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photochoco · 5 years ago

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Two Sides of the Same Coin

Chapter 2 Introduction Surrounded by adversaries, Touko settles in. Team Plasma says trans rights.

-- The sun beat down brightly as the small group made their way along a rocky path. It was the beginning of summer, the air was not yet hot enough for the breeze that lazed by to be troublesome. All the same, Touko wished she had her baseball cap. Having black hair didn’t help, the back of her neck heating up uncomfortably. She grumbled and bunched her hair into a low ponytail. Brandon didn’t seem to mind the heat at all, even in his Plasma uniform which covered every inch of skin and had a slim-fitting hood. Indeed, he hadn’t even broken out in a sweat as he, Touko, and several other new members they had met up with at their destination walked towards the Plasma base. Touko had no clue where this base was; as far as she knew they were in the middle of nowhere. Figures Team Plasma would have their base creepily away from civilization.

“Over here,” Brandon called to the newbies. He was standing in front of a small cave entrance that definitely looked like it led to...something. One by one, everyone was ushered in by Brandon, with Touko squeezing in last.

“What in the…” The sentence escaped her mouth, riding on a gasp that came out with it. Standing tall, deep in the wide, vast cavern, stood a massive building. There was only a faint light to illuminate it, but it sparkled. The other people around her had a very similar reaction.

“This is Team Plasma’s base?? You’re--” Touko was so caught up in her awe, she very nearly broke character. Cursing inwardly, she took a breath. “It’s-- wow!”

It really, truly, was the last thing she expected from Team Plasma. How did they afford such an extravagant structure? Brandon finally cracked a wide grin.

“Seeing the reaction of new members to our King’s castle is one of the best things about orientation. Come on, inside you’ll all receive your uniforms, identification cards, and rooming assignments!”

Touko made sure to stay right behind Brandon, ahead of the rest of the group. She absolutely had to see everything first, this was incredible!

Inside, the castle was even more grand. Shades of gold made up every surface, and the floor beneath their feet reflected like a mirror. There were even large fountains and indoor ponds lining the walls. The whole place looked like it cost a fortune.

Does N really own this place? Or does Ghetsis? Touko wondered. It certainly seemed much more aligned with the old geezer’s more opulent tastes, as far as she could tell. Once inside, the group separated based on where they’d be rooming (based on gender orientation). Touko went off with a much smaller group of women, while the men and went off in another. A third group was directed to the gender neutral barracks.

“Helloooooooo people!” A woman’s loud voice grabbed the attention of everyone. A new Grunt was standing with a hand on her hip, the other outstretched dramatically.

“Welcome to Team Plasma! My name is Andrea, and I’ll be helping you settle in. We are so grateful for your decision to serve our King and do whatever you can to help him achieve his utopia for Pokemon. As members of this organization, you will have a duty to uphold the integrity of our collective dream, so when you are both in uniform and out, be a good example. Remember, you represent Team Plasma!"

“Yes ma’am!” came a few enthusiastic replies from the group.

Andrea flashed a friendly grin. “That’s the spirit! But enough from me. Let’s get you all your uniforms, shall we? You gotta look the part!”

Touko struggled with her hood as it bunched her hair uncomfortably against her neck. Why did these stupid things have to have such tiny hoods?!

“Havin trouble, kiddo?” Andrea addressed Touko from where she was helping another Grunt select a uniform in their size.

“A little.”

“Here, let me show you a lil’ trick I’ve seen some other members use.”

Touko stood still as Andrea fiddled with her black locks. A sudden thought struck her.

“Hey Andrea, do you have any tips for uh...for staying cool in these clothes?”

“Ahahaha, you’re not the first newbie to ask that! Not to worry, the fabric of these uniforms is specially designed to breathe, allowing you to stay cooler in the heat and warmer in the cold. But, if you still feel like you’re standing next to a Magcargo, find some shade. There!” She stepped back to admire her work. Locks of Touko’s hair had been tugged out of the hood, the rest comfortably tucked against her head and neck; the weird-looking bulge had disappeared.

“Ah, thank you!”

“No problem! Now when we’re out in public, usually at rallies, you’re expected to keep your hood up because it looks more professional, but when we aren’t at events, you can pull it down. And! While I have your attention, it might be a bit interesting to tell you the history of our uniforms. As you have probably seen before arriving here, our uniforms are unisex, with the only noticeable difference being the smock length. Feminine aligned members tend to typically prefer the shorter ones I‘ve noticed, but you can choose which length you’d prefer, depending on which makes you more comfortable.”

A fond look crossed over Andrea’s face. “That was really helpful for my boyfriend, he was still transitioning when we joined. It helped alleviate some of his dysphoria. In Team Plasma, there is no room for transphobes or queerphobia. If anyone gives you a hard time about your smock length or anything else you wear off-duty, you come straight to me, and we’ll take care of it.”

Andrea’s words were heart-warming and reassuring, but all the same, Touko could not help but feel a twinge of irony.

So accepting...and yet. I’ve only ever seen you all be nothing but condescending and outright hostile to anyone who doesn’t have the same views about Pokemon as you.

A voice called from behind them. “Andrea?”

Touko froze. She knew that voice. Instinct made her turn.

N was standing there, and Touko felt a flurry of emotions explode in her stomach. Anger, hostility, nervousness, fear--

Fuck! Remember your training, Touko! Don’t let Bianca down she drilled you so haaaaaard--

Forcing an awestruck expression on her features (It was pretty hard), Touko quickly bowed low, taking care to obstruct her face.

“N--I mean-- Lord N!” she squeaked, taking great care to make sure her voice was pitched. “It’s an honor!”

“Oh no, please, there’s no need to be so formal with me! Er, you don’t have to bow.”

His tone of voice was one Touko had never heard him use before. It was much more casual, and much more pleasant. Her heart pounding in her chest, she raised her head. N’s eyebrows shot up, and for a terrifying second, Touko thought she had been found out.

“You look rather young,” N commented instead.

Pathetic relief washed over the teen. “I-I uh, I look rather young for my age, I’ve been told. I’m 19,” she mumbled.

“What’s your name?”

“Lysandra.” Feeling more confident, Touko added, “It means ‘liberator’.”

