isn't human. She is a shriveled hag with bat wings and claws and a mouth full of yellow fangs, and she was about to slice me to ribbons.

Then things got even stranger.

Mr. Brunner, who'd been out in front of the museum a minute before, wheels his chair into the doorway of the gallery, holding a pen in his hand.

"What ho, Percy!" he shouts and tosses the pen through the air.

Mrs. Dodds lunges at me.

With a yelp, I dodge and feel talons slash the air next to my ear. I snatch the ballpoint pen out of the air, but when it hits my hand, it isn;t a pen anymore. It is a sword—Mr. Brunner's bronze sword, which he always uses on tournament day.

Mrs. Dodds spins towards me with a murderous look in her eyes.

My knees are jelly. My hands are shaking so bad I almost drop the sword.

She snarl, "Die, honey!" And she flies straight at me.

Absolute terror runs through my body. I did the only thing that came naturally: I swing the sword.

The metal blade hits her shoulder and passes clean through her body as if she was made of water. Hisss!

Mrs. Dodds was a sandcastle in a power fan. She explodes into yellow powder, vaporizing on the spot, leaving nothing but the smell of sulfur and a dying screech and a chill of evil in the air, as if those two glowing red eyes are still watching me.

I'm alone.

There is a ballpoint pen in my hand.

Mr. Brunner isn't there. Nobody is there but me.

My hands are still trembling. My lunch must've been contaminated with magic mushrooms or something.

Had I imagined the whole thing?

I walk back outside.

It had started to rain.

Grover is sitting by the fountain, a museum map tented over his head. Nancy Bobofit is still standing there, soaked from her swim in the fountain, grumbling to her ugly friends. When she sees me, she says, "I hope Mrs. Kerr whipped your butt."

I answer, "Who?"

"Our teacher. Duh!"

I blink. We don't have a teacher named Mrs. Kerr. I ask Nancy what she is talking about.

She just rolls her eyes and turns away.

I ask Grover where Mrs. Dodds was.

"Who?" he asks, but he pauses first and he wouldn't look at me, so I figure he was messing with me.

"Not funny, man," I tell him. "This is serious."

Thunder booms overhead.

I see Mr. Brunner sitting under his red umbrella, reading his book as if he'd never moved.

I go over to him.

He looks up, a little distracted. "Ah, that would be my pen. Please bring your own writing utensil in the future, Mr. Jackson."

I had Mr. Brunner his pen. I hadn't even realized I was still holding it.

"Sir," I ask, "where's Mrs. Dodds?"

He stares blankly at me, "Who?"

"The other chaperone. Mrs. Dodds. The pre-algebra teacher."

He frowns and sits forward, looking mildly concerned. "Percy, there is no Mrs. Dodds on this trip. As far as I know, there has never been a Mrs. Dodds at Yancy Academy. Are you feeling all right?"

Word Count: 3159 words

So yeah, this is the first chapter of this book.

Not much (Y/n) yet, but we'll get there.

Love y'all!              Kaitlynn ❤️😍

[rosy-wooyoung]

Husband series [6/8] | San

Word count: 6.1k (😳) Pairing: ex-husband! Jongho x single mom! reader x CEO! San Genre: fluff A/N: I love Jongho sm, i really hated writing him like that :( but CEO San,,, yes.

You had lived a good part of your life with Jongho. You met in high school, and you hated each other at first. However, since you had to work in partners in your chemistry lab, you learnt to appreciate each other and became friends. You were inseparable, making everyone believe that you were dating, due to your ways of behaving. The last year of high school was a particularly tough one for you, you were extremely sick and exhausted but kept on going to classes, Jongho being your daily motivation to get out of bed. If it weren’t to get your diploma at the end of the school year, you would’ve stayed in bed, trying to recover from your exhaustion of studying and living so far from your school. 

When you finally made it through, you had only two months of holidays to catch up with three years of poor sleeping and eating habits, when you would have needed years to get back into a healthy way of living. You were still very tired when you started university, but Jongho was here again to force you out of your comfort zone and tag along in lectures that you signed up for. At first, university looked and sounded remarkably interesting, but you didn’t last long. Even when Jongho was giving his best to make you feel happy and loved, your mind was still stronger. You had realised that the university universe and everything coming alone made you hate it. You felt like a failure because all your friends and classmates seemed to be able to make it through, whereas you dropped out after a semester there. Oh boy, you felt so alone and dumb for leaving university when you saw everyone around you was smart enough to pass their first year. Of course, you didn’t drop out because you were numb, - even if that’s what your brain was telling you -, it was just that university wasn’t your future. And there was nothing wrong with changing paths. You didn’t need to go to university to be successful in life, no. You just needed to find something that motivated you to get out of bed every single morning, and that was the toughest part for you.

Jongho was an incredibly supportive friend. He was always there to comfort you or reassure you when you felt at your lowest when you felt worthless and ugly. He took from his spare time to help you get ready for interviews, correct your applications, or just have a quick look over them. When you finally got a job, you looked and felt better. You were smiling more, enjoying life like you needed to, and came to realise something as well.

You were in love with your best friend.

And one night, where you were feeling bold at a party one of your college friends had organised, you got even closer to your best friend as if it were possible. You kissed that night, and you’ve never felt so good. 

“Gosh,” Jongho smiled after pulling away from the kiss, “it finally happened,” he mumbled, and you giggled, looking down to avoid his gaze. “I love you,” you declared, and your best friend almost lost his balance, leaning against the wall behind him, dragging you closer to him. “I think I love you more,” he murmured against your lips before capturing them in a rougher kiss.

And that night changed everything. Jongho made you see life at another angle, brighter and more positive. You felt loved, enough, and smart. He had a way to say things and take actions that made your head spin, still not used of the amount of attention you were getting.  After two, three, four years of dating, Jongho finally proposed and you got married a year later, on your fifth dating anniversary. Your fiancé wanted to make it memorable, so you got married at the beach, exchanging vows as the sun was setting in front of you. You still had butterflies in your stomach when you talked about this special day on the couch with your husband, late at night, not wanting to get up from the couch to go to bed.

However, everything went downhill when Jongho graduated from university and started working. You saw him less and less, meeting only late at night or extremely early in the morning as one came back or left to go to work. Your relationship was barely there, too tired to even get into actions or just make out. But hope started to show up. Jongho had been promoted to another part of his company, allowing him to rest sometimes and be there with you during the evenings. You knew that couples weren’t always on the bright side, there were ups and downs in every relationship, and it looked like you just got out of one down moment. But it was just a sunny spell among black clouds. 

One day, on your way to work, you felt a sharp pain in your lower belly, thinking that you were starting your period. You quickly walked to work and rushed to the bathroom, only to find your panties clean. No blood. You started thinking that maybe you ate something expired, but you remembered cooking things that only came from the store, so you were confused. You took medicine to soothe the pain, and it did. Only to come back twice harder a few hours later, in the middle of a meeting.  You were explaining a graphic on the screen to your colleagues as you began to feel dizzy. You cleared your throat and tried to keep your composure, only to have your boss asking you if you were alright. You didn’t even have time to answer that you blacked out and fell on the floor, your co-workers hurriedly rushing to take care of you.

You woke up a few hours later in a hospital room, a worried Jongho looking out the window. You mumbled his name, and he turned around, a serious look on his face.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were pregnant?” you looked at him, still a bit dizzy and confused as you had just woken up. When you processed his words, you were about to answer him when a doctor burst into the room with a file under his arm. “Miss—” “Ma’am,” your husband interrupted, correcting the doctor with a frown. “Amazing, you’re awake. I have great news!” He looked quite delighted, whereas your husband kept a marble face. It calmed the doctor immediately and cleared his throat, opening the file and readjusting his glasses. “You are pregnant with a little girl, and she perfectly healthy. However, you had an iron and water deficit, that’s why you collapsed at work this morning. You need to drink and eat more, not only for the baby but also for you.”

You were pregnant. You didn’t know if you wanted to burst out in joy or in tears. Should you keep it? Could you even abort, or was it too late?

“For how long I have been pregnant?” the doctor looked at you sceptically and looked at your husband, whose jaws were clenched.   “You… you didn’t know that you were expecting a child?” you slowly shook your head and he stood speechless, his gaze falling on the documents. “Oh for quite a while,” he said as he flipped the pages of the file, finally landing on the blood test results, “for a little over than 12 weeks.” He stated, and Jongho took his head in his hands.

“Haven’t you realised that you were pregnant? No sign of any symptoms?” “No,” you muttered as your gaze never left your husband, “I noticed that I gained a bit of weight, but it wasn’t truly alarming.” “And your menstruations?” “I’ve had irregular periods my entire life, I didn’t think that I’d get pregnant since we always use protection.” You sighed at the same time as Jongho, and the doctor briefly looked at him. “Alright, I’ll let you talk together for a while, but you can go out of the hospital when you'll be able to pee,” he said, and you nodded, thanking him as he left your room.

You could see that Jongho was stressed and mad. You never thought that he’d react like that, he was always happy to take care of children. You remembered the last time you saw his sister, he was the proudest uncle you’ve ever seen, taking care of his nephew, allowing his sister to rest and talk with her parents for a while. Children were safe with your husband, yet you weren’t so sure about yours now. Why did he have to react that way?

