#and i still struggle to Feel Hunger but now instead of having a meltdown when i get hungry i get squirmy snd that makes me pay attention

[bunnyboy-juice]

its crazy how getting freaky with my relationship to food did Infinitely more to help me recover from my ED than Literally anything else

[doberbutts]

Thank you for talking about the “able to get to the door but unable to stay inside” thing re:stimulation. My issues are less severe than yours were (creates chronic fatigue instead of severe meltdowns) but it’s kinda the first time I’ve heard anyone discuss them as a legitimate disabling barrier. I still have this “if I just try hard enough” mentality that I’m trying to overcome, and it helps to have someone else go “no, this is a real problem.”

Honestly the brain injury really opened my eyes because I do have ADD and had childhood epilepsy (been seizure-free since I was 8 tho) so we were somewhat conscious about sensory stuff but a lot of it was like. Okay every once in a while you will touch something that is Bad Texture and you will scrub your skin raw about it for the next couple of hours. Annoying repeating sounds fade into the background for you but God Forbid anyone talks while you're concentrating because now they've ruined everything. You'd rather starve than put Tastes Bad into your mouth and have gone to bed with hunger pains many times as a result. etc etc etc for me it wasn't so disabling but largely that was due to my mom knowing how to manage my symptoms and teaching me from a very young age how to cope.

And then with the seizures my major warning sign was a colossal headache that refused to go away which was a sign to go lay down somewhere quiet and dark for a few hours until it passed or else a lightning storm would happen in my skull :D

But the brain injury... that really upset everything. Which is commonly reported, when I was finally able to speak I told my neurologist that I felt like a completely different person and not in a good way and he said that most TBI survivors have said this.

Honestly the best way I can describe it is that. Hmm. Imagine... your TV is too loud. When I say too loud I mean like. It hurts to be in the same room as the TV, it's bordering on the edge of so loud that it makes you physically take a step back. When the TBI first happened, that was any and every stimulus to my senses. My clothes touching my skin was Too Loud. Tasting my food was Too Loud. The ambient light coming from my window was Too Loud. And so on and so forth. Because there was an actual damaged piece of my brain, it was really struggling to parse any more information than "oh, no, ow, make that stop".

I wore blacked out glasses inside because I couldn't stand to keep my eyes open otherwise. I would ask my roommates to whisper several rooms down if they were going to talk to each other or on the phone because even just hearing their footsteps was like someone was taking a hammer to my forehead. I was usually naked because the feel of my shirt against my back would set me off. There's a lot I can't remember from that time but I remember being so frustrated as I hid under my covers from the light and the ambient noise of living with a bunch of people and their pets that "trying harder" and "pushing through" honestly just made everything worse.

It's a lot better now. It'll be 5 years in July. But every once in a while something will still set me off and I will be back in that place, frustrated with myself as I feel my brain hurtling towards a Very Loud Meltdown that I cannot get to stop.

I just don't appreciate being told that it's somehow lesser because my legs work. Especially considering TBIs are so common, and they happen so fast. All it takes is one good knock on the head and then you'll be just like me.

[erodasfishtacos]

Acting Up (mini blurb)

thanks sm to Sarah who generously donated to my ko fi. she requested a blurb about mlbrry going to get ice cream as a family so here you go! with a little harry in DAD mode.

—

It was a hot night and the kids were a bit stir-crazy, so was eight-month pregnant YN in the house while Harry had been traveling to play.

“Mama, what’d y’want?” Harry murmurs, hand rubbing her bump as they wait with one hand as he has Ezra propped on his hip on the other side.

“Everything sounds so good,” She groans as she looks over the menu, pregnancy hunger was a real thing.

Her bump was bigger than any of her other pregnancy and she was quite miserable - though trying to make the best out of it.

“I’ll buy y’the whole menu,” Her husband replies as he reviews the menu board in front of them as well.

“Then I’ll be as big as house,” YN quips, hands running through Cash’s curly locks as he hugs her leg

“Just more f’me to love on,” He hums happily, moving to grope her bum a bit until she smacks his off with an eye roll.

He sees out of the corner of his eye his oldest taunting his middle child with goofy faces.

“Easton, enough,” Harry scolds as he sees Cash’s eyebrows furrow as he gets frustrated with his older brother.

Six and four - what an age.

The oldest stops at the firm tone of his father, huffing and giving his brother a dirty look before moving to stand next to his dad.

When they arrive at the order window, a teenage boy steps over to greet them, his mouth drops open as he sees who it is.

“Y-you’re Harry S-Styles,” The kid stutters, his face flushing red and his eyes wide as he stares at the celebrity.

Harry smiles kindly with a chuckle, “I am. Are you fan? Pleasure to meet you.”

“Daddy, why does he know your name?” Cash asked in confusion as he peeks around his father’s leg.

“‘cause he plays babeball, stupid,” Easton replies with an attitude towards his brother.

“Mama!” Cash shrieks offendly.

YN sighs, cupping Harry’s hand on her belly for moment, “Order me a banana split with peanut butter and extra strawberry. I’m going to go talk to East.”

YN pulls Easton to an empty table with enough room for the five of them and also to accommodate her belly.

“Why are you picking on your brother?” YN uses her mom mode voice as she watches her son pout out his lip.

“He stole my dolphin stuffie earlier!”

Of course.

“Is that the proper way to treat him though?” YN questions directly, tilting his chin up so she can make eye contact.

“No mama,” Easton mumbles, struggling to keep his mother’s gaze.

“Will you say sorry to him when he comes over?” YN encourages.

He agrees, lisps out an apology before Harry hands him a bowl of chocolate ice cream with rainbow sprinkles.

After a few minutes, YN winces and stands from the table, a hand going to rest of her back.

“What’s wrong, mama?” Harry asks with concern laced in his tone. He was currently feeding Ezra little bits of strawberry that was dripping down his chin.

“Just my back is achey, I’m just going to stand and eat,” She grumbles, shifting her weight side-to-side as she takes small bites of her banana split.

“Stop it!” Easton whines when Cash sticks his finger into his older brothers bowl and submerges it in his ice cream.

“Cash,” Harry states, reaching for his middle son’s arm “Get y’hand out of your brother’s food, right now.”

Cash listens but snickers when he realizes he’s managed to annoy Easton.

When Harry looks back to his wife, he then hears Cash shouting, “No!”

The parents look back to see Easton with chocolate ice cream as his nice white shirt and Cash with a sticky hand of melted dessert.

“Cash!” YN scolds on frustration, they were really usually good with each other but today was not their day.

She sits down her food to rustled through the diaper bag for wipes. She cleans off Cash’s hands with a pointed stare as Harry reaches over to clean up Easton.

“You’re done,” Harry tells Cash firmly, picking up his son’s bowl that he hadn’t finished and dumping it in the garbage. “Y’don’t get ice cream if y’just goin’ to throw it.”

That sends the middle one into a meltdown and it makes it even worse when Easton taunts, “No more for you!”

It has Cash standing up and darting around the table but Easton sees him and gets up to bolt away from his grasps.

“Stop running right now,” Harry raises his voice, groaning when Ezra starts to whimper at the chaos and holds on to Harry tighter.

“Boys! Listen to your fa-“

Easton darts around his mother but Cash isn’t as agile yet and knocks right into the front of her calves causing her banana split to drop out of her hands and for her to stumble.

“Baby!” Harry panics, instantly moving forward to grab her arm and pulls her towards him so she tumbles into his chest instead of backwards.

“Oh my god,” YN whimpers, her breathing becoming quicker as her heart rate spikes from the scare, hands coming to her bump.

The boys are frozen still were they’re at. Eyes wide and tears welling at the fear their mother got hurt by them

“Mama, y’alright? Sweetheart, I know Y’got scared. Breathe for me,” Harry soothes more worried about his wife than scolding his kids.

“If I would have fallen,” YN is tearing up, anxiety spiking through her chest at the thought of the baby getting hurt.

Harry is breathing heavier than he’d like to admit too.

“Don’t cry, s’okay. The baby is perfect, y’keeing them so nice and safe, bein’ a perfect mama,” He assures her, kissing her temple and brushing away a tear.

Ezra is distressed too, of course the sensitive little boy is, chanting, “mommy, mommy, mommy.”

She clears her throat, smiling softly at her youngest boy, “M’okay, Ezzie. It’s all okay.”

“Mama, hold me,” Ezra begs, reaching out his arms to be switched to his mother but Harry holds him tight and shakes his head ‘no.’

“Not right now baby. Mommy doesn’t feel very good,” YN tells him, chest still pounding, back still aching.

And when their youngest starts sobbing, screaming that he wants his mother, well...YN starts feel overwhelmed by her two olders ones who are whimpering because they know they’re in trouble and Ezra tantruming.

“Sweetheart,” Harry can tell by the tears bubbling up along her waterline what’s going on, “Baby, y’okay. What do y’need?”

YN sucks in a deep breath, gathering her thoughts for a moment, “I just need a minute alone. You can have Easton and Ezra finish their ice cream. Then come after you’re done.”

“I can do that,” Harry replies sadly, he couldn’t stand seeing his wife upset or scared - it was one of the worst feelings for him.

When YN grabs the car keys and leaves towards the car, Ezra settles as soon as he’s being fed ice cream again. The boys hesitantly go back to their seats across from their dad.

Harry knows they’re young. They don’t understand what it would mean if they knocked their heavily pregnant mother over but it doesn’t mean aggravation isn’t running through him at the two. 

“Daddy...” Easton sniffles cautiously, kicking his feet under the table as his chest shutters.

“Yes?” Harry answers calmly, looking up from Ezra to meet his son’s gaze - the same green eyes staring back at him.

“Do you and mommy hate us?” His oldest asks as he wipes his cheeks with the back of his hand.

“No, mama and I love you two with all our hearts. But daddy is very upset with you two right now, do you understand why?” 

They both nod in agreement that they do.

“Why are we upset?” Harry prompts as he takes a wet wipe to rubs over Ezra’s strawberry stained face.

“Cause we made mommy almost fall,” Cash lisps shamefully.

Harry nods, “And we tell you very often that we have to be careful with mama because she’s got a baby in her belly and we have t’keep the baby safe.”

“Are we in trouble?” Easton voice is still quiver with his guilt.

“I’ll have t’talk to y’mom but if it happens again, y’both are goin’ to be in a lot of trouble and y’gonna get a consequence. Do you understand that too?” 

They nod in unison. Easton hadn’t touched his ice cream again, gets up to throw it away as he loiters - looking towards the car where his mother is sitting away from them.