She and Cheren had spent a good while scoping out all varieties of baby name websites, looking for the perfect name for her alias. She figured the meaning would do a little to help her win favor in the organization. And it seemed to work, because N smiled widely. Touko had never seen him smile like that before, except when he was around Pokemon. It was a smile that reached his eyes, lighting them up even under the shaded brim of his baseball cap.

“What a beautiful name. Well, Lysandra, I want to express my gratitude for you, and all the rest of you who have joined today,” he said, addressing everyone else in the room, “Thank you, all of you, for joining our cause. I do hope you will continue to serve us, for a long time.”

With that, N excused himself from the room and was bowed out, much to his amiable protest. Touko watched him go, dazed. She’d done it. She’d fooled him. If she could manage to fool Ghetsis as well, she was really, truly in. She really could do this!

Andrea leaned to the side and caught an eye full of the grin that had crept across Touko’s face.

“Hehehe, another newbie caught in the snare of our Lord N’s good looks, huh? No wonder you seemed so nervous.”

Touko jumped. “W-What?!”

Another senior grunt laughed. “Don’t worry, love, you’re not the first newcomer to be completely taken with our King. But alas, even though he is a total heartthrob and breathtakingly hot, we aren’t allowed to flirt with him. The Seven Sages says he needs to focus on his objective, he can’t afford to fall head over heels with anyone right now. It really is such a tragedy…”

Andrea looked at her and snorted. “Le Fin, you are literally the biggest lesbian in Team Plasma.”

Le Fin looked mockingly affronted. She huffed and tossed her hair. “I may be a giant gay, but I can still appreciate a beautiful man when I see one!”

As the two playfully bickered with each other, Touko watched them, feeling oddly at home. Was it right to feel this way? She had not at all expected to be welcomed so warmly, nor had she expected everyone to be so...chummy with one another. They reminded her a lot of her two best friends. An ache rose in Touko’s chest. She missed them. She missed her Pokemon. But she couldn’t turn back now, she just got here, and successfully at that! She was going to see this through, welcoming atmosphere or not.

They’re still standing against me. They’re still aiming to take away everyone’s Pokemon, I won’t forget that.

Still, there wasn’t any harm in integrating herself a bit more. If she was going to play this part, she was going to go all out! --- -- --- <- Previous Next -> AO3 Link

#tsotsc #pokemon #pokemon fanfiction #pokemon bw #pokemon black and white #fanfic #fanfiction #pokemon fanfic #team plasma #N Harmonia #Touko pokemon

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mattzerella-sticks · 6 years ago

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Overprotective, Coda to 14x13 “Lebanon” (John Winchester & Castiel centric, with Dean/Cas undertones)

When John was brought back, he thought things would be like they used to with his boys. Then Mary appeared, and he knew things were better.

Except no one is like how he remembered. The clear difference is their willingness to shelter an angel on the belief that it's 'family'. John knows family, and it begins and ends with blood. What happened while he was gone. Castiel can't remember, but he clears things up for John better than anyone else can.

John was force-fed many things after coming back to life. His father dying at the hands of a demon in the future and had not run away like his mom said. And Sammy, whose favorite catchphrase growing up was “I’m never going to be like you, dad” was now actively hunting and enjoying it. Even Mary coming back to life was easier to swallow since he knew resurrections were possible after experiencing his own. But this – what he’s staring at now – has him choking.

Dean was adamant John couldn’t gank the creature they’ve now taken into their Bunker. Ready to thrust the blade into its non-beating heart, John ordered a disobedient Dean to stand down. His son ignored him.

“He’s family,” Dean said.

John scoffed. “Is that why he attacked us?”

He didn’t answer John’s question, casting doubtful eyes at the creature behind him. The angel – Cas his son called it, Castiel the creature corrected him – glared, struggling in his handcuffs. “He’s family,” Dean repeated, “And we’re gonna figure out what happened.”

John didn’t trust it for a second. And Castiel mirrored his feelings. Every action of Dean’s was met with resistance and hesitance, unsure why it was left alive just a little bit longer. But Dean, Sam, and Mary vouched for it. Joked with it, when they could. Dean made a passing comment that made his stomach roil. “Been meaning to get you in cuffs someday, Cas…”

Something must have happened from placing Castiel in the back of the car and arriving at the Bunker. Sam led it down, the creature railing furiously against him, while Dean trailed behind wearing the most miserable mask John ever saw on him. He only broke those out on special occasions, like Sam leaving them for normalcy or when John confessed his deathbed deal. John wished he imagined the tear that leaked, Dean too slow to wipe it away.

They set it up in one of the Bunker’s many dungeons. A worn, wooden chair surrounded by holy oil and fire; comforts John believes were too comfortable for the creature. Dean wouldn’t look at him as he trudged away towards the library. Sam went with, after a few minutes verbally sparring with John – ‘There’s the kid I remember raising’. He left, Mary taking the first watch over Castiel.

His boys figured out what happened, and as were the other problems afflicting the world, it was because of him – of John coming back to life. “The timeline was messed with by bringing dad back – as if he never left. So all of our lives were changed. Ours and everyone we ever met. Us and…”

“And Cas,” Dean finished, voice strained as if he didn’t want to do so. “Because of one stupid wish…”

He wanted to scream, to tell his son to screw the angel; that a creature has never made the life of any Winchester better. A creature killed his father, killed his wife, damned his youngest – why feel this much over something that’s encoded to destroy their family? John grunted only half of what he was thinking. Dean turned cold, setting dead eyes on him. When he first came back they were vibrant green, like trees in the midst of spring. Now they were barren oaks suffering through a harsh winter. “You don’t know what Cas has gone through for us… with us… how much he’s changed. How much he means to me… to us.”

Dean stormed out of the room before John could ask how much meaning there was. He confronted Sam about it. “They’ve always had this,” he shrugged, “What did Cas call it…? A ‘profound bond’; they’re connected, and always have been since Cas rescued Dean from hell… except now he didn’t, in this timeline, so…”

Mary was less helpful. “I had my doubts at first, but you’ve never seen the real Castiel. Watched him with our boys… with Dean. Maybe you can, if they can figure out to fix the timeline and keep you here. Then you’ll understand.” She kissed him on his cheek, leaving to relieve Dean of his post.

There was more to the story John wasn’t seeing. And it was made exponentially confusing when he found Dean’s legal pad in the library. He just missed him, his computer still warm and papers strewn everywhere. Trying to show he was ready to be civil, he started cleaning. Written in Dean’s tiny scrawl was a list of people with their names crossed off, little blurbs written next to them.