“Y/N, do you want this child or not?” he said as he leant on the wall, near the window. He opened it, and you shivered, bringing the thin sheet closer to your chest. “It’s too late to abort anyway,” you said, without looking at him. “That wasn’t even my question,” he spoke, and you looked at him. “Why are you reacting like that? Didn’t you want to have children together?” “It’s too early Y/N, too early,” he said as he dragged a hand over his face. You shrugged, deep down feeling ready to become a mother. Jongho, on the other hand, wasn’t ready at all. “But when you played with your nephew, you looked—” “Y/N! It’s not my child, I only took care of him for a few hours! It’s not the same!” Jongho let out his frustration and started raising his voice, barely recognising him. “Calm down, honey, please,” “How do you want me to calm down? You’re pregnant with my child, and you expect me to react well?” “Well, yes! We’ve been together for so long, you should be ready, right?” “Then no, I’m not. I need to think about it,” he said and stormed out of the room, leaving you alone in your bed. You sighed, beaten, and pushed the covers, walking to the toilet with some difficulties. You had to press the emergency button because you struggled to get up from the toilet seat, a nurse rushing in to help you. You were still quite weak, and Jongho wasn’t there to help you out.

He didn’t show up at your shared house during the next week, worrying you that something bad happened to him. A few days later after your hospital exit, you received a message from your sister-in-law, telling you that her brother was safe and hiding at home, hoping that you were alright. You were struggling alone, to the point where you had to call your good friend Hongjoong to the rescue.

“Where’s Jongho?” was the first thing your friend asked, and you shrugged. “Hiding at his sister’s house,” you said as you grabbed light groceries from your car trunk, only to have Hongjoong snatching them from your grip with a playfully stern look. “Don’t carry anything, it’s bad for the baby,” you shook your head and laughed, unlocking the front door of your house. “I’m not that far into the pregnancy,” you argued, but your friend was having none of it. “Still, you need to be careful,” he returned as he placed everything on the counter, opening the fridge as you changed the topic.

“Your wife is okay about you helping me out?” “She’s the one that pushed me out of the door when I told you that I was coming here,” you smirked at his words and poured yourself a glass of water. “She’s so excited to be an aunt, she’s trying to get me into action too,” you laughed, trying not to spill your drink as Hongjoong closed the refrigerator door with a smile. “Really?” “Yeah, she’s been acting up for quite a while.” “By the way, I was thinking about asking the two of you to be the godmother and godfather for her, what do you think?” “Are you joking? It’d be amazing!” “I just need to speak with Jongho about it, but I don’t think he’ll be against it,” he nodded and softly hugged you, careful to not squish you in his arms. Hongjoong and his wife got married a few months before your wedding, and they were still going very strong, admiring them for loving each other so unconditionally. “He’ll eventually come back to you, I promise,” he said as he softly rubbed your back as you walked him to the door, shrugging at his words. “I hope so,” you said and grabbed your car keys, swiftly putting on a pair of slippers to drive him home.

You had to wait a few more weeks to finally see Jongho showing up at the door. Internally, you were relieved that he was back, but you were also quite mad at him. He reacted quite badly, it wasn’t something usual from Jongho. He was timid every time that you were around as if he was finding a way to apologise. You eventually forgave him, and he was more comfortable walking around the house, helping you out with everything and taking care of you.

You welcomed your daughter Areum a few months later, Hongjoong and his wife paying you a visit as soon as they heard the good news. His wife was head over heels for your sleeping little girl, softly caressing her cheeks with the tip of her finger. Hongjoong smiled but rolled his eyes at her behaviour, earning a soft giggle from you and your husband. You were still quite tired from giving birth, so you fell asleep as your two friends were talking with your husband. Months following her birth were hectic, but you would do it all over again if you had to. Of course, you were exhausted, lacking sleep and energy, but at least your daughter was happy and healthy. Jongho helped you a lot, getting up instead of you when he could, changing diapers and sheets when it was necessary. 

However, you and Jongho started to not get along as well as before. You had different manners and ways to take care of your daughter, which sometimes erupted into arguments and screams through the house. 

“Shouldn’t you—” “What?” you annoyingly yelled another time, voice almost breaking, “what should I do, huh? Tell me about it? Tell me what to do, as if you were the mother. How dare you to give me advice when I almost needed to beg you to come home? You left me alone for over two months, just because you “weren’t ready”. What the hell is that shitty excuse? You left like a coward, and now you think that you can give me advice?” “Don’t get on your high horse, Y/N, it’s just that my sister—” “Your sister, always your sister! If she’s so fantastic about everything then leave and go live with her! I’m tired of constantly hearing about her, you talk about her all the goddamn time! You’re always talking about her, damn it if you want to raise a child her way go impregnate another bitch and leave me alone!” you spat as you took your crying daughter in your arms, eyes welling up with tears. “We’re either in this together, or I do it alone, it’s you and me, not you, your sister and me. I’m your wife, it’s our child, and WE get to decide how we bring Areum up. Not her.” You shushed your daughter in your arms as you made your way to your bedroom, blocking the door right after closing it.

One night, a pretty useless fight broke between you two, almost coming to blows. You really had to protect yourself from exploding, but it was the last straw. Out of pure anger, you looked at Jongho dead in the eyes and threw your wedding ring on the floor, hearing it break on the floor and slide under the counter.

“If you’re not willing to change,” you said, pointing your forefinger towards your husband, trying to keep your composure but miserably failing, “then I’m leaving.” You ended your sentence through gritted teeth, and the last thing that you see is the widening look Jongho was giving you. You grabbed your daughter from her highchair, cleaning her hands and bib before scooping her in your arms. She looked at you with pearly eyes, and you kissed her forehead while whispering reassuring words to her, wiping her tears with the back of your hand.

Jongho grabbed your shoulder with a bit more strength than usual, forcing you to turn around. He was clutching your ring in his other hand, his gaze fixed on you.

“Y/N, we’ll make this work,” “Do you realise how many times you’ve told me this? Mmh? Do you remember how many times we tried, and it still doesn’t work? Have you realised that?” "I do, but—” “No Jongho, I’m done, you’re making everything worse now,” you swatted his hand away from your shoulder and entered your bedroom, locking it behind you. You placed your daughter on the bed and draped her in the covers before sliding down on the floor, back resting against the mattress, and you cried. You don’t know how many hours you spent sat next to your daughter, but you woke up the next morning with your head near your daughter’s feet on the bed, along with a painful backache. She was staring at you, trying her hardest to pat your head from her spot. You softly grabbed her hand and laid a soft kiss on it, placing it on your cheek.

A few months after this last fight, everything was ended with your husband, and you’ve never felt so relieved. Your now ex-husband kept the house as you decided to be the one to move out. You looked at Jongho one last time before entering your car, driving off without looking back. Managing to find a place closer to your favourite couple’s house, who helped you move in and take care of your daughter, you were starting to get even happier. They loved looking after Areum because they could practice for their future potential child. Once you arrived unannounced at their house and noticed Hongjoong’s wife in the garden. She made big gestures to not ring the bell because her husband was taking a nap with your daughter on the couch.

Areum was treated like a princess when she was over their house, they took very good care of her, and it warmed your heart. It was relieving to know that your daughter was safe with your friends, they took their role of godmother and godfather seriously.  When you entered the living room, Hongjoong was laying on the sofa with your daughter on his chest. You sat down next to your friend and took your daughter in your arms, laying a soft kiss on her cheek as she was still sleeping. You placed her head on your shoulder, and Hongjoong’s wife replaced your daughter in her husband’s arms, only to have Hongjoong waking up. You waved goodbye at them after putting her in her baby seat, walked to your car and drove home.

After a few weeks, you managed to take your mark around the neighbourhood and succeeded in finding a job. You’ve heard about this company before when you were still with Jongho. You remembered how great he spoke about it, how hard it was to get in, and you made it just by applying as a secretary.  Your work was quite dense, but you’ve gone through worse in the past. Of course, you had bad days, but it was normal. Even your boss, Choi San, could have the worst days ever.

This man was young, yet one of the most powerful men in the city. He owned three big companies around the neighbourhood, making his wealth expand more quickly than his opponents. And you happened to be his secretary, managing his appointments, meetings and maintaining files. You were also sending emails, answering phone calls, or arranging travelling arrangements, and your boss found you extremely skilled. He was never disappointed in what you did, always here to make his life better and easier. One night, you quickly phoned Hongjoong, asking him if it was okay for them if you came to pick your daughter up a bit later in the evening.

“I have an unexpected meeting to attend, and I can’t miss it,” you said, and you heard your friend chuckle.  “It’s okay Y/N, come over when you're free,” you sighed in relief and thanked your friend before hanging up, rushing back to work. The meeting was in a few minutes, and you still had things to print and arrange.

Fortunately, you stapled the last documents together when your boss appeared from his office. He offered you a smile, and you grabbed the files, leading the way to the conference room.  The meeting went well, but all of your colleagues, as well as the boss, only wanted one thing; to go home. Even your boss started discreetly yawning as his father spoke to him discuss strategies and ways of earning more money. Sitting in front of the CEO, you exchanged quick eye rolls and chuckles as he imitated of his father.

“San,” the growling voice of his father interrupted his little game, making him clear his throat, “a little bit of seriousness, please,” “I’m sorry,” he mumbled, and you pursed your lips to stifle a laugh, trying to stay as neutral as possible.