Cash gets up to but slowly walks around the table to his father. 

“M’sorry daddy,” He squeaks tearfully, moving forward and digging his face into Harry’s bicep.

“Cash,” Harry soothes, grasps his son lightly under the chin, “I love you very much, okay? We just can’t do things like that. Y’need to listen to daddy and mama.”

He nods in understanding before crawling up into his father’s lap, right next to Ezra - who gives him an affronted glare when he realizes he has to share space with him.

When they’re done and Harry has let enough time past, he walks the little group of boys toward their SUV.

He opens the passenger side door where YN is reclined a bit, hand on her stomach and the air-conditioner blasting cold air on her face.

“The boys have somethin’ t���say,” Harry smiles softly, leaning over to give his wife a quick kiss.

“M’sorry mama,” Cash whispers.

“Me too, mommy,” Easton adds on.

“I forgive you both. You just have to be careful with me. You’re sibling is in here and we have to keep them nice and healthy, right? I love you two more than anything.”

-

[stevishabitat]

Sunday, September 18

The councilwoman came down the street today, handing out flyers about a free food giveaway next Friday. I was on the porch with mum, in the heat and both of us wearing masks because we've all been sick and my covid tests still haven't arrived, so idk what kiddo and I have, but my mum is still recovering from an almost two week long illness, so she doesn't need to get this too.

I took the flyer and tried not to think about how long Friday is from now. At least it's something to look forward to. I hope I feel well enough to go, we desperately need the food.

Kiddo had a meltdown while we were sat out there. They went in the house and started throwing things, almost broke a window.

We have to skip therapy tomorrow, due to the mystery illness, which is good, because I know the payment would bounce again. How many times will they let that happen before they kick us out of the program, I wonder?

And I thought, as kiddo chucked who knows what at the window, what if it breaks? What if we end up at the hospital needing stitches for someone? Would they call CPS on us?

And what if this is covid? What if the pain in my chest makes it too hard to breathe? My mum went home, and what could kiddo do if I couldn't get out of bed? What if I can't work this week?

My mum texted me to ask if I'd fed kiddo, if maybe the meltdown was due to hunger. Idk. I made ramen earlier. We still have some eggs. There's a few slices of bread and an outrageous amount of american cheese (kiddo hates american cheese). I can't make myself eat, my mouth is so dry I can barely swallow anything. But I think kiddo ate the ramen. Kiddo is so tired of ramen.

Kiddo needs to go to therapy. I realized today how very long it's been since kiddo got to play with any other kids. The neighbors have all kind of retreated since the flood. We're all just struggling to survive. But at least at therapy, kiddo gets to talk to someone outside the family and do some fun games.

They were supposed to be observed by a speech therapist this week. Kiddo gets so mad when alexa and google don't understand what they're trying to say. When speech-to-text doesn't provide the right words.

The light bulb went out in kiddo's room. The tall ladder was broken in the flood. So I would have to stack some things to change the bulb. I said I couldn't do it today. Too lightheaded. I still haven't eaten today.

So kiddo is collecting lamps and things that glow. Supposedly kiddo is cleaning their room. I just hope the bed is cleared by bedtime.

Friday, September 23

I got home from the "food giveaway" and this is what's in the box.

I mean, thanks, but I can't feed this to my kid.

They gave me an air purifier, a flat of water, and some more disinfectant.

I went back, to be sure I didn't miss anything, and they said "yeah the food went in the first half hour" and then gave me a few food pantry suggestions - open on Tuesday (Blessed Theresa) and Friday mornings (behind city hall).

And as I'm putting the car in drive with tears running down my face because clearly I'm not getting food today, this older man shouts after me me to pray about it. Didn't offer to pray for me or with me. Just said "pray about it".

Absolutely patronizing. Miserable experience.

I don't have heat in my house, or healthy food, but I have a flat of water, two gallons of disinfectant cleaner, and an air purifier.

Those things would have been helpful the first month after the flood. Instead *I* paid for those types of things and now I don't have money to feed my kid.

Sorry to rant here, I just don't have anyone irl to vent to.

[disabled-queen-hc-blog]

A vent piece about a not so talked about side of Autism and something I’m struggling with lately. Angsty.

John awoke to the lovely sound of his alarm clock softly singing the Adventures of Winnie the Pooh theme song. He couldn’t help but to smile and hum along as the lull of sleep faded away from his eyes.

He let it play it’s tune as he stretched out his limbs, an array of cracks and creaks echoing through the empty room. With a big yawn, he sat up and pressed a button on the alarm, shaped like the silly old bear’s head. John let out a content sigh, looking around his bed at all his stuffed animals strewn about chaotically. He wondered if they all slept well as he did.

With a bit of effort, he got out of bed and wobbled over to his bathroom, rubbing eyes and yawning some more. After a quick trip to the loo, he set out on washing his mouth. His toothbrush was bright pink with hello kitty on the handle. It wasn’t his first choice, but he was quite fond of the cat too. With a strawberry flavored toothpaste, mint tasting way too strong, he brushed his teeth, a task he didn’t like to do.

Spitting into the sink, he rinsed his mouth, his head bobbing back up into place. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. Wrinkles on his forehead. Grey growing well past his temples. John quickly exited the bathroom, his stomach grumbling, hopefully from hunger and not embarrassment.

He put on his house slippers, Mickey Mouse of course, and hurried over to the kitchen, ready to prepare himself the same breakfast he’s had for nearly 40 years. Cheese on toast with a cup of milk. Even after decades, the staple food never grew old.

John sung Part of Your World quietly to himself as he slapped on a slice of cheddar onto the toast simmering in the pan, a smile tweaking at his lips. He found breakfast to be one of the high points of his day. It was the few parts of a regular day he had all to himself. No one to bother him. No expectations. Just him and his toys to keep him company until the afternoon. He laughed when his voice cracked at the climax of the song.

With a plate of warm toast and a cold cup of milk in hand, John went to the living room, setting everything down on the floor before turning on his telly. Saturday morning cartoons were on. He heavily preferred his Disney VHS’s to whatever the BBC was playing, but the cartoons weren’t half bad. Munching on his toast, he happily rocked as he watched.

It was 11am when the phone rang. John frowned, not wanting to set down his Legos. He was very much enjoying lining them up for the 4th time in a row. He was working with just the animal Legos this morning, something he didn’t do often.

Pouting, John got up to grab the phone, mumbling a somewhat pleasant “Hello?”

“Deacy!” an excited Roger screeched on the other end of the phone. John cringed at how loud the blond was.

“Oh, hi, Roger.”

“Mornin’ John! Hey, me and Brian were getting together this evening. There’s this new restaurant that just opened up. Imported wines. A live band. Sophisticated as all hell. You want to come?”

John’s nose crinkled up the more Roger talked. Nasty wine? Weird unpredictable food? Music he didn’t care for? And a suit and tie requirement? No thanks.

“That sounds stuffy,” John said honestly.

“You could use some stuffy in your life, mate. Come on. You can bring some of your fluffy friends if you’d like,” Roger said, a pleading lilt in his voice.

John shrugged to himself, a hand going into his hair to pull out a few strands, a nervous habit of his. “I don’t know. It sounds um…” Adult-y. “Like a lot for me, you know. Maybe we can do brunch or something soon.”

“Ah, alright, Deaks. Don’t say I didn’t invite you!” Roger said, disappointment in his tone, not that John would catch it. It wasn’t obvious enough because Roger expected that answer. John was never fond of refined things. Roger still tried after all these years.

“Yeah. Sorry. Bye bye, Rog.”

“Bye, John.”

John hung up, an anxious hand rubbing his chest. He tried to stop the bad thoughts that started to bubble in his head by throwing himself back into lining up his Legos, but it didn’t work.

He tried lining up his plushies on his bed, but the thoughts started to drip like cement into his chest.

He tried watching Snow White, but the thoughts began to feel like spider webs and char in his lungs.

He broke down, running into his bathroom, the quietest and darkest place in his house, slamming the door shut behind him.

Curled up on the cold tiles, as the tears began to pour down his face, his brain assaulted him with words.

Delayed.

Spaz.

Man-child.

Retard.

Delayed.

Stupid.

Lagging.

Delayed.

Delayed.

Delayed.

John sobbed, his hands flying to either side of his head, hitting himself to make his thoughts go back to normal.

You’ve got the brain of a 10-year-old stuck in a 39-year old’s body. It’s pathetic.

The people around you only pity you.

You’re not a failure to launch. You’re a failure to thrive.

It was cute when you were 19. Now you just look pitiful.

Have you even tried to act your age?

Your mother likes your sister better. She’s a proper adult. Married with kids. Working.

You need a babysitter to make sure you don’t starve or die.

It’s sad.

You’re an embarrassment.

You’re not a man. You’re a child.

John pressed his forehead to the floor, his chest aching with how hard he was crying. As more and more painful truths vomited themselves into his mind, he could only sink under their weight.

He tried to ignore it. And for a long time, it was easy to ignore. The words the therapist said to him.

“You’re developmentally delayed, John. You might not ever catch up. You might be stuck at a certain developmental age.”

At 15, it’s not too noticeable. 20, people just think you’re not one to take yourself too seriously. At 30, there must be something wrong with you. At 40, you’re a lost cause. A burden. On society, your friends and family and more importantly, yourself.

And despite what anyone said, it was true. John looked like an adult, but he didn’t have much going on upstairs. He couldn’t talk taxes or even pay his own. Doing laundry was always meltdown worthy. Wine tasted gross. The word sex made him giggle and the act was unimaginable. McDonald happy meals were a real treat and toys were rewards.

No matter how much the people around him said otherwise, he was a child. And it killed him. It hurt. The lack of maturity was blinding. The delay unable to be hidden. He was a walking freakshow and despite his best efforts, he was thoroughly stunted.

He wanted to be like his friends. So badly. Go to clubs with Freddie and not feel scared. Drink with Roger and not gag at the first sip and order a soda instead. Hell, he’d take sleazing around like Brian if it meant he’d be a real man.

But he was just a little boy. Trapped in a perpetual childhood that not even humiliation could wake him up from.

He liked the kid’s menus. And he liked watching Sesame Street. And he liked when his aides and carers came over and took over. He was a kid, through and through. It was only a shock because his body dare betray him by growing up, leaving his brain behind.

It wasn’t just embarrassing. It was isolating. He didn’t get along with adults. They didn’t understand him, and he didn’t understand them. It was a miracle the rest of Queen even tolerated him. He preferred children but one could see how bad of a look that was. So, who else did he have beside his Lego figures and his teddy bears?