Charlie Bradbury – owns her own startup.

Kevin Tran – graduated Princeton, valedictorian, NEVER PROPHET

Jody Mills – still sheriff

Donna Hanscum – still sheriff

Bobby Singer – still dead

Ellen Harvelle – dead

Jo Harvelle – hunter; wanted

Ash – freakin’ NASA

Garth – arrested; poor guy

Claire Novak – MISSING

Jack – gone…

CAS

The tearstains around the creature’s name mocked him. Evidence of the disruption his reappearance caused his oldest son; the conflict warring inside Dean, the casualties all written out for John to see. Having proof of what his act of coming back did to the world, John understood the course he had to take. Saw the road signs telling him to turn off the highway in a few miles.

Hearing Dean’s footsteps, John scurried away, dropping his list. There were other things for him to do; that needed to be done if this all ended like he was expecting it to.

Mary wouldn’t leave them alone easily, which he anticipated. But John knew her, and waited for her bladder to give out like any middle-aged mother of two. When she told him she’d be back in less than two minutes, he nodded. Then, when he was sure Mary was far enough away, he locked the door.

Leaving him alone with Castiel.

“If you’re going to kill me, then by all means,” it said, “I’m getting rather tired of this.”

“I’d like that,” John told him, “Nothing would make me happier to stick an angel blade where the sun don’t shine and watch the life drain out of you. But that wouldn’t solve anything…”

Castiel tilted his head, squinting. “Are you under the delusion that you can get me to ‘remember’ as well?”

“No, I know you won’t recall anything they’re asking.”

It sighed. “I wish the others were more like you. Straightforward, cruel… everything we expected of humans. But they… they are so muddled.”

John’s interest piqued. He stalked closer. “Muddled?”

“It’s… how do I explain,” Castiel said, “humans give off these wavelengths that angels can pick up on. All the ones that stood guard over me, their minds were clouded with so many… feelings and opinions. And what was surprising was that many of them were about me. About things I have never experienced. The woman tried using kindness, the tallest one joked, but it was the one called Dean…”

John frowned. “What about my boy?”

“His longing was the strongest,” Castiel confessed, “the most confusing. So many feelings poured over me every time he entered the room – even now I feel their trace, through the thick, most likely protected walls in my prison. There was so much longing… angels are used to channeling it, but to be the cause, the center, the drive of such emotion is unheard of. It hurt. Being exposed to it for long periods of time, like in that car, caused me great pains! So I –“

“What did you do?”

“I shouted at him to stop! That he was out of his depth – living a fabricated lie! Angels know everything, are all-powerful. We’ve seen creation through from the very beginning; have shone in the light of God, himself. Why would they sacrifice that for humans? Why would I turn against everything I knew for one man? Angels are made to serve God not humans – not him. We’re weapons. We have no thought of friendship or love. To love a human would debase ourselves, making us no better than you.”

Mary banged at the door, begging him to let her in and stop whatever he has planned. He can’t though. John slammed his foot on the gas pedal and hurdled down towards that shiny tunnel. Castiel confirmed a lot in his little tirade. Things John wasn’t willing to accept at first. That differed from the boys he knew and raised.

‘But they aren’t who I know anymore,’ he realized, ‘and honestly… I never raised them.’ He impacted their decisions like a heavy shadow hanging over them. But the qualities he saw in his boys now were nothing John had in stock. His sons became better men than him, and any choice they made was right because it was the exact opposite decision he would have come to.

Overcome with guilt for the first time, John cried.

Castiel shot him a withered glance. “Of course… you go and become muddled as well.”

Wiping away the tears, John kneeled down to face Castiel at eye-level. “Listen up,” he started, “I’m only going to say this once. Now, when things get put back right, you might not remember this. Or maybe you will… who knows. Either way, I have to say this, to make things right with my boys.”

“I don’t know why you’re so important to them, why they let a creature like you become their friend, or why my son decided to fall in love with you even though you’re clearly wearing a man like a cheap suit. And I might never know, because I don’t deserve it. The man who did, he died years ago in a fire up in Lawrence. All that was left for them was a burnt out husk of a man with nothing fueling him for revenge. Figured my boys were nothing but the same. You’re so damn lucky that’s not true.”

He’s just a man, but it’s clear to him the terror he struck within Castiel. John continued. “I can’t wipe away all my sins, but I can try asking for forgiveness where it counts. Then maybe I’ll deserve that peace I had. But you – you’ll be here with my family. And all I can say… all I ask… is you watch over them.”

“…What?”

“Do what I couldn’t do for them. Protect them, show them each day that not every creature is past saving. Keep ‘em tied to their humanity.”

“I don’t know what you are –“

“And show Dean the love he deserves,” he whispered back, “Some nights, even back before I died, I did wonder if I robbed him of a normal life. Broke him, and that he could never work right. That’d haunt me almost as bad as Mary’s death and Sam’s affliction whenever the booze ran out. Castiel you performed a miracle and gave him a second chance. I can’t be selfish anymore. I’ve had my shot at happiness… it’s about time he has his. That they all did.”

“This makes no sense,” Castiel shouted, fighting his chains, “Your prayers… so much grief and guilt… I can’t –“ It carried on like that, even as he spun around to leave. John opened the door.

Mary barreled in. Eyeing a distraught Castiel, she turned to him. “What did you do?”

“Casti… Cas and I shared a few words,” he said, “I’m gonna go speak to the boys. And Mary?”

“Yes, John.”

“I… I love you.” He dropped a kiss onto her, a gentle brush of their lips before slipping out into the hallway.

He saved her for last, their goodbye too painful he wouldn’t finish what he had to if he began it there. John still had loose strings to tie up before the fabric of reality was corrected. And he had to work fast so that it wouldn’t completely unravel by the time hew as done. The world asked of him one last time, to prove that there was no one left on it that truly needed him.

His boys were waiting. Mary was waiting. And so was his Heaven.

#Supernatural #Spn #Spn14 #14x13 #300th Episode #Lebanon #Supernatural fanfiction #Spn fanfic #Supernatural coda #John Winchester #Castiel #Dean Winchester #Destiel

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the-gay-cryptid · 5 years ago

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I Love My Mom, But-

I was thinking about intrusive thoughts lately. How they interact with me. For the most part I don’t really struggle with them, which is fortunate. They prefer to take the more typical form of “what if you just slammed on the gas and went top speed” or “what if you murdered your family? How would you do it?” and while the thoughts are certainly startling in the moment, I learned a long time ago that they don’t define me. It’s a hard lesson to learn, but it helped that I had an obsession with psychology and a brother who shared that fascination and never feared to share his thoughts and reflect on them as they were: mere thoughts.