Once the meeting was finally over, everybody got out of the conference room, only leaving you and San behind. You gathered all the documents and cleaned the wooden table, ready to be used tomorrow.

“Can I offer you a drink tonight?” San suggested, and you almost dropped your files, not expecting this coming out of the CEO’s mouth.

“I think I have plans tonight,” you said a bit hesitantly, and San’s eyes tried to read through yours. “Come with me, I promise it won’t be long.” “Alright,” you nodded, and so did he, walking out of the room with a quick smile.

You swiftly took your phone and sent a message to Hongjoong.

[You] : My boss invited me for a drink, is it okay for you? [Joongie] : Don’t worry about it Y/N, enjoy your “drink” with your boss 😉

You huffed at your friend’s words but went back to your desk anyway, shutting everything down and grabbing your purse. Your boss was waiting for you in the hallway, greeting you with a smile as he called the elevator.

The bar he brought you to was quite chic, I mean, what could you expect from him. You were starting to get comfortable around him, even if his bossy attitude was still present. You started talking about your centre of interests, work, and his father. It didn’t feel ambiguous, and you thanked the gods for that. You parted ways with a handshake near your car, making sure that you were safe and fastened in it before leaving you to go to his.

As the weeks went by, San started becoming friendlier to you, sometimes even at work. You tried to shush him with a stern look, but he simply shrugged. He didn’t seem to care, but you didn’t want your colleagues to start imagining random things or rumours about you and your CEO. He was a handsome man, people would kill to get your post, so they wouldn’t hesitate to intensify the rumours if they were to hear some about you. In this world, everything is allowed, even if it means to spread false rumours about someone to try and get to their job. But San didn’t seem to mind. Of course, he was the big boss’ son, what could happen to him? Nothing, exactly, except if he made a big mistake, but flirting with his secretary wasn’t one of them. It’s not that his flirting was annoying and unpleasant, - rather on the contrary, if you were being honest -, you just didn’t want to risk your job for childish behaviours with your boss. You almost had a few heart attacks when he randomly came at work with a huge bouquet of flowers in hand, gathering everybody’s attention as he walked past your colleagues. You always had to justify yourself that they were on your desk, in a vase, because he was allergic to them and he didn’t want them in his office. Of course, it was for his mother, who would – never – come to pick them up. He apparently loved to see you all blushing and struggling to give an explanation when a co-worker appears at your desk, eyeing the flowers as they saw them in the CEO’s hand a few hours prior. You liked your boss, but sometimes, you hated him. 

This flirting went on and on for the next few months until you reached your first year of working in the company. You were so proud that you’ve made it this far and you truly hoped that you could keep on working there as long as possible. With your income, you managed to move out another time and buy a bigger place, offering a bedroom to your daughter, as well as a small playing room linked to it, you were both in heaven.

“Y/N, at what time do we need to go to the tailor for the next week’s event?” San asked you as you took your breath to speak to him. “At 2pm, sir,” you said with a smile, opening a new tab on your computer. “Will you come along?” he asked and you shook your head, typing something on your keyboard as you looked up at him.  “I need to lead this afternoon’s meeting since you won’t be there,” he slowly agreed, a veil of disappointment showing in his eyes.  “Okay, make sure to keep me updated on that,” it was your turn to agree, and he added, “see you later,” before shooting you a wink, your breath sticking in your throat. You shook your head as soon as he left, getting amused at his behaviour.

The day of the big event finally arrived, and everyone was stressed, especially you. You spent your days driving between the company and the place where the event would take place, coordinating and leading everything to make sure that everything would arrive in time and be well done.  On that night, you greeted people at the entrance, guiding them through the hall, sitting them at a specific table, your colleagues taking the lead. Hongjoong and his wife showed up with your daughter, placing them at a strategic place where you could see them, but San couldn’t. Your daughter looked extremely cute with her pinkish dress and her small ballet flats, softly dancing along with the jazzy music that was played. You managed to free yourself from your boss to come and quickly kiss her on the cheek, happy to see her.

“So that’s San, right?” Hongjoong asked as you hugged them. “That man over there?” his wife asked, eyes glowing. “Yes, that’s my boss,” you said with a shy smile, making sure that your hair was well fixed. “Y/N, you have a very good taste in men, damn,” she said, and you laughed, earning a side glance from Hongjoong. “I need to go, but if you could please keep it on the low, he doesn’t know about anything, and I don’t particularly want to explain everything tonight,” they nodded and kept your daughter close to them. You hugged them one last time as a colleague gestured to come back, waving one last time to your friends before hurrying back to the entrance. 

The event was going extremely well. You were a bit nervous to go on stage with San, you weren’t used to speaking in front of so many people, but you imagined yourself being in a conference room and it went a bit better. San’s presence next to you was reassuring, smiling at your friends as it was his turn to speak. Your eyes scanned the room, recognising a few loyal clients, offering them a warm smile. However, your smile instantly vanished as a familiar figure appeared in your field of vision.

Jongho was here, sat at a table with a few of his co-workers, as well as his boss. You didn’t remember sitting them at a table, and you got confused. You mindlessly applauded along with the crowd as your boss finished his speech, but you couldn’t put your heart to it, your mind too preoccupied with something else. 

You made sure that your boss’ microphone was turned off before telling him about your trouble.

“Tell me, that table n°15, I don’t remember inviting them,” you covered your mouth as you leant towards his ear, his eyes focusing on that said table. “They weren’t supposed to come, but they sent me a text that they finally could. Jihae sat them at this table.” You slowly nodded, and your eyes met Jongho’s, a pang in your chest made it suddenly hard to swallow. “Are you okay, Y/N?” Your boss asked, laying a reassuring hand on your arm. You nodded, but San’s eyes squinted and dragged you away from prying eyes. “Tell me what’s wrong,” his voice trailed, and you took a deep breath, worrying him, “you’ve been feeling bad since we talked about that table. Is there a man around it that made you feel uncomfortable?” “There is my ex-husband, I mean, my ex-boyfriend sat at that table,” you corrected yourself as San’s eyes widened at “husband”, making you look in his eyes. “Your ex-husband?” you nodded, and he sighed, looking up to check if anyone was spying on you. “I didn’t know we were doing business with him, I would’ve told you about it earlier if I knew,” you mumbled, and San shook his head. “Don’t worry about it. Are you okay now or do you want to take a walk outside?” “I think I'll be fine,” you said, avoiding his eyes as you weakly smiled. San didn’t like that your mind was elsewhere; he felt like he couldn’t help you, and that’s exactly what was currently happening. You briefly smiled at him as you cleared your throat, slowly walking away from him.

“Y/N?” he asked, and you turned around, your focus finally on him. “Yes?” “Is there something that you’re not telling me?” you almost took a step back but refrained yourself from doing so, but San caught it. You slowly shook your head with a smile, feigning ignorance. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you answered, voice wavering, heels clicking on the floor as you fled from his questioning.

You found solace in your friends’ presence, as well as your daughter’s. It was nice to have them here, but you weren’t as comfortable as you wished you’d be when your ex-husband was on the other side of the hall. Hongjoong acted as a control tower, innocently looking around regularly to see if Jongho would randomly show up.  San observed everything from afar, wondering which one of the three men could be your former husband. He doubtfully eyed them, everything clicking when one of the men and the young child you were carrying in your arms laughed at the same time.

They had the same smile. Both slightly throwing their head back as they laughed. There was no doubt left. It was your ex-husband, and that little girl was your daughter. He deeply sighed as he discovered the truth on his own, a bit disappointed that you didn’t trust him enough to tell him everything. 

“Dad, when you have a rough past, would you say it to your boss?” “Why that question? I’m your boss,” he remarked as he munched on the lobster. San hadn’t touched his plate, his focus shifting from Jongho, your daughter and you, who was sitting at a table not far from him. You were fake laughing with your colleagues and praising the food you had on your plate. He knew it was a fake laugh, because it wasn’t as melodious as it were when you were together. He had the habit to crack a few jokes here and there, your laugh being the most beautiful music he’s ever heard in his life.

“Just asking,” he said as he stabbed the rib steak with his fork, eyes never leaving your table. “I wouldn’t immediately say it to my boss, but I wouldn’t hide it either,” his father said after a few minutes sat in silence, which surprised San. He nodded and thanked his dad, who was suspiciously eyeing him. “You’re mysterious sometimes,” his father said as he shook his head, gulping a sip of red wine from his glass. “I know,” his son mindlessly answered and the father looked at his son as if he had gone completely crazy. San’s eyes never left the table your friends sat at, your daughter enjoying her precious time with your friends.

Areum took so many facial features from you, she looked like a mini version of you. She had traits that he didn’t recognise, probably coming from her father side. She looked well brought up, quiet and shy when people gently waved at her. 

You looked up from your wine glass and noticed San staring on his right, his eyes shifting to you, a light smirk tugging on his lips. You raised your glass with a smile, trying to show him that you were feeling better. He looked deep in thought, and that’s when you realised that he probably understood everything. Slowly, you turned around to look at where he was looking, and you met the sparkling eyes of your daughter, who enthusiastically waved at you with a smile. You winked at her and waved back, sending her a flying kiss. Turning around to look at your boss again, he gestured you by the head to stand up, to which you did. You waited for him to excuse himself from his father and you went together to your friends’ table.

There was no point in hiding anymore.