His own mother coddled him, which felt both wonderful and shameful. He wasn’t a child. But he was. But he wasn’t.

John raked his fingers through his hair, tugging painfully at his scalp, his knees pulling up under him, a subconscious need to be small.

No therapist really understood the plight he went through. They all told him that it was okay. He was fine. Nothing to be ashamed about. But how easy was that to say when you weren’t a middle-aged man who needed a night light to sleep? Or a grown man afraid to cross the road without a real adult’s hand to hold?

Nobody understood. Their reassuring words fell flat when it came to the reality around him. John was delayed and the world looked down on him for that.

He was like Peter Pan without a safe place to run to, surrounded by other people who too could not grow up.

It hurt.

It hurt all the time.

Every time he colored a coloring book, he knew he should be drinking a beer besides a wife who was expecting another kid. He knew he should be ordering filet mignon rather than chicken nuggets. He knew he should be so much more and so much better than he was.

John laid flat on the floor; his eyes physically unable to produce more tears. With all those thoughts jabbing at his skull, all he could do was throw himself to the floor and cry like a child. Even knowing he wanted more for himself, he couldn’t get up and do it.

He sniffled and hiccupped, his head pounding from how deeply he had been wailing.

All of these thoughts were too much for a child. Too big and scary. Complex and refined.

He sat up and slowly got up, his knees cracking as he did so. Without another whimper he went back to his room, crawling underneath his blankets, into the embrace of many furry friends. He closed his eyes, hugging a purple elephant to himself and prayed he’d be finally big tomorrow. An adult. All caught up. A prayer he’d been reciting for years.

He brought the elephant to his face, nuzzling the soft fabric. He wondered if the elephant would take a nap with him too.

[tilltheendwilliwrite]

Qi Flows for Her

Chapter Three

Previous Chapter

Pairing: Steve Rogers x OFC x Bucky Barnes  |  Word Count: 5296 Warnings: Swearing and angst

Celine sniffled softly as she unpacked her clothes. Crying never solved anything, just drained her more and gave her a headache.

She shouldn't be here. Charles should have sent someone else. It should have been Kitty or Storm. Hell, any of them would have been better than her. How was she ever to build relations between the two factions when the majority of her new teammates looked at her with suspicion?

And then her foolish pride had gotten the better of her. She never should have told the Black Widow her name. The agitation would only grow now. Steve and Bucky would look at her with distrust. Peter would fear her. No one would be comfortable in her presence.

Yet, here she stood, suitcase open, unpacking. Feared or not, she had a job to do. She could not go home until Charles allowed it. She was stuck here in her metal cage, and she was starving.

How ironic.

All those people, all that lifeforce, and she couldn't even touch it. The cramps had not been this intense in years. So much energy wasted. Had she been able to plant her shield and ground her force, the truck would have smashed into it and stopped. Instead, it had plowed straight into her, knocking loose the hold she'd had on her chi, allowing it to dissipate back into the universe instead of drawing it into her body. Add in the energy used to heal her broken ribs and shattered hip, it felt as if she hadn't fed in weeks.

Clamping a hand to her stomach, she bent nearly double in pain. If she wasn't able to leave to hunt, if all she could do was feed off the negative, she would have to be much more careful. Damaging her body would cause her chi to deteriorate so much faster.

They better learn to trust me quickly… Celine sighed, if they didn't, she could get very sick, very fast. Living on negative emotions was like eating a diet of fast food. It sustained her, but it sure wasn't good for her.

Already she missed the heightened state of the school. The sexual tension which ran rampant. Even the thought of it made her salivate. The school was like a smorg of delightful treats. She was always well fed off the rowdy state of the hormonal teenagers.

Here, it was too quiet. What close energy was available was tense, her doing she knew, volatile and fluctuating, but with so few bodies around, and all teammates, she couldn't even take a tentative sip. The hunger filled her with such despair, to the point she’d almost given in to the tears when a knock at the door thrust her back into the real world.

Celine swiped at her face and went to open it, revealing a rather angry looking Barnes. “Sergeant?”

“I already told you it's Bucky.” He frowned, and she dropped her gaze to the floor.

“Something you need?” Had they sent him to get rid of her?

A large, warm hand cupped her cheek. “Dollface, are you okay?”

Shocked, she jerked against his hand. “I'm fine,” Celine whispered, walking away before the tears fell for a whole new reason, but she left the door open.

“No, you ain’t,” he stated, taking the open door as the invitation to enter it was. “Don't let what Nat said get you down. She's overprotective.”

“It is Natasha for whom you should worry. You should all fear for your lives. Is that not the sensible thing to do when faced with the bogeyman?”

He snorted in derision. ���Celine, I was the bogeyman for 60 years. You don't scare me.”

She slammed her hand down on the back of the sofa. “Why? Why don't I scare you? I scare everyone once they know, once they figure out I'm Styx. I know Natasha told you. She was itching to the moment I told her.”

“So why tell her?”

“She made me angry!” Celine cried. “It is like being the new kid at school all over again! Pecking order! Pecking order! Who fits where? Who is the most powerful? Who's dick is biggest!” She threw her hands up in anger and winced when her back spasmed. “I want no part of it!” Tears of both pain and anger burned her eyes, and she thrust her palms against them, forcing herself to calm down. “This is why I work alone.” Heaving a heavy sigh, she crossed her arms over her stomach and stared at the carpet. “Forgive me. I am not usually so… reactive.”

“You have every right to be.”

Steve's voice coming from the open doorway made her wince. Now both had been witness to her meltdown. “It does not justify purposely instigating something with Ms. Romanoff. I usually have better control than this.” Celine shook her head. “I should phone Charles. Make other arrangements.”

“No!” They said together.

She darted a glance up and would have taken a step back if not for the sofa behind her. They stood before her, very close, completely silent in their approach. It startled her. Not many could sneak up on her in such a way.

“You wanna get outta here, Celine?” Steve asked.

“I thought I was under house arrest?”

“Who's to say we can't go out with you? That constitutes supervision.” Bucky grinned smugly at Steve.

“Really?” she whispered, shocked by their kindness. Guilt mixed with a touch of pity flared in both their auras. Perhaps she'd sounded a little desperate.

“Ya, doll. We never did get to eat, and there's a great pizza place not far.” Steve nodded toward the door.

“I would love that!” Perhaps she could convince them to walk with her, maybe slip into a club where she could feed.

“Just out and back though. Early start tomorrow.”

Steve's words set her heart plummeting. Still, it was out, and she'd make it work. “Great! A small outing in the city is better than nothing when you're new,” she agreed.

Both looked at her lips then quickly away, and she toned down her allure. They just made it so easy. They were edible, and she didn't mean only their energy.

***

The pizza was, indeed delicious, and she’d relished every bite. Though it filled the void, it did nothing to abate her hunger. While laughing softly at what Steve and Bucky had to say, she paid close attention to the patrons in the restaurant.

It was quite busy, and they were quite famous, but nobody paid them any mind. Both men did an adequate job of hiding their identities. Steve had tossed on a ball cap and black-framed glasses, and a pulse had driven to life in her center for he looked nerd sexy all of a sudden. Celine didn’t really have a preference when it came to sex appeal, but she had to admit, Steve made nerdy look hot.

Bucky, too, had thrown on a ball cap, tucking his hair up beneath it. It left the sleek cut of his jaw on display. The nice long arch of his throat with the stubble of his well past five o’clock shadow had her wondering what it would be like to kiss him there. Lick him there. Bite down and nibble under his jaw where his pulse hammered and the chi flowed strongly.

She was so intent on the two soldiers who were regaling her with tales of the war and their time as Howling Commandos, she almost missed her opportunity. When the large man, thick with muscle, stood to his feet and headed for the bathroom, Celine stood up as well.

“Little girl’s room?” she asked casually.

“Oh, uh, back there.” Steve motioned, a touch flustered.

She patted his shoulder and sauntered away, continuing to think him utterly adorable in his moments of shyness. Once she made it to the hallway, she reached out with her senses to ascertain whether the men’s room was empty of all but the big man. Finding it clear, she snuck inside and turned the lock with a quiet click.

“Uh, lady? Wrong room,” said the man struggling to tuck and zip.

“I don’t think so,” Celine purred, unleashing her allure on him. Her skin gleamed, her eyes glowed, and her hair took on a distinct wave as she glided across the floor toward him. “You want me.”

His eyes had already grown dark with lust. “Yah, look at you.” His aura spiked with pinks and reds, blues and greens.

“Do you lust for me?” she crooned, sitting on the edge of the sink and hiking her dress up her thighs.

“Ya, fuck yeah.” He half walked, half stumbled toward her.

Celine drew him between her legs and fogged his mind further, holding him still as she slipped inside his vision. “Show me what you want,” she whispered and stroked her hand gently down his chest.

She watched the desire play out in his mind. One which consisted of him dropping his pants and fucking her hard and wild against the sink. Feeding it, she laced more lust, more moans, more heat into his vision. As he approached his peak, his body still and unmoving before her while his mind did all the work, Celine opened her eyes. His aura was the perfect colour as she urged his release closer.

“That’s it, that’s right, baby. You’re such a good fuck. So hot and hard. What a nice dick you have.”

He groaned, and his hips jerked in the real world as she began to feed. It was pleasurable for her partner. Even as their energy was siphoned away, when done so in lust with their mind active elsewhere, it felt euphoric. It was not so when she was working and fed on fear.

Still, his taste was everything she’d hoped for, and she sipped gently, taking only what she needed to abate her hunger and no more, knowing it would still leave him weak and a little lethargic.

She rested her hand against his cock, hard and throbbing in his jeans, and rubbed him gently through his pants. It wasn’t something she usually did, but he was so tasty he deserved a little something extra. “You going to come, baby?”

“Fuck…” he groaned.

Celine sipped slowly, squeezed him firmly, and felt him swell and erupt beneath her palm. She drank in his final explosion of energy which came with his release, revelling in the sweet ambrosia. “Oh, baby. You’re so good to me,” she moaned, feeling a hundred percent better.

While he panted and quaked against the counter, she slipped off the sink, tweaked his memory of her slightly, and walked to the door. “Thanks, baby. Don’t forget to clean yourself up,” she called as she checked for people in the hall. Finding no one, she turned the lock, peeked through and darted out to head back toward her table.

She smiled brightly as she slid in beside Bucky. “Dessert?”

Steve eyed her questioningly before leaning closer. “You look better. Have a little pick-me-up while you were back there?”

“A lady never tells,” she grinned, tapping the side of her nose.