But in recent years, they’ve learned. They still tell me I should sneak out. Or steal that makeup palette. But every once in a while, they choose to be subtle.

Just some soft passing notes on how I’ve barely put effort into searching for scholarships. Or a little observation that I haven’t learned a lot of basic skills necessary for adulthood. And more and more, these subtle intrusive thoughts sound like my mother.

I think horrible things about myself, and more and more it has ceased to be my own voice, and instead become hers. But who does that say more about?

My counselor, a lovely woman named Mae, tells me that what people say about me is more of a reflection of them than me. My mom telling me I’m being lazy isn’t actually indicative of my effort, but of my mom’s own fear and anxiety about my future. My anxiety, and intrusive thoughts by extension, are nothing more than the internalized concerns of other people about themselves. So what does it say when the voice that tells me I look fat, that I’m over reaching my abilities, that I can’t make it, is my mom?

She’s not a bad person. No more than the average person is anyway.

I forget her name, but in the aftermath of the holocaust, there was a woman who proposed that there is no such thing as someone who is “good” or “bad”, but that all humans are born with equal ability to commit atrocities and kindness. It was a scary thought at the time, because it meant anyone could become like the Nazis, and it was much more comfortable to simply dehumanize them and pretend that they were born evil.

My mom is a good person in terms of generics. She is not racist. She strives to employ and work with people of color. She’s far from sexist. She instilled in me a strong belief in equality of the sexes and she is deliberate in and out of work to uplift women. She is not homophobic or trans phobic. She struggles to understand sometimes, but she tries. She is not dismissive of mental health. She is the one I go to when I have anxiety attacks, and she’s the one who suggested I go to counseling for it, and she tries to accommodate me when my mental health gets to be too much.

But she’s not perfect. No one is, but sometimes her flaws are so glaring it’s hard to see much else.

My freshmen year was the first time I had an anxiety attack. I remember it had to do with my algebra grade. I remember standing in my parents room as my mother stared my down, her mouth pressing into and ever thinning line as she waited for any kind of excuse. By then I’d learned it was best to apologize. So I said “I’m sorry.” she demanded to know what for. I didn’t know. So I said “I’m sorry I’m failing.” She grounded me. I was grounded most of freshmen year.

I went to my room with my eyes burning and my hands shaking. I sank onto the floor with my back against my bed. The metal frame dug into my spine and hurt, but it kept me grounded so i pressed harder and harder. I curled up, knees at my chest and nails pressing through my sleeves as i tried to catch my breath. I couldn’t cry. I wasn’t supposed to cry. It would make her angrier. I wasn’t allowed to feel bad for something that was my fault. I couldn’t be upset with her because I’m the one who fucked up. It’s my fault she was mad and I didn’t deserve to be upset.

She I sat shaking and whimpering and biting my lip and fighting the rising scream in my chest until it began its decline and I could breathe. My breaths were still violent and much too fast and I was dizzy and my chest hurt and vague descriptions of heart attacks stumbled around my head. Logic and reason were fast and frantic and broke like waves against the concrete fact that I was a bad student. A bad daughter. A bad person.

My parents found me curled like that, unable to move. My dad handed me a rolled up towel, I don't know why, but I clutched it to my chest and bit down on it and strained screams through my teeth while they watched. When I finished, when I finally could move, I was still shaking. Everything buzzed and felt weak, like the time I’d run a mile in gym class with too much enthusiasm.

Dad held my shoulders, rubbing my arms a little too hard. But that helped. The certainty of him being there. Mom sat on the bed and waited.

“I think you just had a panic attack” Dad said gently. I nodded. That fit. Those words were a good descriptor.

“I couldn’t breathe.” the words come out shaky and slurred. Some of them had to be forced. “I couldn’t move.”

“Now that you’re calmed down,” Mom said, “we need to figure out what to do about your grades.” I was not calm. I felt scraped out and sick, but I wasn’t allowed to.

I looked up what an honors class was, because despite telling me what a good thing it was, no one ever actually bothered to tell me what it was. Then I suggested that maybe I shouldn’t take an honors math class, considering that I wasn’t suited to math to begin with. Mom wouldn’t let me.

I had a lot of anxiety attacks after that. Always school related. Always after conversations with my mom. I dreaded Monday mornings when my mom would receive and email with my updated grades. I hid in the bathroom until it was time to go and would try to avoid telling her bye, because then I’d have to face her.

One morning I didn’t have a choice. I met her in the kitchen, and she went off. She didn’t yell. Mom never yells. She is just..stern. Just an even tone telling me I was being lazy and irresponsible and she was spending a lot of money to send me to this school and i was wasting it. I said sorry. I didn’t know what else to do. She said sorry wasn’t good enough. I promised to do better, I promised I’d study more, I promised to talk to my teachers, do extra credit, ask for help. She said she didn’t believe me.

Then she threatened to pull me out. She said maybe I wasn’t ready for such an advanced school. And that if I was just going to waste her money, she was going to pull me out because she was not spending thousands of dollars just so I could fail. I remember sinking down to my knees, begging her not to make me leave. I loved my school. I loved my friends. I loved my teachers.

She told me to get the hell up. She glared down at me and told me to stop crying. She watched as I nearly made myself sick crying, and then said she didn’t want to look at me right now and left for work.

I got up and went to the bathroom. I drank several glasses of water, cleaned my face, and did my makeup to hide how red my face was. I don’t think I talked that day. It hurt too much.

It would take several more groundings, lectures, and anxiety attacks for us to finally realize that I didn’t know how to fucking study. Then it was all about getting mad that I never asked for help. Then it was more apologies and thinking to myself about how if I admitted I was in a bad enough place to need help, she might have thought I was a failure.

The anxiety continued. My teachers were good people though, and let me retake tests. My dad taught me how to study. My mom grounded me when I slipped.

When I started being too scared to order my own food, or talk at the doctor, or meet new people, they got worried. When I was scared to speak, they worried. When I had to hide in the bathroom and wait for the shaking to pass at least once a week, they really worried.