“Hongjoong, Hyunjae, this Choi San, my boss,” you said as Hongjoong’s eyes widened, swiftly swallowing what he was in his mouth. Hyunjae patted her mouth dry before smiling at the two of you. “And this is Areum, my daughter,” you said almost embarrassed, but Hyunjae looked at you with a comforting smile. San kneeled down to be at your daughter’s level, who kicked her legs in the air, getting shy in front of your boss.

“Hello, Areum,” he quietly said, and your daughter looked up when he mentioned her name, smiling when she saw the grin on his face. “Hello,” she shyly said, you and Hyunjae softly cooing at her behaviour. He shook her tiny hand, and she finally dared to look at him in the eyes, as you had taught her to do when you shook hands with someone. San chuckled at her behaviour and played with her leg, shocking everyone when Areum made grabby hands at him. You looked at Hyunjae, bewildered, and she had a hand covering her mouth. San smiled, scooping her in his arms, standing back up. Areum’s tiny arm was wrapped around his neck, and she looked at the crowd from his height. Your boss softly tickled her belly, only to have her shrieking and sinking her head in his neck. He laughed along with her, and so did you, the nervousness leaving your body as your boss teased your daughter. Hyunjae smirked at you, and you waved her off, trying to get your daughter back, but she refused to leave his arms. 

“She’s the cutest,” San mumbled, and you chuckled, following him as he started walking away from your friends’ table. They motioned you to go along as you weren’t moving, Hongjoong slightly pushing you to get into action. You found a bit strange the path that San was following, but you soon realised that it was strategic. Out of nowhere, he grabbed your hand and made you walk near the exit, your linked hands in a great display to your ex-husband. They stared at each other, yet didn’t say anything, but San made it clear to your ex-husband that there was no chance for him to have you back.

“You’re mine now,” he whispered in your ear, and you shivered, squeezing his hand with a nervous smile. “What? Really?” you said, trying to focus on him and not Jongho. “I think your daughter already adopted me, I have no other choice but date you,” he smirked and, once you were out of anyone’s field of vision, he swiftly kissed your cheek as if he was sealing his love for you, making your daughter laugh, getting tickled another time by your boss.

You couldn’t believe it.

[donnerpartyofone]

idk if you've talked about it, probably have. but if you don't mind to again, ketamine injections for depression? did it work? was it expensive? how long did it work for? ty.

dang, i never got a notification for this message. sorry! ketamine absolutely worked for the management of my depression, it was very expensive, and i think i would have needed more for it to become a longer term solution. i may still go back in the future if my lifestyle changes, but for right now, i can’t justify the cost--which is an insane thing to say when what i’m paying for is freedom from hurting myself, but, ya know, CAPITALISM. 

the whole story is, i’ve been severely depressed my whole entire life; i don’t have any memories that don’t involve feeling morbidly upset, and i can remember things pretty sharply from the time i was slightly younger than 2.* i took ketamine recreationally some years ago when i was around 30 (i wasn’t adventurous about substances until i reached about that age), and i was totally astounded by how it affected my depression both during, and for weeks after the experience. it seemed to distance me from the oppressively immediacy of my bad feelings, giving me space to actually THINK about what was really bothering me, what kind of control i could have over how i assign importance and authority to things that don’t serve me, and what i might like my life to be like in the future. so, when i found out that there were ketamine clinics in new york, i kind of freaked out. actually, i found out about it from a guy who i met on an ayahuasca retreat upstate (which is its own hilariously mortifying story that i’ve been trying to write down for years and it keeps turning into a big unwieldy novel), who had been through the entire gamut of treatments for major depressive disorder. he liked his ketamine experience, but admitted that it was prohibitively expensive to keep up.

this is the place i went, and i recommend it to anyone who can afford it:

nyketamine.com

they say that they accept patients selectively, if you have treatment-resistant depression. i don’t know how strict they are about that, because by the time i came to them, i was looking pretty treatment-resistant. i’d been in and out of a few shrinks’ offices, and i’m basically incapable of taking any of the usual antidepressants because of how they affect other conditions i have. the process was, i filled out a request form on their website, and in a day or two, a clinician called to interview me over the phone about the character of my depression, and to gather some other anecdotal information about my history and health. the person i spoke to was very kind, attentive, and reassuring. the following day, someone called to set my first appointment. the whole reason i was able to do this is because of some inheritance that i received at the time; it’s $450 a session, and they suggest (or insist? i’m not sure) that you begin with a minimum of 6 sessions, each of them 2 days apart. after that, you just kind of monitor yourself to see when you think you need pickup sessions; the effect is cumulative and long term. i have no idea if they have any type of sliding scale accommodation, it could be worth asking.

when i went in for my first session, i had a brief interview with the head doctor, a navy veteran and anesthesiologist who had been working with ketamine in various capacities for 50 years. he explained a lot of things that i had no idea about, that were great to learn. periods of prolonged stress, especially while your brain is still developing, can result in a deficit of the neural pathways that you need to experience a full range of emotion; essentially, being chronically depressed and anxious can kind of give you brain damage. if you have that type of problem, it doesn’t matter what you do to try to boost your serotonin or dopamine or whatever; it’s like if you’re trying to get somewhere in your car and you can’t, not because you’re out of gas, but because the bridge is out. for some reason, ketamine switches back on the function that builds those pathways, so with regular therapeutic applications, you can actually heal the structural problem around your mood centers that’s reducing your emotional range to anxiety and depression. if you’re over 60 or so and your brain is less plastic, your chances of success aren’t as good as when you’re younger, but there’s always a chance; also, for some reason, ketamine plays especially well with estrogen, so women have a bit of a leg up. anyway, the doctor was great, and i really liked everyone there; it felt like they all knew they were doing something meaningful.

the sessions themselves are pleasant. they put you in a private room in a big cushy medical chair with a blanket and a pillow, and you let them know if you want the lights on or off. they give you an IV drip that lasts roughly an hour, and they communicate with you to figure out the dosage. you basically just tell them what feels comfortable, if the dosage they start you on is too low to notice. you won’t get something that puts you in a K hole, but you should enter a gentle dissociative state where you feel a little numb and floaty, and you might have a lot of interesting abstract thoughts. the worst part of it is just how bad you have to pee by the time the drip is done, when you’re still feeling a little anesthetized; sometimes i wound up looking at the bag with my flashlight to check if i had finished, and then i’d just press the call button to get them to come unplug me before i pissed my pants.

you’re not supposed to necessarily notice a difference right away, but you should detect a change in mood after a few weeks. i did. the way my disorder works is, most days i just have a low level background radiation of sadness and exhaustion, even on a “good day” when things are working out or i’m distracted by things i enjoy. when i wake up in the morning and realize i’m conscious and the time for sleep is over, my first feeling is disappointment, 100% of the time. then, i’d say roughly once a month or once every couple of months, i have a complete nervous collapse where i’m in so much pain i can’t really do anything but like drool and cry and let my eyes go out of focus, for anywhere from 1-7 days. there will usually be an apparent trigger; i’m a fairly dysfunctional person, and i frequently lose things, break things, and fuck things up even though i like STUDIED to do them, took it slow, asked for help, gave myself extra time, etc. but the thing is, i think the “trigger” is arbitrary, this is just a cyclic psychic event that builds up and waits to happen. but after my first battery of ketamine treatments, i had a particular day when i could tell that normally, i would quickly wind up curled up at the bottom of my bathtub scream-crying until i couldn’t move--and this time, i managed to just push through. not only did i not break down, but i actually got a number of difficult chores done, that i had put off because they seemed too intimidating, or like i wouldn’t be able to mentally handle my inevitable failure. i noticed more and more of that, while i was in proximity to the treatments, an ability to just buckle down and keep going. so it’s not like i felt HAPPIER or something, but i felt much more capable of coping, which was like a miracle honestly.

it’s been about 3.5 months since i last went in, and i think i could use a booster appointment, but as i said i just can’t fit it in with my financial reality right now. so, that sucks. but, i definitely feel that it was worth doing, and i would recommend it to anyone who can shoulder the cost. hopefully in the future, ketamine will become a much more common psychiatric treatment, and it will become available to more and more patients.

*A friend of mine just told me he read somewhere that you don’t actually recall memories from like 20 years ago, you just remember the last time you recalled them--so like, i THINK i remember my parents struggling to give me drops for pink eye in our first apartment when i was about 1.5 years old, but in reality, i just remember the last time i remembered it, or the earliest time i’m able to remember remembering it. pretty interesting! and kind of disturbing, like the idea that star trek-type teleporters don’t actually transport a person, they just DESTROY the original person and rebuild a new one on the other end, a thought that REALLY BOTHERS ME.

[starringemiliaclarke]

Emilia Clarke, of “Game of Thrones,” on Surviving Two Life-Threatening Aneurysms

Just when all my childhood dreams seemed to have come true, I nearly lost my mind and then my life. I’ve never told this story publicly, but now it’s time.

It was the beginning of 2011. I had just finished filming the first season of “Game of Thrones,” a new HBO series based on George R. R. Martin’s “A Song of Ice and Fire” novels. With almost no professional experience behind me, I’d been given the role of Daenerys Targaryen, also known as Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Lady of Dragonstone, Breaker of Chains, Mother of Dragons. As a young princess, Daenerys is sold in marriage to a musclebound Dothraki warlord named Khal Drogo. It’s a long story—eight seasons long—but suffice to say that she grows in stature and in strength. She becomes a figure of power and self-possession. Before long, young girls would dress in platinum wigs and flowing robes to be Daenerys Targaryen for Halloween.