“If you were hungry, Celine after what happened in the garage you could have told us.” Bucky’s eyes and voice were full of accusation. “We can’t help you if you don’t tell us the truth.”

Celine looked down at her hands. “I…” She bit her lip and shook her head. “I lost a great deal of strength when I was unable to ground against the pickup. I lost my connection to my chi.”

“You mean how it blew up like fireworks instead of how you pulled it back in during the demo?” Steve asked.

She arched a brow and gave a wry smile. “How observant of you.”

“It’s what I do.” Steve shrugged as he pulled out his wallet and tossed bills on the table.  “Let’s take a walk. I think you’ve got some explaining to do.”

As they stood to leave, she noticed the man she’d fed on saunter back out to his table. There was a goofy smirk on his face, and he flopped down beside his friends where he chugged most of a glass of water. Good. He’d be fine, likely boast about his prowess and the woman who’d jumped his bones in the bathroom.

She walked out quickly, not needing her two teammates to hear the sordid details of his apparent tryst. They were clearly highly intelligent and observant men. She’d need to be careful in the future.

“So,” Steve said, placing his hand on her back. “Explain this to us.”

Celine did her best to ignore the heat which washed over her with his touch. It stoked a flame to life, one fed by the hum of the sexual energy she’d absorbed. Wetness grew between her legs and dampened her underwear. She hadn’t even grown warm with the man in the bathroom, but Steve’s casual touch lit her on fire.

Then, Bucky’s fingers closed around her elbow.

The second point of contact nearly made her moan. Not good, not good. She’d never been so attracted to anyone as she was these two. These two soldiers, a step out of time, being the gentlemen they were raised to be, performing this intrinsic dance of touch and guide which wasn’t present in today’s society turned her on something fierce. If she didn’t get out from under their caress soon, she was going to do something highly inappropriate.

Gently removing her elbow from Bucky’s grasp, she stepped away from Steve and turned to face them. “You are both quite tactile.”

“Is that a problem, doll face?” Bucky asked.

They looked at her like hunting wolves. Like starving wolves, and she was a fat, juicy lamb. She wasn’t even trying, her appeal nearly non-existent, yet they looked like they could lick their lips at any moment.

Celine looked away. “Sometimes.”

“Hands to ourselves. Got it,” Steve said with a nod, motioning for her to continue down the sidewalk.

She flinched at the hurt in his aura. It hadn’t come through in his voice, but she could still feel it. With a sigh, she held out her hands, one to each. When they only raised a brow, appearing even more like brothers, she shook her hands impatiently. “Just give!”

Both large hands engulfed hers, and she jerked them into the alley.

“I will explain this only once and do not need an audience. Feeding heightens my senses. You two oversized soldiers radiate energy like the sun. Touching you afterward feels like this.” Channelling her chi into her hands, Celine gave them both a jolt. While it contained none of the desire she was suffering from and little of the sexual residue she’d fed on, it would feel like holding a live wire to someone unused to it.

“Fuck!” Bucky hissed, gloved hand landing on the wall beside him.

“Damn, Celine.” Steve’s hand tightened.

Celine yanked hers away and stepped swiftly backward. “At those times, it’s best you do not touch me.”

“Roger that,” they said together, looking a little shell-shocked.

She walked out of the alley with the two men to either side of her, close but no longer touching her. It was a relief and a disappointment. She liked the comfort of their touch. Physical touch was something sorely lacking in her repertoire.

Charles had always been casual about touching her hand or arm, but it wasn’t as if he was a hugger. Rogue couldn’t touch anyone without being completely covered, and Logan was so not touchy-feely.  The rest… preferred she didn’t try. But both Steve and Bucky had been very casual about the whole thing, touching her back or arm. Bucky had even touched her face.

“Celine?”

“Yeah, right.” She jerked her thoughts back to the present as they walked along the busy street and crossed at the light to walk through the streetlamp lit paths of Central Park where the pedestrians thinned out at this late hour. “I wasn’t able to ground my power earlier. Chi is life energy. It’s everywhere though I can only absorb it from other people. When my shield went up, I wasn’t fast enough to get it grounded, tied into the strength of the earth. The truck was a much bigger projectile than say a bullet. A flick of the wrist and I can stop a bullet with ease. Had I got my shield grounded, it would have been as solid as a wall. The truck would have stopped as if it had hit one. Instead, it was not quite complete, and it came through the shield and hit me.”

“You said you… lost your connection with your chi?”

She glanced at Bucky. “Yes. I redirect energy. So I pull it from within to use it out here,” she made a vague motion indicating the outer world, “then, draw it back inside. Because I was momentarily stunned I… let go… I guess would be the best explanation, of my energy. Like holding a tiger by the tail. You release it, it’s going to run away.”

“I see.”

Looking up at Steve, she smiled. He was nodding, a look of intrigue on his face.

“Once I came to, my body healed itself using my reserves. Had I managed to hold onto my chi, I would not have needed to feed, but…” She shrugged and trailed off.

“So you lied when you said you were fine in the garage.” Harsh eyes glared at her, and another accusation fell from Bucky’s lips.

Stopping, she looked between the two of them when they turned to glare at her. “Physically I was mostly fine.”

“What’s mostly mean?” Steve demanded.

“I had some bruises left.”

“And before you did your healing trick?” Bucky snarled softly.

Celine frowned. “That, Sergeant, is none of your business.”

“As Captain of this team it sure as shit is mine!” Steve barked.

“As the outcast of this team, I’m perfectly fine with keeping it to myself!” Celine shouted.

Both jerked like she’s slapped them. “Now wait one damn minute!”

“No, you wait!” she snapped, pointing at Bucky. “I have taken care of my own shit since I was five years old! I don’t need two overgrown nannies getting all up in my business. I got hurt, I healed, I fed. End of story.”

“We’re not trying to get up in anything,” Steve said. “We’re your teammates, we’d like to be your friends, but you’re sure not making this easy, doll.”

Stunned, Celine stepped back. “You… you don’t know me. You can’t… you can’t… I don’t have friends. Two substitute father figures and a sister, yes, but I don’t have friends. You can’t be my friends. I can’t have friends!”

Panic filled her, overwhelming and breath-stealing, and Celine ran into the dark night. Ran for the comfort of shadows and silence. Ran beneath the silver light of the moon she was named for. It’s beams coated her in cool light, seeming to try to appease the raging pain inside her.

Her nature changed with her brokenness, hair twisting into coils deepening into a black which rivalled the night sky. She ran until she reached the edge of a large lake, finally stopping at the water line. Barefoot, having lost her shoes in her mad flee, Celine walked into the water and let the cold soothe the fire in her blood.

Pain, anger, despair, all raged inside her. The past which haunted her became her present, forcing her to relive old, painful memories, and she lifted her hands, buried her fingers in her hair and wailed. Just screamed to the sky. The inhuman sound filled the air and rang through the silence. It was as beautiful and haunting as she was.

It killed her, her inability to be anything but alluring.

“I can’t do this,” she whispered, unable to hold back the tears any longer. “Why, Charles? Why me?” Falling to her knees, she plunged her hands into the water.

***

She was fast, they’d give her that, but she was also glowing like a candle between the trees.

He had no idea what he’d said to scare her, but Steve wasn’t about to let the woman go. In an instant, she’d gone from angry to perplexed to terrified. It killed him to know it was his words which had sent her fleeing like a deer.

Knowing they were approaching the lake, they split a few feet apart, determined to stop Celine from escaping down the shoreline. They were so well versed in the others moves, he and Bucky slowed at the same time without bothering to check with the other, walking silently from the trees as a very different looking Celine walked into the water.

Stunned, Steve could only stare in amazement.

Vision had said Styx was the name of a goddess from Greek mythology. He could see how Celine had acquired her name.

The lush, straight hair which usually fell down her back had become thick, black curls. They seemed to shimmer with sparkles of light. The night sky and stars above were reflected in those locks. Her skin had grown milk pale, the same silver as the moonlight. When her hands lifted, he noticed her nails were long and dark, as black as her hair. It was a startling contrast to the unpainted ones he’d remembered seeing at dinner. But it was hearing her scream, the sound a howl of a wounded creature, so hauntingly beautiful, like a wolf baying to the moon, which ripped open his heart.

Glancing at Bucky, he was certain his face reflected the same look of anguish and determination. Steve was quick to stride forward, managing to catch her whispered words. They broke his heart all over again. When Buck had said she was broken, he hadn’t really believed it. How could a woman who was so damn beautiful be broken? But he should have known. One wounded soul could always recognize another and looks mean little to what was buried on the inside.

Her collapse into the water sent him lurching forward. “Celine, baby, no.”

She looked up, and he fell into her eyes. “Wow…” Fully gold, they were what he imagined a goddess’s eyes would look like.

“Don’t!” She jerked her face away. “Don’t look at me!” Her cheeks were wet with tears.

Steve ignored the way she curled in on herself and lifted her up, half dragging, half carrying her from the water. Once on the shore, he cupped her face. “Why wouldn’t I look at you? You’re beautiful, Celine.”

“I know!” she wailed, the sound heartbreaking a second time. She jerked away only to run smack into Bucky.

He grabbed her by the elbows. “Easy, doll… face… whoa,” he murmured, stroking her hair back behind her ear.

“Please, don’t…” she begged, voice full of despair. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Why would you hurt us?” Steve asked, stepping closer, caging her between the two of them.

“It’s in my nature…” she whispered. “I hurt you, or you hurt me. It’s my curse. Like my face.”

Placing his hands on her waist, Steve leaned into her back. A shudder wracked her spine, and a whimper left her throat. “You’re not going to hurt us, Celine, and we would never hurt you. Ain’t that right, Buck?”

Bucky shook his head and lifted her arms up to wrap around his neck. “Never,” he agreed, leaning forward to press her further into Steve, holding the broken woman between them. “You don’t scare us, darlin’. You’re not big enough,” he chuckled softly.

“I could kill you both in an instant, and there is nothing you could do to stop me,” she whispered.

“Would you?” Steve asked, sliding a hand around her waist to hold her tighter.

“No.”

“Then what’s the problem?” Bucky asked.

She looked up, and Steve watched the awe wash over his best friend’s face. “That is the problem,” she whispered. Then, her bright candle glow went out.

Steve startled and stepped back, shocked at his forwardness. Bucky, too, looked stunned when she pulled away.

Celine’s smile was sad, her posture small and full of guilt. She was back to the beauty she’d been from the first, but the goddess who’d fallen to her knees in the lake was gone. “Thank you, for wanting to be my friend, but I… I can’t. It’s best if we are, simply, teammates. Forgive me my outburst. I promise to be much more professional come morning.”