Mom was the one who took me to Mae. she still took the lead and told Mae what was wrong with me. But she also suggested I might do better in one on one sessions instead of sitting there with my parents.

One day, driving back from one of these sessions, she asked me if she was a cause of my anxiety. I’d always blamed school related stress and meeting new people for it. But I looked at her. And I thought about how many times she’d told me to stop crying. All the grounding. The threats to take my door. The guilt trips. The dismissals. The way she cried when my older brother told her how her disciplining methods hurt him. How my brother became the ungrateful one. The one who lacked any compassion for his own mother.

“No.” I lied. “You’re not.”

Things got better, I think. She recognized my anxiety. She still causes most of my anxiety attacks, even indirectly.

And now I’m in a place to examine our relationship. I love my mom, and she loves me. But she loves me the way she knows how. And she’s never hit me. She’s never intentionally caused me grief. She’s only hurt me because she thought I needed the push to succeed. She puts weight on school and scholarships to encourage me. She knows that encourages her. She doesn’t know that what encourages her hurts me. She’s not to blame.

Even if I have told her it hurts. Even if I’ve grown in confidence enough to tell her when she’s hurting me. Even if I’ve asked my dad to explain that her throwing her stress on me only helps her. Even if I’ve begun to realize all the ways she accidentally manipulates me. She’s not to blame.

Mom works hard. Mom’s just trying to help. Don’t tell Mom she’s the reason your hands shake. Don’t hurt Mom’s feelings by telling her that she’s made your brain fucked up. Don’t hurt Mom like she hurt you. Mom gets to throw her stress on yours, and if you tell her that what she’s doing is wrong she’ll feel bad, and God forbid she feel guilt. Don’t let Mom know she’s imperfect.

So my Mom is the voice of my intrusive thoughts. And she’s the primary origin of my anxiety. And she’s the reason I hate my body. And she’s the reason I’m scared of school. And she’s the reason my villains are mothers. And she’s the reason I’m in counseling. And she’s the reason I think it’s bad to cry. And she’s the reason I’d rather crash and burn in secret than admit I need help. And she’s the reason I doubt every choice. And she’s the reason I think I’m secretly a bad person. Only bad people hate their mom sometimes.

So who’s fault is it that I always say “I love my mom, but..”?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I’ve been saying for a while that I wanted to talk about my relationship with my mom. so here it is. I’ve thought before that maybe it counts as abusive, but I really have no fucking clue because I can’t trust my judgement about her. I don’t know how much is over exaggerated anxiety or accurate perception or idolizing her because she’s my mom.

I think the best way to sum up our relationship is just confusing and probably unhealthy. not that I’d ever tell her that. not that I could. my brother did once and then I had to deal with the after math of my mom crying so much and my brother being forced to apologize.

so yeah. it’s ~complicated~

Now I feel like a piece of shit and would greatly appreciate anyone sending me nice messages. I’m gonna go take a bath to calm down.

#my post #personal #mental health #anxiety #anxiety attacks #mom #mommy issues #shitty parenting #me? bitter? never #AND HERES THE GUILT FOR ADMITTING MY MOM ISN"T PERFECT #AND ADMITTING THAT MAYBE SHES A LITTLE BIT OF A BAD PERSON

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ryewi · 6 years ago

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When I’m with you I’m in Utopia [Chapter 6]

Early Early AN: shit’s about to go down

Summary: 9 years ago, the world split in two halves, Utopia and Dystopia. One of the laws allows citizens of both worlds to visit the other once in their lifetime, for a whole week, after which, they’re forced to return home. If by any chance, they don’t return, a death punishment is sentenced. Jeon Jungkook, a citizen of Dystopia seemed to be desperate enough to challenge that exact law.

Genre: Utopia!au, Dystopia!au, fluff, angst, drama, to be added~~

Words:1,7k

Warnings: mentions of blood, self-induced injuries and like many different feelings be ready

< Previous | Part Six | Next >

Sitting down on a caramel leather couch, Faith let out a heavy sigh, eyes scanning a bunch of people laughing on TV. They were always laughing on this channel, actually, people were like this on every channel. Letting her mind wander off, Faith only watched the colorful pictures flash before her eyes, not paying any attention to what they were saying.

Jungkook left three days ago and it wasn’t enough to say that she felt empty. Empty and broken, his last voice mail was left unanswered, just because Faith didn't know what to say. It’s as if she anticipated for the boy to rush through her door and plop down on the couch with her. But that boy was gone, back to his unsatisfactory and full of melancholy life, full of regrets and bad memories.

That’s exactly why she currently had two bags full of clothes and necessities resting on one of the walls in the hallway, ready to go meet him again. From the talk with Luna a few days ago, Faith got to know about the most important aspects of her trip and how to get ready for it. Although her preparations lasted for four days, she still wasn't sure if this was what she wants.

But Jungkook was there, maybe it would be nice to see him one more time, to exchange goodbyes, to shake hands and finally part their ways properly. Maybe she’ll cherish what she has a lot more after experiencing Dystopia. Many people in Utopia took what they have for granted, but only because they were used to the place they lived in and scared to go out and experience something different.

Faith was still hesitant about walking outside, stepping through a big cloud of pastel pink that ends in the darkest shade of black. She knew it was possible to go back at any time, but did she really want to have that experience engrave a forever picture of unhappiness in her mind?

Walking slowly towards her bags, she bent up to pick them, biting down on her lip and looking around the house once again, checking if all of the electronics were turned off.

Then suddenly, a gush of air hit her in the face as the white door in front of her opened with such force, that the handle left a mark on the wall. It took her by surprise and Faith let out a loud scream, quickly doing some kind of a defensive pose before opening her eyes. That action caused her mouth to fall open as she watched the person before her.

“Jungkook?!”

“Faith” Jungkook said, breath shallow and words quiet. His left hand was tightly clutching on to his right bicep and he seemed to flinch when the female put her own fingers on it. Shuddering, and slowly moving her hand from his arm, Jungkook gulped before he looked up.

“How are you still here?” Faith asked while moving to the side so her friend could pass by and into the living room. He walked fast and as soon as his bottom hit the cushions, he let out a scream full of pain.

Running right back to the living room after locking the door, Faith sat down on the warm carpet and took Jungkook’s free hand in hers. Looking him straight into the eyes, she inspected the way they looked. Bloodshot, teary and hooded, full of pain and hurt. Faith squeezed Jungkook’s hand tight before she asked: “What have you done to yourself?”