The show’s creators, David Benioff and D. B. Weiss, have said that my character is a blend of Napoleon, Joan of Arc, and Lawrence of Arabia. And yet, in the weeks after we finished shooting the first season, despite all the looming excitement of a publicity campaign and the series première, I hardly felt like a conquering spirit. I was terrified. Terrified of the attention, terrified of a business I barely understood, terrified of trying to make good on the faith that the creators of “Thrones” had put in me. I felt, in every way, exposed. In the very first episode, I appeared naked, and, from that first press junket onward, I always got the same question: some variation of “You play such a strong woman, and yet you take off your clothes. Why?” In my head, I’d respond, “How many men do I need to kill to prove myself?”

To relieve the stress, I worked out with a trainer. I was a television actor now, after all, and that is what television actors do. We work out. On the morning of February 11, 2011, I was getting dressed in the locker room of a gym in Crouch End, North London, when I started to feel a bad headache coming on. I was so fatigued that I could barely put on my sneakers. When I started my workout, I had to force myself through the first few exercises.

Then my trainer had me get into the plank position, and I immediately felt as though an elastic band were squeezing my brain. I tried to ignore the pain and push through it, but I just couldn’t. I told my trainer I had to take a break. Somehow, almost crawling, I made it to the locker room. I reached the toilet, sank to my knees, and proceeded to be violently, voluminously ill. Meanwhile, the pain—shooting, stabbing, constricting pain—was getting worse. At some level, I knew what was happening: my brain was damaged.

For a few moments, I tried to will away the pain and the nausea. I said to myself, “I will not be paralyzed.” I moved my fingers and toes to make sure that was true. To keep my memory alive, I tried to recall, among other things, some lines from “Game of Thrones.”

I heard a woman’s voice coming from the next stall, asking me if I was O.K. No, I wasn’t. She came to help me and maneuvered me onto my side, in the recovery position. Then everything became, at once, noisy and blurry. I remember the sound of a siren, an ambulance; I heard new voices, someone saying that my pulse was weak. I was throwing up bile. Someone found my phone and called my parents, who live in Oxfordshire, and they were told to meet me at the emergency room of Whittington Hospital.

A fog of unconsciousness settled over me. From an ambulance, I was wheeled on a gurney into a corridor filled with the smell of disinfectant and the noises of people in distress. Because no one knew what was wrong with me, the doctors and nurses could not give me any drugs to ease the pain.

Finally, I was sent for an MRI, a brain scan. The diagnosis was quick and ominous: a subarachnoid hemorrhage (SAH), a life-threatening type of stroke, caused by bleeding into the space surrounding the brain. I’d had an aneurysm, an arterial rupture. As I later learned, about a third of SAH patients die immediately or soon thereafter. For the patients who do survive, urgent treatment is required to seal off the aneurysm, as there is a very high risk of a second, often fatal bleed. If I was to live and avoid terrible deficits, I would have to have urgent surgery. And, even then, there were no guarantees.

I was taken by ambulance to the National Hospital for Neurology and Neurosurgery, a beautiful redbrick Victorian pile in central London. It was nighttime. My mum slept in my hospital ward, slumped in a chair, as I kept falling in and out of sleep, in a state of drugged wooziness, shooting pain, and persistent nightmares.

I remember being told that I should sign a release form for surgery. Brain surgery? I was in the middle of my very busy life—I had no time for brain surgery. But, finally, I settled down and signed. And then I was unconscious. For the next three hours, surgeons went about repairing my brain. This would not be my last surgery, and it would not be the worst. I was twenty-four years old.

I grew up in Oxford and rarely gave a thought to my health. Nearly all I thought about was acting. My dad was a sound designer. He worked on productions of “West Side Story” and “Chicago” in the West End. My mother was, and is, a businesswoman, the vice-president of marketing for a global management consultancy. We weren’t wealthy, but my brother and I went to private schools. Our parents, who wanted everything for us, struggled to keep up with the fees.

I have no clear memory of when I first decided to be an actor. I’m told I was around three or four. When I went with my dad to theatres, I was entranced by backstage life: the gossip, the props, the costumes, all the urgent and whispered hubbub in the near darkness. When I was three, my father took me to see a production of “Show Boat.” Although I was ordinarily a loud and antsy child, I sat silent and rapt in the audience for more than two hours. When the curtain came down, I stood on my seat and clapped wildly over my head.

I was hooked. At home, I played a VHS tape of “My Fair Lady” so many times that it snapped from wear. I think I took the Pygmalion story as a sign of how, and with enough rehearsal and a good director, you can become someone else. I don’t think my dad was pleased when I announced that I wanted to be an actor. He knew plenty of actors and, to his mind, they were habitually neurotic and unemployed.

My school, in Oxford, the Squirrel School, was idyllic, orderly, and sweet. When I was five, I got the lead part in a play. When it came time to take the stage and deliver my lines, though, I forgot everything. I just stood there, center stage, stock-still, taking it all in. In the front row, the teachers were trying to help by mouthing my lines. But I just stood there, with no fear, very calm. It’s a state of mind that has carried me throughout my career. These days, I can be on a red carpet with a thousand cameras clicking away and I’m unfazed. Of course, put me at a dinner party with six people and that’s another matter.

With time, I got better at acting. I even remembered my lines. But I was hardly a prodigy. When I was ten, my dad took me to an audition in the West End for a production of Neil Simon’s “The Goodbye Girl.” When I got inside, I realized that every girl trying out for this part was singing a song from “Cats.” The only thing I could come up with was an English folk song, “Donkey Riding.” After listening rather patiently, someone asked, “How about something more . . . contemporary?” I sang the Spice Girls hit “Wannabe.” My dad’s hands practically covered his face. I didn’t get the part, and I think it was a blessing. My dad said, “It would have been hard reading anything bad about you in the paper.”

But I kept at it. In school productions, I played Anita in “West Side Story,” Abigail in “The Crucible,” one of the witches in “Macbeth,” Viola in “Twelfth Night.” After secondary school, I took a gap year, during which I worked as a waitress and went backpacking in Asia. Then I started classes at the Drama Centre London to pursue my B.A. As fledgling actors, we studied everything from “The Cherry Orchard” to “The Wire.” I didn’t get the ingénue parts. Those went to the tall, willowy, impossibly blond girls. I got cast as a Jewish mother in “Awake and Sing!” You should hear my Bronx accent.

After graduation, I made myself a promise: for one year, I would take only roles with some promise. I made the rent working in a pub, in a call center, and at an obscure museum, telling people that “the loos are just to the right.” Seconds lasted days. But I was determined: one year of no bad productions, no plays above a bar.

In the spring of 2010, my agent called to say that auditions were being held in London for a new HBO series. The pilot for “Game of Thrones” had been flawed and they wanted to re-cast, among other roles, Daenerys. The part called for an otherworldly, bleached-blond woman of mystery. I’m a short, dark-haired, curvy Brit. Whatever. To prepare, I learned these very strange lines for two scenes, one in Episode 4, in which my brother goes to hit me, and one in Episode 10, in which I walk into a fire and survive, unscathed.

In those days, I thought of myself as healthy. Sometimes I got a little light-headed, because I often had low blood pressure and a low heart rate. Once in a while, I’d get dizzy and pass out. When I was fourteen, I had a migraine that kept me in bed for a couple of days, and in drama school I’d collapse once in a while. But it all seemed manageable, part of the stress of being an actor and of life in general. Now I think that I might have been experiencing warning signs of what was to come.

I read for “Game of Thrones” in a tiny studio in Soho. Four days later, I got a call. Apparently, the audition hadn’t been a disaster. I was told to fly to Los Angeles in three weeks and read for Benioff and Weiss and the network executives. I started working out intensely to prepare. They flew me business class. I stole all the free tea from the lounge. At the audition, I tried not to look when I spotted another actor––tall, blond, willowy, beautiful––walking by. I read two scenes in a dark auditorium, for an audience of producers and executives. When it was over, I blurted out, “Can I do anything else?”

David Benioff said, “You can do a dance.” Never wanting to disappoint, I did the funky chicken and the robot. In retrospect, I could have ruined it all. I’m not the best dancer.

As I was leaving the auditorium, they ran after me and said, “Congratulations, Princess!” I had the part.

I could hardly catch my breath. I went back to the hotel, where some people invited me to a party on the roof. “I think I’m good!” I told them. Instead, I went to my room, ate Oreos, watched “Friends,” and called everyone I knew.

That first surgery was what is known as “minimally invasive,” meaning that they did not open up my skull. Rather, using a technique called endovascular coiling, the surgeon introduced a wire into one of the femoral arteries, in the groin; the wire made its way north, around the heart, and to the brain, where they sealed off the aneurysm.

The operation lasted three hours. When I woke, the pain was unbearable. I had no idea where I was. My field of vision was constricted. There was a tube down my throat and I was parched and nauseated. They moved me out of the I.C.U. after four days and told me that the great hurdle was to make it to the two-week mark. If I made it that long with minimal complications, my chances of a good recovery were high.

One night, after I’d passed that crucial mark, a nurse woke me and, as part of a series of cognitive exercises, she said, “What’s your name?” My full name is Emilia Isobel Euphemia Rose Clarke. But now I couldn’t remember it. Instead, nonsense words tumbled out of my mouth and I went into a blind panic. I’d never experienced fear like that—a sense of doom closing in. I could see my life ahead, and it wasn’t worth living. I am an actor; I need to remember my lines. Now I couldn’t recall my name.