“What… what just…?” Bucky scrubbed a hand over his mouth.

She wouldn’t look at them and twisted her fingers together. “It’s my nature.”

Steve couldn’t read auras, but he didn’t need to, to see the pain wash over Celine. “Celine.” She finally lifted her head, and his heart shattered. He’d never seen such brokenness, such absolute desolation in someone’s eyes before.

“I’m tired, Cap. Lost and filthy. Can we just forget this happened?” Her amber eyes pleaded for understanding.  

He would give it… for now. “Sure, Celine.” He reached for her, watched her recoil, and felt pain pierce what was left of his heart. “You’re gonna wreck your feet, doll. You want me to forget this, then let me help you.”

She bit her lip, eyes downcast again, but gave a slow nod.

Not giving her a chance to change her mind, Steve slung her up in his arms. The stiffness of her body hurt him as much as the earlier rejection. A glance at Bucky showed he appeared just as devastated. “We’re gonna go in the back way.” He doubted she’d be impressed if anyone else saw her like this.

“Thank you,” she whispered, relaxing enough to rest her head on his shoulder.

He closed his eyes for a brief moment, more pain ripping into his heart, and breathed in the scent of her hair. She smelled like exotic spices. With a silent sigh, he nodded to Bucky and headed for the tower.

***

Celine sat on the floor of her shower and let the water run over her. She'd nearly done it again.

Friends…

She couldn't have friends. Friends turned on each other. Friends stabbed each other in the back. Friends eventually became enemies. In the end, enemies tried to kill you.

She hugged her knees and fought desperately against the memories trying to surface. Ones of laughter and camaraderie. Of happiness. Of first stolen kisses and fleeting touches. Of betrayal. Of accusations, anger, and pain. She couldn't let them surface. They were her past. This was her future. The two could not mingle. She couldn't, wouldn’t let history repeat itself. She'd caused too much pain the first time.

“Celine…”

The voice whispered in her mind. “Go away, Charles. You and I aren't currently speaking.”

“Went that well did it, darling?”

“You're a right git!”

“Celine, language,” he chastised gently.

“Why am I here, Charles? The truth! They don't want me, and I sure as shit don't belong.”

“You have spent too much time with Logan.”

“Charles, no games.”  She was too tired for games.

A soft sigh fluttered in her brain. “There are things you must learn. The Avengers can teach them to you.”

“What things!?”

“If I told you that, how would you ever learn them for yourself?”

“That's a game, Professor!” she snapped.

“You cannot tell me they all don't want you?”

She cringed. “Yes, all. After tonight… all.” Steve and Bucky hadn't said a word, just deposited her before her door and walked away.

“Celine? Show me!” he demanded.

“Why should I?” She sounded like the petulant, pouting teenager she’d once been and knew it.

“Celine Ena!”

“Fine! You're so damn pushy!” She gave a heavy sigh and showed him her shame. His silence had her cringing.

“Ghealach beag,” he said quietly.

Love and comfort filled her mind. “Charles…” She sobbed into her hands. He hadn't called her little moon in years.

“You are too hard on yourself, Celine. The mistakes of your past are not ones you will make now. You know better. You're stronger.”

“I almost…” She shook her head, voice choked.

“No, you did not. You simply became Styx before them.”

“And they fell! I don't want to hurt them. Charles!” The cry was all despair and desperation.

“Give the Captain and the Sergeant more credit, Celine. They are not boys.”

“I won't take the chance! If I turned them against each other…”

“Celine,” he sighed.

Celine scrubbed at her face. “No. No, I'll do the job, Charles. I'll work with them, be part of the team, but I won't be more than that. I can't!” she cried, getting to her feet and turning off the water.

“Enfant obstiné,” he muttered.

“First the Gaelic and now French? You really are miffed at me.” And she wasn't a stubborn child.

“Yes, you are. Do not block them out, Celine.” His presence faded with the final warning.

“What do you know?” she huffed, both in indignation and frustration. He wasn't telling her something, clearly, but until Charles chose to speak, she would know nothing.

“Learn from the Avengers…” She almost snorted before catching sight of herself in the mirror. Her colour was off. “Fuck!” she hissed vehemently, reached for her reserves and sighed when she touched them.

She wasn't hungry yet, but she wasn't as replete as she had been after her snack at the pizza place. Another waste of energy, all that grief at the lake. This was why she preferred to be alone. Other people disconcerted her too much. Other people required effort and feelings.

She was out of her element. Floundering. If she didn't get it together and soon, this was all going to go up in flames around her.

Wrapping her hair in a towel, she went to get ready for bed, determined to block all the Avengers from her mind. Once she disconnected from them, she would be able to breathe.

***

Bucky sat brooding on the couch in Steve's room nursing a glass of whiskey which would do very little to him. It was a habit more than anything, but the fiery burn down his throat was a reminder of his past life. Drinking was not something HYDRA had allowed him, so he did it now as a symbolic fuck you.

Steve was sitting across from him, nursing his own glass, and brooding just as deeply.

“What the fuck just happened?” Bucky finally asked, unable to remain silent any longer.

“I don't know.” Steve sighed and rubbed at his forehead. “I scared her bad, Buck.”

“Don't think it was you, Steve, so much as something you touched on by accident.” He downed the rest of his glass, hissing at the burn in his throat. “She doesn't have friends. Maybe she did once. Maybe it went bad. Real bad if that's her reaction.”

“She didn't want us to look at her, either. For all Nat's talk about Styx, what I saw tonight was a woman who feared what she was.” Steve downed his own glass. “Maybe even hated it. When she was mad earlier, she'd said, I am a person, no matter how much my mutation has taken from me.”

Bucky grunted. “What the fuck happened in her past? Who the hell hurt her so badly?”

“I don't know, Buck. I don't know.”

“Taking care of my own shit since I was five years old.” He rested his elbows on his knees and bent over them. “Five, Jesus!” He couldn't even imagine what kind of life she'd had.

“It's my curse, like my face. What the hell is she that she’s so damn scared of herself? What is it she thinks she'll do?” Steve wondered.

As if on cue his phone rang. He frowned at the secure line but picked it up. “Rogers.”

“Captain.”

“Professor.” His eyes snapped to Bucky's as both of them sat up straight.

“I was hoping to speak with you for a moment about Celine.”

Wary, Steve said, “Alright.”

“I do hope she hasn't caused a commotion. She can be a bit… high strung.”

Steve felt himself bristle at the insinuation. “She's been nothing but professional,” he snapped.

“Excellent.” A sound of amusement filled Charles’ voice. “Her power is quite impressive. It tends to scare people.”

“Celine doesn't scare us.” Again he found the professor's words upsetting. Was this the kind of put down negative thinking she was subject to? Coming from someone, she'd labelled her surrogate father?

“Are you certain, Captain? I could always call her home. Replace her with another X-Men more … suitable?”

“Celine suits us fine. We want her as part of the Avengers. End of story.”

A chuckle was heard on the other end of the line. “Very well, Captain. Good night.”

He hung up, and Steve had the overwhelming desire to chuck his phone at the wall. But then, Maria would give him shit for breaking another one. “Fuck!” he swore instead, earning a raised brow from Bucky.

“This is some screwed up. I don't give a flyin’ fart what she said. I'm going to find a way through, Stevie. She needs friends.”

“She needs a real family.” Steve agreed. “We've got to stop looking at her like she's the enemy.”

“Starting tomorrow, we chip away at that wall of hers,” Bucky stated, getting to his feet.

“Yeah. I'm with you, pal.”

“Till the end of the line, punk,” Bucky said, heading for his own rooms.

Next Chapter

[besthealthtale-blog]

What This Mom Learned About Food Culture in America After Her Baby Stopped Eating

You’ll want to have tissues handy when you dive into The Eating Instinct: Food Culture, Body Image, and Guilt in America. Though the new book from Virginia Sole-Smith might sound at first blush like a feminist or body-positivity book—both of which it is—it’s also a deeply personal, heart-wrenching story.

Sole-Smith’s elder daughter, Violet, stopped eating by mouth at nine weeks old, and didn’t start again until she was about 16 months old. Rare congenital heart defects landed Violet in the hospital four weeks into her tiny life, and she emerged with what’s known medically as an oral aversion or infantile anorexia. It’s “when a child refuses to eat as a way of protecting herself from perceived trauma,” writes Sole-Smith. Violet was restricted to feeding tubes for much of her infancy, leaving her mother stricken, frightened, and wondering, “What does it mean to learn to eat, in a world that’s telling us not to eat?”

A journalist who covers health, parenting, lifestyle, and culture, Sole-Smith dove into the topic with a reporter’s zeal for talking to experts. She interviewed dieticians (including some with their own eating disorders), poverty-stricken moms recovering from cocaine addictions, “health at every size” activists, anti-fat doctors, and plenty of researchers. The result is a data-packed book with the epic tale of little Violet re-learning to eat threaded throughout.

Here, Sole-Smith delves deeper into a few of the topics she covered in her book.

Your book ends with your desire to feed your younger daughter by mouth. Did that work?

Beatrix is 10 months old and a very typical eater; she took swimmingly to breastfeeding and bottle-feeding. I really went into baby number two thinking my number one goal is a baby who eats by mouth. I am not picky. I also knew after the devastating experience with Violet and breastfeeding [that] I didn’t want all that pressure on my shoulders.

We did combination feeding [a mix of breast milk and formula] from the beginning. She had a little formula her first night [to] help take the pressure off. My milk took a couple days to come in. … Then we did what worked. I was like, “I’m not listening to anyone this time. Tell everyone to shut up. I’m going to feed the baby the way that makes sense.”

The “breast is best” breast-feeding pressure thing that moms hear; is it hammered a lot?

A few years ago when I had Violet it really felt like I had to breast-feed this baby or I had failed as a mother. I don’t think that’s quite there anymore. What I’m still seeing is now a set of “allowed” circumstances in which you can [choose not to] breast-feed but you have to have failed at it. … “It’s OK to be using formula if you had a traumatic birth. If there are reasons … because XYZ happened.”

We’re not yet to a place where people can generally do what I did [with Beatrix], which is, “I’m going to do what works and not feel bad about it. I’m gonna stop breast-feeding when it stops being fun.”

Isn’t breast-feeding also a big time commitment for women?