As a reply to that question, Jungkook lifted the right sleeve up, showing what he has been covering for a long time. Under the thin piece of cloth, a terrifying set of scratches that still oozed some blood painted a patch on his arm. Along the smaller ones, there was a cut which seemed to be made with a sharp but thin knife. The chills that passed through her body, made Faith grab her own bicep at the same place and she felt it.

The hard button like chip that was pushed just right under the surface of her skin. It protruded proudly from the smooth patch of skin, sometimes beeping when touched. Those chips were trackers each citizen had imported throughout the first year of this experiment. When she touched Jungkook’s arm a few seconds ago, she couldn’t feel anything. He couldn’t have done that to himself, no, that’s just too much pain.

“Jungkook,” Faith began panicking, “please tell me you haven’t done what-”

“Faith I can’t go back, I really can’t, I had to” Suddenly a wave of tears broke the barrier of his waterline and started spilling down his puffy cheeks. He was broken, everything hurt, both inside and outside, but this time it all just crashed down on him. Jungkook only wanted comfort at this moment, only wanted someone to tell him it’s all going to be okay and that they’ll help him deal with what he has done.

“I can’t go back, I have no one to return to, I have no place to call a true home anymore” He yelped, searching for that tiny bit of ease that talking about a situation would offer. As horrible as it sounds, it was true. After his discharge from hospital, Jungkook’s home was taken away and gifted to the hands of government. They proceeded to send him to an extremely claustrophobic one room apartment as an exchange. The excuse was that his father said so in his testament, although everyone knew that was false and unfair. But then again, when was anything right and fair in Dystopia?

“Faith, please help me”

Just as those words left Jungkook’s mouth, Faith could feel warm tears slide down her soft cheeks. She felt a huge pang inside her chest, as if she was experiencing this torture instead of him. It never crossed her mind that she’d have to see anyone so broken and helpless.

Smiling at him with the most beautiful smile Jungkook has ever seen, Faith disconnected their hands and cupped his face, wiping the drying tears with her thumbs. Lifting herself up slightly and leaning her forehead on his, she whispered: “We’ll pull through this together, you’ll be okay”. The way Faith said such a sentence made it seem like a promise, although she wasn’t sure if it was possible to keep. Jungkook on the other hand, seemed to somewhat relax at those words, his hands making it around Faith’s waist and carefully pulling her closer towards him.

Jungkook’s heart started overheating from the speed it was beating, the feeling unfamiliar as the organ evidently wanted to jump out. It was at that moment Jungkook felt cared for, safe, okay. In Faith’s embrace, his worries were gone for a quick moment, mind clear while his body shared warmth of the other.

Faith’s shirt easily took in the warm tears, and by the time she felt her shoulder dampen, Jungkook was already shaking.

“Jungkook, honey, look at me” Her sweet voice filled the small place around them, tone sweet and reassuring. Listening to the melodic words felt like Jungkook was able to get drunk and drugged on them. Or maybe it was just the fact that Jungkook needed someone to talk to him, someone to encourage him just by using their voice.

“I’m going to clean your wounds, wrap them up and it’s going to be fine, listen, you’re fine” Faith cooed, tapping the boy’s thighs as she spoke.

The few seconds that Jungkook had alone in her living room, felt like an eternity. He threw his head back, resting it against the sofa. Silence was leisurely allowing the thoughts of his mind to fly around, worry just moments away from swallowing him alive again. That was, until a huge crash and a scream came from inside the bathroom. Jungkook surged towards the small room, ignoring the immediate and agonizing pain throughout his arm.

“Faith, oh my god, Faith are you okay?” Jungkook asked, worried that the female managed to injure herself by slipping on marble tiles. When he opened the door, an audible chuckle unwillingly escaped through his lips.

There, on the floor, sat Faith, many bottles of deodorants, micellar water and body gels unsymmetrically laying around. She was rubbing the top of her head, pouting from the uncomfortable pain.

Jungkook approached her, trying to pick up all the bottles and leave them on the nearby washing machine. Once they were before each other, the boy rose to his knees, bending over and kissing Faith’s head, murmuring “there, it’s going to get better now”.

“I should be the one making you feel better, Jungkook”

“Oh, you already are though”

Jungkook’s shy reply made both of them smile, cheeks reddening and eyes sparkling. There was no doubt that they cared about each other, which was anomalous. They were a different kind, practically raised in different ways, contradictory thoughts hidden inside their heads. Yet, even with all of those imperfections, it all seemed to be perfect.

They were scared, beyond the amount they’d like to admit. This was wrong, atypical, not once has someone managed to get away with it, who were they to stand out? But Jungkook practically isn’t under control anymore, he escaped under the radar, was it possible to work out if they tried hard enough?

Out of nowhere, a sudden knock on the door woke them up from their trans. Faith was quick to jump on her feet and hurry towards big brown doors, not wanting to leave anyone on the other side waiting for long. She expected a friendly older woman next door to ask for help with her air conditioner; already having one too many encounters walking her through the basics of her cooling machine.

Not even looking through the peephole, Faith opened the door, only to see two muscular men dressed in casual office attire, reviewing a couple of papers they held.

“Hello?” She greeted skeptically, eyes squinting at the people she has never seen before.

“Hello, Miss Keith?” The taller man said, tone questionable while he tried to check her identity. Faith nodded along, silently confirming that they’ve got the right person and allowing them to continue.

“We’re from the department that’s taking care of Dystopian citizens in Utopia,” The other man now spoke up, in a slightly deeper and more masculine voice than the one before. On the mention of Dystopian citizens, Faith slightly tensed up, this couldn’t lead to anything great.

“Have you, by any chances, seen this man?” He spoke up again, and held up a black and white headshot of what oddly looked like,

Jeon Jungkook.

AN: Hi I hope you don’t hate me but I’m sure that’s not the case lol

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afrolatinxsunited · 3 years ago

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News & helpful tips on POS System Equipment & Point of Sale.

Fajar Hassan

Dee Dee Watters took over as publisher of TransGriot last fall and has been searching for an editor to carry on her friend Monica Roberts’ legacy.