I was suffering from a condition called aphasia, a consequence of the trauma my brain had suffered. Even as I was muttering nonsense, my mum did me the great kindness of ignoring it and trying to convince me that I was perfectly lucid. But I knew I was faltering. In my worst moments, I wanted to pull the plug. I asked the medical staff to let me die. My job��my entire dream of what my life would be—centered on language, on communication. Without that, I was lost.

I was sent back to the I.C.U. and, after about a week, the aphasia passed. I was able to speak. I knew my name—all five bits. But I was also aware that there were people in the beds around me who didn’t make it out of the I.C.U. I was continually reminded of just how fortunate I was. One month after being admitted, I left the hospital, longing for a bath and fresh air. I had press interviews to do and, in a matter of weeks, I was scheduled to be back on the set of “Game of Thrones.”

went back to my life, but, while I was in the hospital, I was told that I had a smaller aneurysm on the other side of my brain, and it could “pop” at any time. The doctors said, though, that it was small and it was possible it would remain dormant and harmless indefinitely. We would just keep a careful watch. And recovery was hardly instant. There was still the pain to deal with, and morphine to keep it at bay. I told my bosses at “Thrones” about my condition, but I didn’t want it to be a subject of public discussion and dissection. The show must go on!

Even before we began filming Season 2, I was deeply unsure of myself. I was often so woozy, so weak, that I thought I was going to die. Staying at a hotel in London during a publicity tour, I vividly remember thinking, I can’t keep up or think or breathe, much less try to be charming. I sipped on morphine in between interviews. The pain was there, and the fatigue was like the worst exhaustion I’d ever experienced, multiplied by a million. And, let’s face it, I’m an actor. Vanity comes with the job. I spent way too much time thinking about how I looked. If all this weren’t enough, I seemed to whack my head every time I tried to get in a taxi.

The reaction to Season 1 was, of course, fantastic, though I had very little knowledge then of how the world kept score. When a friend called me exclaiming, “You’re No. 1 on IMDb!” I said, “What is IMDb?”

On the first day of shooting for Season 2, in Dubrovnik, I kept telling myself, “I am fine, I’m in my twenties, I’m fine.” I threw myself into the work. But, after that first day of filming, I barely made it back to the hotel before I collapsed of exhaustion.

On the set, I didn’t miss a beat, but I struggled. Season 2 would be my worst. I didn’t know what Daenerys was doing. If I am truly being honest, every minute of every day I thought I was going to die.

In 2013, after finishing Season 3, I took a job on Broadway, playing Holly Golightly. The rehearsals were wonderful, but it was clear pretty soon that it was not going to be a success. The whole thing lasted only a couple of months.

While I was still in New York for the play, with five days left on my saginsurance, I went in for a brain scan—something I now had to do regularly. The growth on the other side of my brain had doubled in size, and the doctor said we should “take care of it.” I was promised a relatively simple operation, easier than last time. Not long after, I found myself in a fancy-pants private room at a Manhattan hospital. My parents were there. “See you in two hours,” my mum said, and off I went for surgery, another trip up the femoral artery to my brain. No problem.

Except there was. When they woke me, I was screaming in pain. The procedure had failed. I had a massive bleed and the doctors made it plain that my chances of surviving were precarious if they didn’t operate again. This time they needed to access my brain in the old-fashioned way—through my skull. And the operation had to happen immediately.

The recovery was even more painful than it had been after the first surgery. I looked as though I had been through a war more gruesome than any that Daenerys experienced. I emerged from the operation with a drain coming out of my head. Bits of my skull had been replaced by titanium. These days, you can’t see the scar that curves from my scalp to my ear, but I didn’t know at first that it wouldn’t be visible. And there was, above all, the constant worry about cognitive or sensory losses. Would it be concentration? Memory? Peripheral vision? Now I tell people that what it robbed me of is good taste in men. But, of course, none of this seemed remotely funny at the time.

I spent a month in the hospital again and, at certain points, I lost all hope. I couldn’t look anyone in the eye. There was terrible anxiety, panic attacks. I was raised never to say, “It’s not fair”; I was taught to remember that there is always someone who is worse off than you. But, going through this experience for the second time, all hope receded. I felt like a shell of myself. So much so that I now have a hard time remembering those dark days in much detail. My mind has blocked them out. But I do remember being convinced that I wasn’t going to live. And, what’s more, I was sure that the news of my illness would get out. And it did—for a fleeting moment. Six weeks after the surgery, the National Enquirer ran a short story. A reporter asked me about it and I denied it.

But now, after keeping quiet all these years, I’m telling you the truth in full. Please believe me: I know that I am hardly unique, hardly alone. Countless people have suffered far worse, and with nothing like the care I was so lucky to receive.

A few weeks after that second surgery, I went with a few other cast members to Comic-Con, in San Diego. The fans at Comic-Con are hardcore; you don’t want to disappoint them. There were several thousand people in the audience, and, right before we went on to answer questions, I was hit by a horrific headache. Back came that sickeningly familiar sense of fear. I thought, This is it. My time is up; I’ve cheated death twice and now he’s coming to claim me. As I stepped offstage, my publicist looked at me and asked what was wrong. I told her, but she said that a reporter from MTV was waiting for an interview. I figured, if I’m going to go, it might as well be on live television.

But I survived. I survived MTV and so much more. In the years since my second surgery I have healed beyond my most unreasonable hopes. I am now at a hundred per cent. Beyond my work as an actor, I’ve decided to throw myself into a charity I’ve helped develop in conjunction with partners in the U.K. and the U.S. It is called SameYou, and it aims to provide treatment for people recovering from brain injuries and stroke. I feel endless gratitude—to my mum and brother, to my doctors and nurses, to my friends. Every day, I miss my father, who died of cancer in 2016, and I can never thank him enough for holding my hand to the very end.

There is something gratifying, and beyond lucky, about coming to the end of “Thrones.” I’m so happy to be here to see the end of this story and the beginning of whatever comes next.

Emilia Clarke, of “Game of Thrones,” on Surviving Two Life-Threatening Aneurysms was originally published on Enchanting Emilia Clarke | Est 2012

[officertbansk-blog]

It might just be tonight, but life’s fucking sad. I put myself out there to try and make people laugh and have a good time when in reality Im pretty empty inside.I can’t for the life of me figure out what I want to do for the next 25-35 years of my life. Im not even 25 years old, and I have to figure that out. I can tolerate jobs here or there but Im terrified to commit to something for that long to find out I hate it and must suffer for the rest of the time I’m there. I’m terrified of that shit. 

I feel like this is just a culmination of 20+ years of misplaced trauma and emotional despair catching up to me. I dont know how to cry, i force myself not to. Watched my one grandfather take his final breathes in his hospital bed and nothing. Forced myself not to cry at my other grandpas funeral, i wanted to so bad, something just told me i couldn’t. The last time i genuinely cried and let it all out was 2016 when my ex dumped me. Other than that I may have forced myself to cry once or twice just to feel better. I just cant do it and it bothers me that i cant

most of my problems stem from my father. the typical manly man, no crying, no emotions of any kind. Every family party, the guys just bag on each other, thats their idea of fun. and growing up around it, it is fun, i just wish sometimes it wasn’t like that. I wish sometimes i grew up with a dad that told me its ok to cry and not made fun of me for it. 

As I grow older i realize the stuff my dad did for me wasn’t because he hated me but because he loves me and wants the best from me. but most of the time it feels like ill never get there unless i do exactly what he wants, and thats so overwhelming man. I feel like with him, i can do absolutely nothing right. Even when i do what he says, he always finds something else to yell at me about. its hardly ever something encouraging that he has to say about anything i do. which is sometimes necessary sure but sometimes it would be nice to hear something positive

when i got kicked out and lived with my buddy cris, it was fantastic, he wouldnt yell or be as mad at me because he couldnt see what i did or didnt do around the house, or whatever he would typically ask of me. ever since ive had to move back in i have nonstop wanted to move back out, but none of my friends are ready for that step so im just stuck here, living in this somewhat toxic house that is slowly bringing me back into a depression im worried.   

about two years ago i started seeing a therapist and only went a couple times because i forgot to reschedule a session and just never remembered to go back. anyway, she began to piece together that i may have an attention deficit disorder which essentially makes my brain think faster than its capable of which often leads to me forgetting, or me choosing to play video games instead of focusing on doing homework. i get easily distracted. well i was afraid to tell my dad cause i knew what he would say. “no you dont” like this dude actually said i didnt even though my therapist told me i did, he said how do you forget everything so easily, its just an excuse to be lazy. I wouldnt call myself lazy, i do whatever he asks me to do, i do what i have to do with work, whatever, sometimes i just forget about tasks and do something else. i was also afraid to tell him i didnt believe in his god (or anyones for that matter) because i knew how hed react and i was right, every once and a while he makes me feel bad for not believing. im glad its finally out there but at the same time i wish it wasnt. it just feels bad knowing he makes me feel bad for not being his perfect son. 