It’s a huge time commitment. Anyone who says, ‘Oh, breast-feeding is free,’ doesn’t think a woman’s time is worth anything. My billable hours are [worth] a lot more than a can of formula. It’s another way that our culture is saying, “We control women’s bodies; we control women and food.” That’s what I’m arguing against in the book. There’s a lot of overlap between diet culture messages and exclusive breastfeeding messages. I think the two have gotten pretty murky. The literature is not cut-and-dry on what the healthiest choice is. There are many circumstances where formula is the healthiest choice for the baby. We don’t celebrate that. We just say, “Women need to turn their bodies over to the babies,” just like we say the rest of the time, “Women have to be as thin as possible.” It’s all of a piece, in my mind.

Trying to get Violet to eat by mouth, you used the “division of responsibility” theory. Can you explain it?

It’s a theory developed by Ellyn Satter, a family therapist and nutritionist, back in the 80s. She’s written several books about it, but I’m seeing it more and more in the mainstream conversations around kids, which is really exciting. The premise of it is that children are autonomous beings who should have agency over their bodies and what goes into their bodies. Rather than parents being in charge of every bite of food and meticulously counting out portions and all that, it says, “Nope, parents and children are in a feeding relationship, and they each have certain roles.”

Parents are in charge of what food is offered, where it’s offered (preferably at a table, not in front of the TV or mindlessly grazing around the house), and when it’s offered. They try to keep kids on a schedule so that kids have time to get hungry and come to the table hungry. After that—after they’ve said, “OK, we’re eating dinner at this time, and this place, and here’s what your choices are,” the parents’ job is done.

Kids are in charge of how much they eat, which of the foods they eat of what you offer, and even whether they eat at that meal. They’re in charge of listening to their bodies, in terms of hunger and fullness, and in terms of, “Of the foods you’re offering me, what do I really need right now? Maybe I don’t really need a piece of chicken at this meal; maybe I’m really hungry just for the pasta.” That’s fine. We kind of trust kids to listen to their bodies and know what they’re really hungry for.

Having seen parent friends negotiate “one more piece of chicken before you’re done,” I feel like this must be controversial. Is it?

We had to do division of responsibility; we were in an extreme situation. What I see with parents who are feeding kids in more typical situations, is when they’re not practicing division of responsibility, it’s probably fine for a while, depending on the temperament of your kid. A lot of kids are like, “Yeah, I’ll have another bite of broccoli, whatever. My mom really cares that I finish all these blueberries, so I’ll just do it.” … That’s fine. Not every family will find that strategy problematic, at least in the short term.

But what will happen over time is that child is being given the message that many of us received as kids of, “I don’t know what’s best for my body. I don’t know what I’m hungry and full for. When I do feel full, maybe I can’t trust that, because somebody else—this adult that I love and I trust—is saying, ‘No, no, no. I know what your body needs. It doesn’t need a cookie. You shouldn’t want a cookie. You should want broccoli.’” That doesn’t line up with the kid’s [experience]. It’s a really confusing message to send to kids.

My concern is that over time, with typical eaters, that leads to undercutting their sense of trust in their own bodies, and that makes them much more vulnerable to the messages of diet culture. Because now they’ve sort of grown up thinking, “I don’t know what’s best for me with food.” So of course when they’re struggling with weight, or feeling unhappy with their body for whatever reason, they think, “I must need a diet or this external rules to tell me what to do because I’ve never known. No one’s ever said, ‘[You] know what’s best for your body.’”

I want to be clear: It’s not about shaming parents who do that. It’s just about thinking long-term. We’re thinking short term, “I gotta get this kid through eating without a meltdown.” I have all the empathy in the world for that. Those short-term decisions are hard to pull off. … What you want long-term isn’t always what you want short-term.

Some would say, “Kids are wrong that they need cookies. I know more than they do.”

What I would say is, I don’t think any of us know as much as we think we know about nutrition. The nutrition advice is always changing. When I was a kid in the ‘80s, it was all about fat, and low-fat and fat free, and now we’re all, “More with the avocados and coconut oil!” The science on this is not settled in any way.

To say I’m gonna follow nutrition instead of letting my kids listen to their own bodies, you’re not taking the more cut-and-dry fact-based approach by any means. There is good data supporting division of responsibility. It’s not as robust as I’d like, but we are starting to see more data supporting that teaching kids to honor hunger and fullness is a way to put them towards a healthier relationship with food. The parent is still in charge of choosing the what. You are still choosing the nutrition. But we’re not dictators. We’re more benign leaders.

We always have a banana on the dinner table; it’s one of my daughter’s safe foods. If she’s not going to eat the rest of the meal, I know she’ll eat the banana, and I’ve accommodated her that way.

In your book’s conclusion, you dream of a world of judgment-free, guilt-free eating. Are you an intuitive eating proponent?

Yeah. I’m in no way an expert on it. I’m not a dietician or someone who can offer the specifics of how you learn that. It’s something that I aspire to and practice myself, I try to encourage it with my kids, and as with all things, I’m always overly hesitant to use the label, because there are lots of diet plans marketed around intuitive eating that are really not. Caveat that I’m for trueintuitive eating, not intuitive eating with a goal of weight loss. It’s the only way I’ve found that makes sense.

[rosethornewrites]

Sunday T & G reading

The usual

Finished

Tumblr:

drabble, by @withbroombefore

Teen:

They call him Mister Moonlight, by Teto_57

Lan Wanji has been searching for him 12 long years, but even though he promised himself he wouldn't give up, sometimes you just have to accept reality and make a decision.

Nightmares, by obviouslyelementary

He deserved to suffer. He deserved the pain of the whip, the coldness of the cave, the aching of hunger, the desperation of thirst… not because he broke the rules, not because he defended a criminal… but because he wasn’t able to save him.

His deepest regret.

Moonlit, by Aki_no_hikari (3rd in a series, 2 chapters)

Wei Wuxian is happy to live the rest of his life as a farmer and cultivator, tending to his crops, ocassionally going night-hunting and purifying the land he now calls his own.

Sadly, that's about to change with the arrival of a messenger from a great sect begging for aid. Aid that would bring lasting consequences to Wei Wuxian, and to the people he swore to protect.

How to Mess with the Natural Laws of the Universe ft. Lan Sizhui, by darkbrokenreaper (10th in a series)

“The curse will wear off in a week,” Lan Xichen was quick to reassure Wei Wuxian who seemed to be having an internal meltdown right now judging by the constipated look on his face. “He doesn’t remember anything past his physical age but nothing else seems to be amiss. For now, it is best to act as if Lan Sizhui truly is a child.”

aka Lan Sizhui gets de-aged back to a child and still manages to be his cute creepy ghost medium self.

The Lady of Red Flowers, by GhostySword (2nd in a series)

Huahong Shunu, Lady of Red Flowers: a title that had first appeared in gossip’s mouths and tavern tales to invoke crabapple blossoms stained in blood and wedding gifts never sent. When she heard it, she had a robe embroidered with green willows and red flowers. “If I have to wear this title,” she had told Jin Guangyao, “I’ll make it a symbol of spring and rebirth instead.”

How Qin Su became Sect Leader Qin: a war, an engagement, a disaster, a choice.

General:

Life Is Short, Do Art, by Eleanor_Fenyx

For the MXTX Reverse Trope Fest prompt: College Dropout AU

Lan Xichen breathes out a happy sigh and closes his eyes against the early evening breeze. “I couldn’t have done this without you, you know,” he says, feeling oddly weightless. “If you hadn’t done it first I don’t think -”

“I know,” Nie Mingjue cuts him off, but it’s gentle and warm in his ear, the audible version of one of Nie Mingjue’s bear hugs. “And A-Yao will be next, mark my words. We all deserve the chance to find what it is we want. We can talk about what you want to do next when you get here if you want, or we can do nothing at all. But you’re free to do anything from now on.”

Third Shot At A New Beginning, by BangtanPandemonium

Lan Wangji has met Wei Wuxian three separate times, and he has changed his life every single one of them.

The Price of Remembering, by Chronicler_of_Myriads

Wei Ying was alive. It would take practice for Lan Wangji to really believe it, when Wei Ying was not in sight, could not currently be reached out towards and touched. Wei Ying was alive, and he was in Cloud Recesses waiting for Lan Wangji to return.

Lan Wangji brings "Mo Xuanyu" back to Cloud Recesses, fully aware of who he really is. He struggles to grasp that Wei Wuxian is no longer dead, and his thoughts and emotions are too scrambled to do more than keep Wei Wuxian from leaving again.

Something to Live For, by RockStoneBloodBone

As Lan Zhan faces the fallout of his open rebellion, Xichen grapples with his feelings of guilt and responsibility when his brother asks an impossible favor.

Football, by Speechless_since_1998

"What are you doing here?" Nie Huaisang asked, seeing Lan Zhan sitting in the stands. Right close Huaisang place.

How many chances were there for that to happen?

Always stoic, Lan Zhan replied, "I'm here for the game."

"Do you like football?"

"En."

He had to admit, Lan Zhan was getting better at lying.

But thanks to their brothers' special relationship, Nie Huaisang knew better: Lan Zhan would have died rather than be found in a crowded and noisy place.

If he was there, there could be only one reason.

"Wei Ying is one of the regular players, isn't he?"

soup and cereal, by unfazedsimmer

It’s one thing for Lan Wangji to tell his uncle and brother that he’s seeing someone, which is breaking news in and of itself. But when he follows it up with wanting to introduce them to his partner during their monthly Sunday brunch, he’s just about certain that they’ve fallen off whatever chair they’re sitting on, assuming they were sitting down when they read the matter-of-fact message he had sent to their group text.

OR

Lan Wangji breaks protocol and plans to introduce Wei Ying to his family.

the hunter's moon, by stiltonbasket

On the morning of Nie Mingjue’s eighteenth birthday, the very first thing he does—before opening the door to let A-Sang into his room, or going downstairs to pay his respects to his father—is unfold the worn scroll lying on his dressing table, and reread it for the fifty-seventh time in the last seven days.

I can’t wait to see you, A-Jue, is all it says, in Lan Xichen’s lovely handwriting. Shufu is visiting Pingzhou this month, so you can have me to yourself for as long as you like.

Yours,

Lan Huan.

Unfinished

Teen:

Love Song In Reverse, by timetoboldlygo

Wei Wuxian gasps back into life without a single memory left. His friends, his siblings, his home — all lost to the fog in his head, nothing more than a mystery slipping through his fingers. What else was there to do but carry himself around in bits and parts, trying to become whole, a letter waiting to be written? He is – he is Mo Xuanyu, isn’t he? In this body, with these people. This family. He has to be Mo Xuanyu, he didn’t know anything else, even if the name sounded wrong. That was all he had.