From the May/June 2021 issue

On an overcast day in late october, Dee Dee Watters stood on the stage at the University of Houston’s Cullen Performance Hall. She had forgone the traditional black of mourning for a purple flowered dress and large gold hoop earrings. She clasped her hands, adorned with her signature long, painted nails, around a black pillow as she peered out at the masked crowd spread throughout the auditorium. To commemorate the death of fellow Black transgender activist Monica Roberts, Watters, who organized the memorial, performed an original spoken-word piece that Roberts had held dear, told from the perspective of a Black mother recalling her trans child’s baptism and murder, wishing she could hold her daughter one last time. “You can tell your child that you love them. You can tell yourself that you love yourself. You can tell God that, ‘I thank you for blessing me with something that was ohhh so different,’” said Watters. She closed: “Ashé. And so it is.”

Just 16 days earlier, it was Watters, 35, who publicly shared the news that her friend Roberts, a prominent journalist and the founder of the blog TransGriot, had died suddenly at her home in Houston at age 58.

Even as she grieves, Watters is working to ensure that Roberts’ legacy lives on. Watters took over TransGriot as publisher in December and has been searching for a new editor. Roberts began writing as the trans griot, or storyteller, on New Year’s Day 2006, at a time when the media generally wasn’t covering trans communities except when there was violence against them. Reports of murders of trans people often misgendered victims by listing the name they were given at birth; part of Roberts’ work involved properly identifying them so their communities could grieve and justice could be served. Her death, due to natural causes, came in a record year for anti-trans violence nationwide. This year is set to outpace the last, with 12 transgender people reported murdered as of mid-March.

On January 30, the new TransGriot website went live with tributes from community members in Houston and across the country reflecting on Roberts’ legacy. Watters inaugurated the revamped website on Facebook Live. But more than six months after Roberts’ death, no one has yet stepped up to fill her shoes as editor.

“A lot of people think they’re underqualified,” Watters says. “There will never be another Monica Roberts. But I want to be sure we can affirm people doing this kind of work and leadership. How can we center her and embody her?”

Monica Roberts speaks at a rally in protest of the so-called “bathroom bill” on the steps of the Capitol in Austin on August 4, 2017. courtesy of transgriot

Watters describes Roberts as something of an archivist—the keeper of trans stories, history, and activism in Texas. Watters says she can’t remember how long ago she and Roberts first met. She’s not good with dates; that was Roberts’ thing. The griot-as-storyteller dates back to the West African Mande Empire of Mali, where the griot served as a preserver of history and traditions and acted as an adviser during community disputes. There are still griots in African countries to this day who serve their communities as storytellers and performers.

“That’s why I love Monica’s framework,” says Sasha Alexander, the founder of Black Trans Media. “She could have called herself anything. But she actually chose to center herself in African terms and understandings of storytelling.”

Whether she was denouncing “conservafools” or celebrating trans people running for office, Roberts held fast to her mission as “a proud unapologetic Black trans woman speaking truth to power and discussing the world around her.” The original Blogspot site is still up; the last post Roberts made, four days before her death, listed her favorites for that week’s NFL games—she picked the Texans over the Vikings.

Alexander revisited Roberts’ very first post after her death: “She literally writes that when a griot dies, that the community says the library has been burned to the ground.”

In the early 2010s, Watters had been thrust into advocacy work in Houston’s trans community, largely by necessity. Watters, who grew up in the city’s historically Black Kashmere Gardens, was unhoused and doing survival sex work at the time. She’d met other transgender people, largely Black people and other people of color, facing anti-trans violence on the streets and saw the need for action. She accompanied them to the hospital to ensure that doctors treated them with respect and used their correct pronouns and names. Sometimes she’d call their parents to tell them their child was hurt, then have to break the news to the patients that because of their parents’ transphobic attitudes, she was the only family that was coming.

“I didn’t do it because I felt like I was the leader or the big activist,” Watters says. “I did it because the reality is that it could have been me, it will be me, or would have been me.”

Then she met Roberts at an event in Houston’s Montrose neighborhood. “All she wanted to do was talk about history and shit and politics,” Watters says. “And I was like, ‘Girl, hell.’ Because I was a Black woman who had experienced homelessness, who, when it comes to politics—I didn’t feel that politicians did anything for me.”

“Meeting her opened my eyes. What does activism really look like? How can you be effective, and how can you really hit people where it hurts?”

But soon Watters began to tap into her upbringing as a storyteller in her own right. She organized the first Black Transgender Day of Remembrance in Houston in 2013. Together, Watters and Roberts went to Houston’s City Hall and carpooled to the Capitol in Austin to advocate for trans rights. “Meeting her opened my eyes,” Watters says. “What does activism really look like? How can you be effective, and how can you really hit people where it hurts?”

Roberts was among hundreds of Texans who filed into the Capitol early one morning in March 2017 to testify against Senate Bill 6, dubbed the “bathroom bill” because it required people to use the bathroom associated with the sex on their birth certificate. Roberts referred to it as the “transgender oppression bill.” Seated in the witness chair, she began her testimony by addressing state Senator Lois Kolkhorst, a Brenham Republican and the bill’s author, in her singularly resonant voice: “I share something similar to you: I am a fourth-generation Texan,” Roberts said. “But my ancestors came here in chains.”

This is the first Texas legislative session in years that Roberts isn’t there to help fend off anti-trans legislation. A record number of states are proposing anti-trans legislation this year; this time, Texas is taking aim at trans children in particular. One proposed bill would require public school students to participate on sports teams based on the sex on their birth certificate. Another would prohibit health professionals from helping trans youth medically transition by classifying this kind of care as child abuse.

Angela Hale, a senior adviser at LGBTQ+ advocacy group Equality Texas, credits Roberts with helping influence Texans’ views around the bathroom bill: “We are changing hearts and minds, and Monica is a big part of that.”

A few years ago, Roberts and Watters began talking about what it would look like to hand over the reins of TransGriot to someone else. In a 2019 profile in the Daily Beast, Roberts said: “Our rights movement is like a relay race. The torch got handed to me at a certain point and when it’s time for me to pass it on, I’m just going to turn around and hand that torch back to the next generation for y’all to advance—and then hand it to the trans kids behind you. Our goal is to never let the flame go out.”

But Watters says their discussions about a successor didn’t get very far. “It’s kind of a heavy conversation, especially for a trans person,” she says. “Because when we’re talking about it, we talk about our death.”