I feel like my ADD has a part in my brain being all screwy in general. to deal with some of my anger, or frustration or emotional baggage i guess, i would be overly sexual, and essentially i was, and maybe still am, somewhat of a fuckboy, and to everybody, im sorry. Im not perfect, i chose to cope with shit in an unhealthy way and ruined plenty of relationships, friendships and everything else with being overly sexual. 

those of you who have stuck by my side while i continue to grow and learn i appreciate every one of you, i have done a lot of you wrong and dirty and it means alot that all of you have forgiven me and haven’t left my side. I know im a lot to handle. 

if you made it this far, thanks for reading a very LITTLE part of my story of why i am the way i am, id be more than happy to write about more, but i figure id stop here considering ive already revealed a lot to the entire internet. 

[newstfionline]

Ping-Pong as the Fountain of Youth

By Wendy Lyons Sunshine, NY Times, March 7, 2017

I returned home the other night exhausted, quadriceps aching, twinges in my foot, salty with sweat. My husband asked me how my evening was.

Glorious, I told him.

I had spent 90 minutes in a gym crammed with 10 Ping-Pong tables and assorted players, all coaxing and smacking a little ball over the net. By 9 p.m., I was exhilarated, depleted, triumphant. I had beaten two young men half my age and lost battles against worthy opponents. To a casual observer, the night was unremarkable. To me, it was a miracle.

I had taken up Ping-Pong during college, and in my 30s dove in more deeply, climbing the long stairway up to a table tennis center in Westfield, N.J., where I watched Olympic hopefuls and took lessons. Arthroscopy for torn knee cartilage soon sidelined me. Shortly afterward, a distracted driver made an illegal turn at a pedestrian crossing and drove directly into my bum knee.

Joint replacements are a poor bet for 30-somethings. The surgeon did his best to repair my crushed knee, inserted a titanium screw, recommended I stay slim, advised against afternoons of power shopping, and told me never to jog or run again.

Three months in a cast left my atrophied foot floppy and useless. Standing was excruciating. I hunted for shoes that could cushion my knee and set my sights on walking and climbing stairs again. Years later, I tried to play Ping-Pong and limped for a week. I put the game out of my mind.

When I was 53, a new challenge arrived. A dimple in my right breast proved malignant, so I underwent lumpectomy, followed by chemotherapy and radiation. By treatment’s end, clothing felt intolerable, and a stroll around the block winded me. My old knee injury hurt anew; flesh around the scar felt fragile as old rubber bands.

But I wanted to start fresh. I quit eating barbecue, shunned dairy, embraced kale. I attended therapy and a support group. At a $450 course in mindfulness-based stress reduction, I learned to befriend painful stretches and breathe new life into atrophied muscles without injuring myself.

One day my bad leg was working slightly better. The knee hadn’t been oppressively swollen in a while. I felt a flicker of hope.

Could Ping-Pong be feasible for me, now--in my condition, at my age?

Ping-Pong, or table tennis as it is officially known, is one of the fastest racket sports, requiring muscular and cardiorespiratory endurance. Players need nimble footwork and upper body flexibility to return balls that can fly over 60 miles per hour, demanding faster response times than tennis or badminton. While energy expenditure tables list the sport as requiring four METS of energy, about the same as archery or bowling, skilled players can peak at 11.7 METs during a match, said Alessandro Moura Zagatto, a sports physiologist and researcher at São Paulo State University in Brazil. That’s a workout comparable to intense racquetball or moderate rowing.

Ping-Pong’s unique visual and spatial demands, strategy requirements and vigor may even offer benefits for the brain. A study of 164 Korean women age 60 and older showed that table tennis improved cognitive function more than dancing, walking, gymnastics or resistance training. Other research suggests Ping-Pong may ease attention-deficit hyperactivity disorder.

“The great thing about our sport is it can be played by anyone,” said Jimmy Butler, a four-time national USA Table Tennis Association champion who overcame a debilitating muscle condition in his 20s and 30s to reclaim the title at age 44. “I see 90-year-olds and 10-year-olds.”

Four years after completing radiation therapy, I set out to make my own Ping-Pong dream a reality. My performance goals were realistic: Just be good enough that other players were willing to rally with me. No diving for crazy shots. Remember how to sweat.

I arrived at my local table tennis club cautiously, a breathtakingly out-of-shape woman in a sea of men, some in their 20s, a handful over 80. A man with a kind face invited me to hit with him. After 20 minutes I wilted, but went home happy. My knee didn’t implode.

I returned the following week, hit balls, lost matches. I fumbled with scorekeeping, but who cared about points? Just by playing I felt like a winner.

It soon became obvious that I got too easily distracted by shouts from my opponent or stray balls flying wildly from other tables. I had to stay focused on the little ball. Keep alert to spin. Don’t rush the attack.

Months passed, and almost imperceptibly, my stamina improved. Opponents started to compliment my shots. I won a game. I assumed it was a fluke. Then it happened again.

These days, slamming aces feels wonderful. I keep a water bottle nearby as sweat rolls off me. I stop when tired and praise my flimsy knee for its good work.

Some nights I play so joyfully, I can almost believe this sport is the fountain of youth.

[thejollyrunner]

The Sober Diaries

The timing of going sober was always going to be questionable, considering I share a house with a teenager. That said, the last 2 weeks haven’t been too bad, although I definitely noticed that my mood went through the predicted “tense” phase. I dethroned the Grumpster for his title and crowned myself Grumpress. You can be assured I have ruled my dominion with much whinging. My brain also turned to mush. It was like being pregnant all over again. And as my stomach has swollen due to the hot chocolates and extensive treats I’ve awarded myself for abstinence, I count myself lucky theologians haven’t been hammering down the door to proclaim the new miracle conception.

Alcohol Free Down Under

The lack of alcohol hasn’t been an issue, per se. I realised my personal interest is more for something tasty to drink that isn’t actually another glass of water. Sugary gloop – pop/soda/fizzy whatever-you-want-to-call-it doesn’t hit the mark as a refreshing drink, and there’s only so many cups of tea I can cope with before I’m buzzing all night from caffeine overload. Which defeats the point of trying to defy the 3am wakeup call that alcohol so reliably provides. So, wine is a dry, pleasant-tasting alternative, and I realised I missed having a cold beverage. So I set about tracking down something to fill the void.

SoberMummy recommended Beck’s Blue as a decent tasting no-alcohol beer. I checked out several of the local off-licences. There are plenty of bottle shops within 1km of home in every direction, so I thought I’d be able to get hold of something suitable. However, it appears that zero alcohol beer is as rare as rocking horse poo in this part of the world. The wine varietals are better served, but having tried one that cost $15, so apparently a better class of vino-replacement, I was not convinced by its character: the aroma of newly picked grapes evolved rather dramatically into the sharp rasp of vinegar. The sensation was akin to jumping on a bouncy castle at a kids party, then suddenly falling off a cliff. Not something I would recommend.

A case of the Beck’s Blues

I googled Becks Blue and found I needed to drive across the metropolis to find a retailer that stocked low alcohol beer. I found myself in an outlet the size of a respectable supermarket, but dedicated to drink, and the zero alcohol offering was about 1/4 of one rack of shelves. None in the fridge. Oh, and Beck’s Blue is out of stock. Nationwide. I bought a couple of 6 packs of German imports to try (I didn’t see a locally brewed alternative) – both priced exorbitantly – and found both of them were acceptable. I particularly like the Bitburger Drive. It’s a taste that takes me straight back to Germany, and as I was 19 when I lived there, what’s not to like. “Bitte ein Bit'”.

Teenage Mutiny

Amidst the sobriety, we’ve also been on the case of solving – well, at least understanding – Herbert’s anxiety. Having seen a couple of specialists, there was some interest in his inability to organise his life. His anxiety spiked when he’d left himself one evening to do an entire assignment that required about 6 weeks work. Who’d have thought that would be a problem? So, it’s now official, we have a diagnosis! And the verdict is that it is not some underlying attention deficit issue, he’s simply ignoring us… It is a case of teenage mutiny.

So the hunt for a cause continues.

Mood Food

With the help of Ali at Apple to Zucchini, we’re testing the link between food and mood. I can’t recommend taking your teenage son to talk to a dietitian enough, particularly if they need some payback for heinous cheek or abject laziness in recent weeks. Why? For the joy of watching him squirm when he has to discuss how regularly he poos as part of the consultation. As a parent it’s important to balance the moments of proud parenting that you can shout about on instagram with the quietly satisfying smug moments that need no further broadcast. (Unless you happen to have a blog read by your mum and the cat).

I guess Herbert has had the last laugh, though. My disinterest in the kitchen has been inherited, so he doesn’t feel that any of this improving his diet is any of his responsibility. (Is it just our house where the need for self-determination oscillates depending on the task in hand? How much time to play computer games? At 15, he is totally mature enough to make his own decisions. Cook food? He’s a child and it is utterly outrageous, bordering on neglect, to expect him to have to fend for himself).

Now I know you’re thinking I should just fight that battle.

But I am somewhat battle fatigued.

Plus, the novelty of trying to find healthy food that he might be prepared to pack and eat in front of his friends has piqued my interest.

I might also have more energy as a result of no longer being hungover each morning of a weekend. (I have discovered there is so much more time available on Saturdays and Sundays – it’s a revelation!) And I seem better able to concentrate on the instructions, too, so my success rate at creating edible morsels, rather than burnt cinders, is 1000% better.