Well, that and Hanguang-jun.

Lan Wangji, for his part, has had his taste of love and lost it. In all his grieving and searching, he didn’t expect to find another.

-

Wei Wuxian gets resurrected, loses his memories, and falls in love.

Truths Laid Bare For All, by Preludian_Staves

The betrothal letter comes in the Springtime with a Lan escort, changing how events happen in Wei Wuxian's life.

AKA Wangxian meets early before the Cloud Recesses lectures and slowly starts moderately sooner, some things change and others stay moderately the same. Plus WWX flourishing under the tutelage of the Lans when there isn't prickly Heir or his equally prickly mother lurking around that needs near constant appeasement and a truth serum is involved somewhere in the course of things.

With Shortness of Breath, by QueenieWithABeenie

What if Lan Wangji never brought A-Yuan back to Gusu?

What if Yiling still had a Patriarch?

A Heaven Is Only With You, by irl_dazai

And it looked as if he, as well, had the same reaction. He didn’t look like his usual indifferent self, he looked moon-eyed at Wei Wuxian, as if he was not expecting this reunion, which he most likely did not. He leaned a bit backwards, as if trying to escape but his legs were not cooperating with his mind. He looked endlessly elegant in his silky white robes. Wei Wuxian remembers to this day the feel of it in his hands, the soft material gliding over his skin.

Before long, he responded by only calling out Wei Wuxian’s birth name. That sweet voice calling to him as if lulling him to sleep, the soft spoken “Wei Ying” that would make him melt to the ground. He wanted to hear it again and again, he already felt addicted by the way this man was calling to him.

Wei Wuxian is a homeless man just trying to survive his days on the streets but under some circumstances he finds himself again in a vicinity of a childhood friend, Lan Wangji.

[superiortechnology]

casting such a thin shadow

“Oi, Chimchim, you alright?”

Jimin ran his hand through his hair, glancing behind him to where the voice came from. It was Taehyung. “Wha?”

“You’re staggering around like you’re drunk.”

“What? No. I’m good,” Jimin said. It was true… well, sort of anyway. He felt a bit dizzy, but he was fully in the zone, his mind on autopilot. It happened a lot when he was dancing. He didn’t allow it to happen a lot in performances, but rehearsals were fine. When he knew a routine well enough he could simply shut off his mind and let the music carry his body. It was nice for days like today, when he felt particularly exhausted.

He could feel his best friend’s eyes burning holes into the back of his skull, so he forced himself out of his mental state and attempted to refine his movements, making sure his steps were sharp and precise. Taehyung worried too much, and while Jimin knew it was because he cared, it could get annoying.

“Time’s up, guys,” their manager called from slightly off the stage. “Head to hair and makeup.”

“Didn’t sleep well again?” His makeup artist was brushing foundation into his skin with a practiced hand. A part of him liked her; they typically got along well and she was fantastic, generating admiration for his smokey eye among thousands of fans, but sometimes she dug a bit too deep into his personal life.

“I’m nervous,” he said, staring straight forward at the mirror.

“Liar. You don’t get nervous on stage,” she said with a grin. “Close your eyes.”

He did, letting her brush the light liquid makeup into the bags under his eyes which had no doubt been the origin of her original comment.

“I do so. And I’m always nervous the day before a show,” he insisted, forcing his lips into an over dramatic pout.

“Jimin, if that were true, you’d be nervous half your life. Save your breath, we both know it’s not true,” again her tone was light, but he was becoming annoyed.

“Fine, I didn’t sleep well. What do you want me to say?” He knew he was coming off rough, but he couldn’t help it. It was the truth; he was exhausted. He’d been up all night practicing in the studio. When his body finally gave out on him, he’d moved into the vocal closet, as he liked to call it. What was the point in trying to sleep when you knew it wasn’t going to happen?

“I’m just concerned about you, hun,” she said. “These circles under your eyes seem to be getting worse by the week.”

“Well it’ll probably just get worse as the promotions go on. Then as soon as we’re done here, we’re finishing the next album and heading off on tour.”

“Sometimes I think the schedules they put you kids through are cruel.”

He chose not to respond. He was done. Even if he agreed, how was it going to help?

It wasn’t. There was no point.

The tension between them drained after a short time, and he let his mind drift as he sat in the chair while his hair was styled. She was going for straight locks today with less volume. It looked classy and would match his outfit well, but it made him feel a bit deflated. He typically liked the way straight hair narrowed his face, but lately he felt like it just made him look gaunt and half dead.

He’d lost weight in the past months. A lot of it.

And he couldn’t be prouder.

He’d been relentlessly dieting since spring, and with Christmas quickly approaching, he could almost call it a year’s worth of the most effort he’d ever put forth. It was hard; he was always hungry and he had less energy, though a part of him wanted to attribute that to his age as well. He looked thinner than he ever had. His short limbs were starting to appear less so when paired with a narrow torso. He couldn’t chop his bone structure down, but he could minimize the tissue attached to it. And he had. He’d lost nearly 15kg since he’d started.

It had been a struggle. But the hardest part hadn’t been the hunger or lack of energy. He was too close with the other members for them to not notice his eating habits, not that they didn’t have their own restrictions, but they mom’d him far worse than his makeup team. Taehyung was probably the worst, followed closely by Namjoon and Yoongi . He knew they cared, but they just couldn’t understand.

“Yo Jimin! You ready?”

He looked up, knowing the voice before he made eye contact with his leader. Namjoon’s strawberry blonde hair was parted on the side and fluffed up off his face, a section of it clipped back making him look extraordinarily pretty. Namjoon was always gorgeous, but it wasn’t usually a role he typically played. Usually he went from the lead aggressive rapper to aegyo with the flip of a switch, much like Yoongi and J-hope.

It left him feeling less than adequate; but instead, flat and dull. He would never place the blame on Namjoon. God knew that their leader would both sell his soul and take a bullet at the same time for any of his members, but it didn’t make it any easier being next to someone so beautiful. But as it wasn’t Namjoon or any of the other members’ fault, Jimin could only do one thing.

He could keep trying to be better.

Tonight however, he wasn’t succeeding and he knew it. All that was left was for him to go out and perform to the best of his ability and hope that he’d be able to round out the group. If nothing else, he could make the others look better physically, right? It was always easier to see someone’s beauty when comparing them to a toad, right?

“Good to go, hun,” his makeup artist said, patting him on the shoulders.

Jimin glanced in the mirror at her, hating how far apart her hands were on his frame. It made him feel huge.

But now wasn’t the time, so he buried the thought.

“Thanks,” he said, sounding as grateful as he possibly could in his current headspace, hopping off the chair.

“Did you eat?” Namjoon asked.

“Yeah, earlier,” he lied.

If there was one thing he hated more than the act of eating itself, it was eating before a show. It made him feel bloated and heavy, not to mention guilty. The hunger pangs that burned through his abdomen felt good while performing. It was motivating and made him feel better. He’d resisted the urge, and by keeping his stomach empty, he’d done absolutely everything he could to minimize his waistline. It was something to be proud of.

He felt his brother’s eyes linger on him like they so often did, but he knew better than to say anything right now. He’d made the mistake before and Jimin had ending up having a meltdown, ruining his make up, his motivation, and his focus. It had not been a good music show, and Namjoon hadn’t brought anything up before a show since. In fact, none of the other members had. He had a sneaking suspicion that Namjoon had told the other members to keep their thoughts to themselves until after the shows.

Jimin appreciated it. He had enough on his mind as it was.

~*~*~*~*~**~*~

The stage lights felt brighter than usual.

That was the first thing Jimin noticed when they filed onto the stage as the music started playing.

The second was that the fog machine seemed to be on overdrive.

Between the two observations, he was surprised he was able to see at all. To make matters worse, his contacts were bothering his eyes.  

No one else seemed bothered though, as Jungkook sang the opening line, his powerful vocals filling the stadium, the fluidity of his voice radiating into every fiber of Jimin’s being. Damn was he ever on point tonight.

If only Jimin could say the same.

His head spun slightly, aching from the crown of his head. Between that and the brightness around him it made him feel like he was hungover. He’d made that mistake once, with Taehyung’s 19th birthday being the day before the major year end show. He’d never gotten drunk again the night before a show. It had been a brutal lesson, and one he’d heard about quite vocally from their manager.

His first line approached, and he’d never been so grateful for the backup vocals in all his life. He’d managed to get the sound out, but it felt hollow and almost transparent. What was going on?

He took several deep breaths as he danced, forcing his second line out with more power, this time a harmony with Taehyung, and it felt better.

As the song went on, he settled in, but he still didn’t feel right. The extra effort it was taking to sing was taking a toll on his body, and he was starting to feel light headed, a bit like he had earlier that day when his best friend had asked him if he was alright.

He breathed hard at the end of the song as the lights went down, but then snapped himself back into focus, quickly getting into position for the second song. This one had much more demanding choreography and he was front and center. He shook his head hard and quickly before the lights came back up, forcing himself not to squint as the light burned his eyes. His head began to pound, but he pressed on. He’d had headaches before while performing.

Two more songs.

He could do this.

But then he remembered the flip toward the end of this song and he started to worry. Was he going to be able to safely pull that off? He wouldn’t be quite as concerned if he wasn’t flipping over top of J-Hope.

And then he was falling.

And everything went black.

read on ao3

[elfnerdherder]

Dread and Hunger: Ch. 3

Chapter 3: Sauvignon Blanc

           When another body was reported on the Tri-Delta lawn, the school had a meltdown. Classes were cancelled –much to Beverly’s dismay since she was right in the midst of a fiber analysis breakthrough –and everyone hovered in groups in order to make plans for vigils and for better security. Will sat at one of the benches nearby, watching the spectacle of teachers attempting to console and wrangle in the hysteria, all the while their own sat perched just underneath their chins.

           This time, he had no doubt this kill was for him.

           “They said it’s the Chesapeake Ripper,” Alana said, arms folded across her chest. She was one of Will’s few friends, in the midst of her graduate program, her backpack stuffed so full of books it was a wonder she didn’t topple over.

           “It is,” Will said, staring at the corpse through cuts and breaks of the living bodies milling about.

           “What makes you say that?”

           “He’s a poet –can’t you tell?” Will glanced at her wryly, and she cracked a tense grin. She was no more comfortable around dead bodies than other people were. “This is Hades tricking Persephone to Hell.”