In October, the Facebook page that was once home to Roberts’ posts about TransGriot as well as her talk show, TransGriot Weekly, livestreamed her funeral. Now, instead of one central voice documenting trans issues around the world, guest columnists send dispatches on Black trans life from Canada to Jamaica to Uganda. Watters sees this decentralized approach as key to ensuring the new site’s longevity, that the library remains standing. “Monica did so much, and it’s like, you know, damn I don’t really want to put that on one person,” she says.

Watters has carried on the tradition of Roberts’ “Shut Up Fool” award, which went to Senator Ted Cruz in February after he left Houston for Cancún during the polar vortex and ensuing blackouts. In early March, Watters brought back Roberts’ weekly talk show. And she’s taken up her work of ensuring that victims of anti-trans violence are able to find justice, even working with a detective to investigate the late-February death of a trans woman in North Carolina.

While searching for a new editor, Watters has been both coordinating and funding the website herself with money from her savings. Even before Roberts passed, TransGriot was largely self-funded. As the site grows, Watters hopes to sell ad space and find sponsors to sustain it. At the moment, she’s unemployed and moving between homes, using a GoFundMe to help find new housing.

Visibility doesn’t pay the bills, she says: “It’s hard to be visible when you’re broke.”

But she stresses that the most important part of her vision is passing the mic to the next generation. “We are no longer looking to stay and remain and be statistics,” Watters said in January, as the new site launched. “We make up a part of the demographics of this so-called America, and guess what? We’re gonna do this and do it big.”

This post was provided on this site.

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afroavocadowitch · 3 years ago

Text

News & helpful tips on POS System Equipment & Point of Sale.

Fajar Hassan

Dee Dee Watters took over as publisher of TransGriot last fall and has been searching for an editor to carry on her friend Monica Roberts’ legacy.

From the May/June 2021 issue

Monica Roberts speaks at a rally in protest of the so-called “bathroom bill” on the steps of the Capitol in Austin on August 4, 2017. courtesy of transgriot

Alexander revisited Roberts’ very first post after her death: “She literally writes that when a griot dies, that the community says the library has been burned to the ground.”

“I didn’t do it because I felt like I was the leader or the big activist,” Watters says. “I did it because the reality is that it could have been me, it will be me, or would have been me.”

“Meeting her opened my eyes. What does activism really look like? How can you be effective, and how can you really hit people where it hurts?”

Visibility doesn’t pay the bills, she says: “It’s hard to be visible when you’re broke.”

This post was provided on this site.

youtube

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afriendlypokealien · 3 years ago

Text

News & helpful tips on POS System Equipment & Point of Sale.

Fajar Hassan

Dee Dee Watters took over as publisher of TransGriot last fall and has been searching for an editor to carry on her friend Monica Roberts’ legacy.

From the May/June 2021 issue

Monica Roberts speaks at a rally in protest of the so-called “bathroom bill” on the steps of the Capitol in Austin on August 4, 2017. courtesy of transgriot

Alexander revisited Roberts’ very first post after her death: “She literally writes that when a griot dies, that the community says the library has been burned to the ground.”

“I didn’t do it because I felt like I was the leader or the big activist,” Watters says. “I did it because the reality is that it could have been me, it will be me, or would have been me.”

“Meeting her opened my eyes. What does activism really look like? How can you be effective, and how can you really hit people where it hurts?”

Visibility doesn’t pay the bills, she says: “It’s hard to be visible when you’re broke.”

This post was provided on this site.

youtube

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anagamitofotografia · 3 years ago

Text

News & helpful tips on POS System Equipment & Point of Sale.

Fajar Hassan

Dee Dee Watters took over as publisher of TransGriot last fall and has been searching for an editor to carry on her friend Monica Roberts’ legacy.

From the May/June 2021 issue

Monica Roberts speaks at a rally in protest of the so-called “bathroom bill” on the steps of the Capitol in Austin on August 4, 2017. courtesy of transgriot

Alexander revisited Roberts’ very first post after her death: “She literally writes that when a griot dies, that the community says the library has been burned to the ground.”

“I didn’t do it because I felt like I was the leader or the big activist,” Watters says. “I did it because the reality is that it could have been me, it will be me, or would have been me.”

“Meeting her opened my eyes. What does activism really look like? How can you be effective, and how can you really hit people where it hurts?”

Visibility doesn’t pay the bills, she says: “It’s hard to be visible when you’re broke.”

This post was provided on this site.

youtube

0 notes

pezonesnegros · 3 years ago

Text

News & helpful tips on POS System Equipment & Point of Sale.

Fajar Hassan

Dee Dee Watters took over as publisher of TransGriot last fall and has been searching for an editor to carry on her friend Monica Roberts’ legacy.

From the May/June 2021 issue

Monica Roberts speaks at a rally in protest of the so-called “bathroom bill” on the steps of the Capitol in Austin on August 4, 2017. courtesy of transgriot

Alexander revisited Roberts’ very first post after her death: “She literally writes that when a griot dies, that the community says the library has been burned to the ground.”

“I didn’t do it because I felt like I was the leader or the big activist,” Watters says. “I did it because the reality is that it could have been me, it will be me, or would have been me.”

“Meeting her opened my eyes. What does activism really look like? How can you be effective, and how can you really hit people where it hurts?”

Visibility doesn’t pay the bills, she says: “It’s hard to be visible when you’re broke.”

This post was provided on this site.

youtube

0 notes

afroavocadowitch · 3 years ago

Text

News & helpful tips on POS System Equipment & Point of Sale.

Fajar Hassan

Dee Dee Watters took over as publisher of TransGriot last fall and has been searching for an editor to carry on her friend Monica Roberts’ legacy.

From the May/June 2021 issue

Monica Roberts speaks at a rally in protest of the so-called “bathroom bill” on the steps of the Capitol in Austin on August 4, 2017. courtesy of transgriot

Alexander revisited Roberts’ very first post after her death: “She literally writes that when a griot dies, that the community says the library has been burned to the ground.”

“I didn’t do it because I felt like I was the leader or the big activist,” Watters says. “I did it because the reality is that it could have been me, it will be me, or would have been me.”

“Meeting her opened my eyes. What does activism really look like? How can you be effective, and how can you really hit people where it hurts?”

Visibility doesn’t pay the bills, she says: “It’s hard to be visible when you’re broke.”

This post was provided on this site.

youtube

0 notes