Avoiding Teenage Mutiny over Lunchbox Contents

So here are some of the things that I have produced in the last couple of weeks on the occasions that I have kitchened. #proud #actuallyadulting #lessdelinquentparenting

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Herbert was slightly abashed after talking to Ali. Not just because he’d had to discuss poo. But also because reciting what he eats for breakfast, morning tea and lunch were identified as being somewhat nutritionally lacking. Breakfast, consisting of commercial breakfast cereals, were deemed dessert choices. (He loves Milo cereals and Coco Pops and other sugar laden delights – and sugar is not anxiety friendly). Then, his choices at school were basically devoid of nutrients. We have a daily battle (if I have time to remember to notice that he hasn’t made himself some sandwiches) over making sandwiches. He hopes I won’t notice, in which case he just raids the school tuck shop for high-fat taste sensations. If I do notice, he makes the sandwiches, and on most occasions leaves them in the bottom of his bag, and raids the school tuck shop for high-fat taste sensations…

Of course, the other challenge is finding “healthy” food that looks innocuous enough to still be cool. Passing the friends test and fitting in is more important than any nutrient count or benefits that might accrue. As any parent of teenagers will know.

Homelife Crisis

So having managed to get organised in the kitchen for the first time ever, I have managed to wreak chaos in my working life. Tomorrow I fly to Perth for a couple of days. Problem, you say? It is if you live in Queensland, and it’s actually a public holiday… GRRRRR.

So Australia, I have two small requests:

Please could you sort your act out with no-alcohol beer and stock it more accessibly

And harmonise your sodding public holidays!

Is it really so hard for everyone to have time off at the same time??? Really??? I have a Herbert to wrangle. It’s enough already.

So, with that, I will sign off and go and pack my suitcase. I will be leaving the Grumpster in charge of dictating a nutrient-rich lunch time experience for the next couple of days. 😀 😀 😀

  *The recipes for the little bites of heaven are courtesy of Apple to Zucchini, Dietitian Approved and Lola Berry. Not pictured is some frozen water melon and some frozen watermelon blitzed with grapes (he doesn’t like grapes!) and frozen to pop in smoothies.

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Teenage mutiny; still no turtling The Sober Diaries The timing of going sober was always going to be questionable, considering I share a house with a teenager.

[dutch-rub]

Hyper-Focus and Multi-Tasking

A friend was in a new sales career and wanted some marketing ideas. I told him I had some but we needed to meet to go over them. That very night we ended up watching a game on TV with some friends, I had mentioned I had that business idea and let's all discuss it after the game. He agreed.

During post-game, which he wanted to watch, he asked me about it. I said "Oh let's just wait a few minutes until this is over."

At that moment I could sense they all thought I might have been pouting for not just stating my idea then. After all, the game was over. Right? Why wait? Kind of "If I can't have it my way you can't play with my ball." 

A few days later I mentioned that to my friend, in person. He did not deny that pouting crossed his mind. 

I’m disabled from a chronic, undiagnosed neurological disease. The ‘undiagnosed’ part means the neurologists know my symptoms very well, but they don’t know what gene is causing it. If they did, the disease would have a name like Parkinson's, MS, ALS, etc.

I went on to explain to my friend how my brain operates. One of my many conditions is the polar opposite of attention deficit...hyper-focus. 

Now, consider that every human characterization is bell curved. With all those ADHD people, who is at the other end of the bell-curve? People with intent ability to focus...like me. 

My guess is my hyper-focus is not related to my disease. Ironically, some ADHD people actually have hyper-focus: “people with ADD have a disregulated attention system” therefore some get the good side of focus...if handled properly.

For me, this means multi-tasking is not just difficult, I can't do it. But guess what, study after study proves humans cannot multitask. Our abilities, comprehension, and focus drop like a rock. Efficient Multi-tasking is a myth. 

Let’s discuss some downsides to this. When our four adult children and their significant others are all over for a Holiday, the cross-over conversations are incredibly stressful for me. I'll bet money my heart rate and blood pressure go up. 

Here's what happens at these family events where often some wine has been served. I start to tell a story and almost immediately one of the kids has to out-due the others by a one-liner. Besides the fact their one-liner is brilliant, my brain has to re-set. So I start again. My wife might get up to start the desert and someone else might get up to get a beer so lots of physical movement. I re-set again. Someone might start a side conversation that all of us can hear. I re-set again. 

But with me, after about three re-sets the switch flips and it's all gone. Not the memory of the story but the mental energy to tell it. There's just nothing left in the mental tank. It's so bad I often need to leave the room to let my brain rest by closing my eyes and having quiet time. 

Not telling the story Is not sulking. 

Also, my brain does refresh quickly. Sometimes I can't rejoin the party. There is simply too much commotion and input.

Now while you might think "that sucks." There are enormous benefits to this condition. I can listen and observe better than 98 out of 100 people. I can listen to someone (presuming I hear them) and pick up on the smallest details and tones. If my focus is really on, I can even do this with cross-over talk (for a while). 

Notice I can’t talk in that environment...but I can listen and observe people well.

This might be why I like Who-Dunnit movies so much. My first clue I was developing this skill-ineptness (same coin) was when I simply could not watch Law & Order with interruptions. I needed to turn off the TV. Again, I wasn’t being petulant to turn off the TV (OK, unless it was super good episode and remember, no DVRs in early L&O days. So a completely justified mini-sulk).

I've been at big dinner parties where someone tells a long story and at the punchline, everyone laughs...except me. The person left out a key part of the story so the conclusion made no sense. Not to be an ass but I inquired and the person kindly explained the part that was left out. Then you can see that look in their eyes as they realize "The story wasn't funny if I left that out." 

People discuss problem-solving skills. If I'm boasting forgive me, but when my hyper-focus kicks in I can brainstorm aka problem-solve like a champ! But if someone knocked in the front door it would take me several seconds to come off my train of thought. (I’m exaggerating...but not as much as you may think). 

Quick Sidestory. I’ve never been in a collision, while driving, in my life. However, one day I was driving up I-5 on a perfectly clear, dry day and my problem-solving brain was in fricken’ overdrive. I was hyper-focused!! When I ‘came to’ (and that is a perfect description) I was driving up on a car doing maybe 15 mph faster I had to hit the brakes fairly hard but not jammed. No ABS and I locked the rears! I was in the left lane and my rear started swinging out to right. I instinctively glanced in my right mirror and saw a semi-truck but he was two car lengths back so I had a chance. God had the front go left and the rear never crossed the center line. I kept spinning gradually counterclockwise while the car drifted left. There was a field median with no guard-rail. I hit the field with the front of the car pointed at 8 o’clock. When I hit the field the car stopped spinning and went dead sideways now traveling to 11 o'clock while still pointing at 8. I came to a stop and was sure all four tires were flat and the wheels likely totaled too. I got out and lo and behold, God had blessed me yet again! The tires had air and get this...there were large clumps of long grass stuck in-between the tire and both right wheels. Let that one process a bit. How can that physically happen and not go flat? (Physics says it can't). I got in my car and got on the freeway to avoid 5-0. Funny part: I drove straight to the tire store and asked if they could balance my tires. The young man said “No problem sir.” Then he went around and looked down at my passenger side tires and his eyes got big. I just got out and went to the waiting room. Welcome to Focusville.

Back to that night with friends When I casually passed on sharing the business idea. The friend who wanted business ideas had turned down the TV volume to encourage me to talk. Guess what happened? The volume was so low it made all three of them concentrate even more on the TV. I know this because I attempted to make eye contact with each. I was sitting forward of them. I turned my entire body, faced each of them, and looked closely at them for several seconds each. Not one of them made eye contact as "Why are you looking at me?" 

Guess what? That's not their fault! That's being human. We...cannot...multi-task. 

That Monday Night with friends was the perfect example. But was it their fault for being overly confident in their mental capabilities? Enough to believe they could listen to the post-game, watch the TV, and fully process a business proposition. You tell me.

Can a professional juggler have a deep conversation while juggling three balls? Yes. Because for him the 3 balls is rote. Like easy driving for most people over 35. 

However, even you turn down the radio when looking for an address in traffic. Why? Because deep down your synapses are not connecting and your brain knows it, therefore demands less input. “Kids be quiet!!” ;-)

My friend who was new in the career and I met for coffee two days later specifically to go over another part of his new career (LinkedIn profile). Because I suspected they thought I was pouting, I explained the gist of how hyper-focus works, at least for me. And that’s why I couldn’t share the idea. He did not deny that me pouting had crossed his mind (maybe for a split second). 

As we were going our separate ways in the restaurant, his hand was on the door and he said "What was your business idea?" To make sure it didn't look like a pout, I found myself nicely saying "You're doing it again."

I can't make that up...but it gets comically worse.

He caught his error and said “I need to run an errand. Come with me and tell me as we drive.” 

I foolishly took the bait...yet again. He’s Lucy. I’m Charlie Brown. 

When driving, we couldn't make vital eye contact. Worse, his mind was already drifting onto the rest of his day. His brain had said “I left the restaurant so that purpose is over.” 

How do I know this? Because I had to repeat my idea three times as he kept saying it back incorrectly. While it was a clever business idea, it was brutally simplistic.

Remember, my theory is every human characteristic can be plotted on a bell curve. But we often presume one end of the curve is “better.” 

I challenge you to challenge that presumption.

What!? You still think you are in the 2% who can multi-task. Now you are being cocky. Take this quiz then this quiz and watch this brief Harvard commentary.