           “I’m familiar with the story,” said Alana, and when a teacher managed to lead a group of students away, she sat down beside him. How she wore heels in the middle of campus, he didn’t know, but he did commend her for it. Struggling through wet soil in that sort of shoe seemed a punishment to him, but to each their own. He studied the patent leather for a prolonged moment before looking back to the woman posed in such a grotesque fashion.

           “Behind her, he planted flowers, but the gaping black maw he created between those two trees represents Hell. The branch in the shape of a hand reaching through is Hades.”

           “Why did he use a branch for Hades' hand rather than another human hand?” Alana wondered. Will shrugged.

           “I think that’s his hand. The branch was moved and trimmed but not killed from the tree. He says he represents the life in the darkness, so I don’t think he’d want a dead hand for that. He’s leading Persephone into what, to mortals, is the worst of places to be, but we all know she ruled Hell after getting there. Hades paved the place before her to be a queen.” Will swallowed heavily, his palms clammy against his jeans. Nervously, he drummed his fingers.

           “So you think that one psychiatrist was right? Dr. Chilton claims the Chesapeake Killer is in love.” Alana wrinkled her nose in disgust at the thought, and Will twitched his shoulder in a shrug. He noted the FBI agents moving about, and that was even better confirmation than his own thoughts or Dr. Chilton’s news analysis.

           “He even found the right dress to put her in. The right floral crown, the whole…set-up. He’s detailed. A romantic.”

           “Are you impressed at his care, or are you horrified you can see the care he put into it?” Alana asked lightly. Will tensed, looking to her knee cap, then to the ground where her foot rested. Although they’d never talked about his mind very much, out of her respect for their friendship, there was a reason Alana was the top of her class. She knew without him ever having to say a damn thing.

           “Both,” he admitted, and he scratched the back of his neck.

           “Seeing and understanding doesn’t make you the same,” she assured him, and she lightly patted his shoulder, squeezing it.

           “I know.”

           “I know you know, but as your friend I’m making sure that you know I know.” He laughed at that, standing up when the sight of Persephone’s curly brown mop of hair was too much for him. That was the only inaccuracy to her appearance, and it was enough for him to solidify the kernel of truth that he’d been wrestling with for a few weeks now.

           The Chesapeake Ripper was interested in him, for reasons he was too terrified to know.

-

           There was a letter waiting for him when he got home, and he snatched it from the floor of the apartment hall with a vengeance. He let his bike fall onto the middle of his apartment floor as he hurriedly locked his door behind him, and when he sat down at the table, he opened it with shaky hands, the heavy paper supple and smooth. Out of the envelope, seven seeds fell, and he stared at them on the cheap wooden tabletop before he unfolded the letter, swallowing convulsively.

Dear Will,

You bring the light clasped round you, and although I knew you’d bring it, knew it as I waited, Knew as you’d come that you’d come cloaked in light I had forgotten what light meant, and so This longed for moment, so anticipated, I stand still, dazzled by my own delight.

I see you, and you see me, and we smile And your smile says you are as pleased as me With everything and nothing still to say All that we’ve saved and thought through all this time Boils down to affirmation now as we Stand here enlightened in my realm of grey.

                                                                                   Yours,

                                                                                   -C.R.

           He shook his head, but the words remained the same. A steady thrum of pleasure snaked down his back and, with a groan of disgust, he tossed it to the center of the table where the other poem lay. Poetry? The Chesapeake Ripper was sending him poetry? Two bodies could now be said to be equally his blame, since something about him had made the Ripper want to…well, rip. He dragged his fingertips over his eyelids, rubbing them until galactic spirals churned in his vision.

           He couldn’t stay in his house like this. Like Dr. Lecter said –friends were supposed to be your stability.

           Perhaps that was what had him out at a club that was certainly not his style that Friday night, seated at the bar while Beverly, Alana, and Alana’s girlfriend, Margot, danced to a syncopated and too fast beat. Beside him, Brian Zeller took a rather large gulp of his beer, spinning on the stool to watch them.

           “This was a great idea,” he said to Will, motioning towards Beverly. “She’s pissed they won’t let her finish her work, so it’s going to sit there all weekend because the school insists we aren’t there.” Brian was a good friend of Beverly’s since they were both studying forensics with sights on the FBI. While sometimes Brian found Will to be all but intolerable, Will found that his presence was certainly tolerable enough. He wasn’t Beverly, but he’d do. He needed the noise, the alcohol, and the feverish high that places like this brought in order to get rid of the image of Persephone reaching for Hades’ hand on the middle of the Tri-Delta lawn. He wondered if they’d dig up the flowers the Ripper had planted, or if they’d keep it as some odd memento. He wondered if they'd give him one to put into a terra cotta pot.

           “I thought she could use it,” he said over the beat. He sipped his whiskey, pleased that he’d caught the woman in time before she’d given him bottom shelf well water instead of something smooth. Once he’d told her he bartended, she was quick to give him middle shelf, which was all a guy could ask for.

           “This isn’t your scene, though, right? I mean, you’re not going to go try and…” Brian laughed and motioned towards the dance floor where several men lurked, attempting to find ways to ingratiate themselves to the gyrating bodies. Will shrugged, eyes leaping to the flashing, seizure-inducing lights.

           “You can, and I won’t judge,” he promised Brian, and that’s all that Zeller needed to hear. He was gone after he chugged his beer down, and he worked through the crowd in order to get to where their friends were, moving to the beat.

           Time crawled, though. While they moved and shifted and bounced about to the ever changing songs and sounds, he took drink after drink until the sweaty air became too hot, the stool beneath him too unstable. Will paid his tab and stumbled from his seat, unable to find his friends but more than able to find a side door out into an alley. He gulped in the cool air, and he wiped his forehead, leaning back against the brick and closing his eyes to make the world stop spinning for just a moment.

           It was at that unfortunate moment that he was grabbed, the world lurching about him wildly as he was spun and slammed against the brick wall face first, making spots of starlight explode in his eyes.

           “Fuck, what are you-”

           “Sh,” the person said, and Will froze as the assailant pinned him against the wall from his knees to his shoulders, their body flush against him. He thought to shout out, to resist, but against the side of his ribs he felt a thin, deadly pressure, and his drunken mind said that yes, Will, that was indeed a knife. People with knives pressed to their skin didn’t shout or resist because they weren’t stupid, and you’re drunk but certainly not stupid.

           Right?

           “Don’t move.” The voice was low, gravelly. Will froze against the wall, although he had it in him to nod so that the man knew he was going to comply. Was he being robbed? He didn’t have much since he deposited his tips into his account as soon as possible, but there was at least twenty bucks in his wallet.

           He didn’t go for his wallet, though, pressed so close as they were. Will knew that he was burning up from the alcohol, but that paled in comparison to the heat that radiated from the man, something that scalded his skin and pierced deep. Against his back, the man’s heart beat at a steady, regular interval, and Will knew this wasn’t the first time he’d handled another person so violently.

           The man's hands began to move slowly, leisurely. They trailed along the side of his thighs, his waist, his ribs. When they reached the juncture between chest and arm, they slid over his back and splayed across his shoulder blades, the small bump in the spread informing Will that he was dragging the knife along, too. He held as still as he could, breaths turning into gasps, transforming to wheezes. He was going to die. He was going to die drunk outside of a club in an alley, then what would the Chesapeake Ripper say?

           The man’s hands glided over his shoulders, then jerked him from the wall enough that he could slide his hands down his chest, across his ribs. Even with the space provided, he didn’t feel like he had an out. The man’s chest was pressed flush against him, his arms an iron cage. In the darkness of the alley, he could only see shapes, distinctions of where the knife was separate from the hand, and when he paused on Will’s heartbeat it doubled in time, alerting his attacker that he was utterly, utterly terrified.

           The hands continued their investigation, gliding across his stomach and abs, hesitating at the waistline, pausing just above his jeans. He gulped, and the man’s hands drifted down, stopping just at the point where his hand rested right on top of Will’s member.

           “Please don’t,” he said quietly, and the man applied pressure, rubbing the area in slow, massaging circles. Will shuddered and his head fell forward so that it could press into the brick, a sharp breath hissing from his lips. The man behind him hmm’d thoughtfully, and he pressed his nose and mouth against Will’s neck, inhaling deeply.

           He felt when it began to become aroused, tightening the material of his jeans, and the other man felt it, too. There was a disconnect, a whisper in his mind that reminded him that physical reaction was not a true sign of arousal, that the body naturally reacted to stimulation. When the man bit down on his neck and sucked lightly, though, the thought swept away from him, disorganized and chaotic in the rush of pleasure that made his knees weak. This wasn’t right; this wasn’t right.

           It felt pretty damn good, though.

           His breaths became pants, his member straining against the material. The man gripped it tightly, squeezed, and he moaned, leaning back against him. The man’s free hand wrapped tightly around his chest, holding him back against the erection he could feel pressed tightly to his rear.

           A door slammed to the side of the club.

           The man shoved him, and he fell against the brick wall, his breaths escaping in quiet, muted gulps. Footsteps rushed away from him, and when his mind made the connection to turn and look, there was no one there. He blinked, stared at the empty alleyway, and when he finally got his legs to cooperate, he found his way to a taxi and slid into it, rubbing his neck where the assailant had left their mark.

-

           The next day, well after he’d dry-heaved into the toilet and scrubbed the taste of day old whiskey from his mouth, he savagely tore open the letter that waited on his doorstep, innocent and lovely with its curling script and cream paper. This time, it was gravel that fell into his palm, and he knew without having to truly know just who had assaulted him in the middle of an alley in DC.

Dear Will,

           You really must be more careful where you go so late at night. What if I had not been the only killer in the alleyway? What would you have done, then?

                                                                                                                                                                                               Yours,

                                                                                                                                                                                               -C.R.

-

           “You look far more tired than usual, Will. How was your weekend?” Hannibal saw all, it seemed. Will set his drink down, a Sauvignon Blanc, and he rubbed the lack of sleep out of his eyes.

           “Pretty hellish,” he admitted, then rebuked himself. That wasn’t something Hannibal Lecter had to know. He was a customer, for Christ’s sake.

           “More letters from your admirer?” At his gesture to sit down, Will took it, glancing about to make sure no other customers were about. Sangre wasn’t a popular place on a Monday at 4:00 P.M., which is probably why he was stuck with the shift. New blood got the worst shifts.

           “And what I suspect is a body, but I can’t confirm that,” he said, and admitting it out loud was like spitting acid onto the table before them. His fingers tapped out a tuneless beat on the server tray, and he held his breath. Should he tell Hannibal that he’d been sexually assaulted? He’d considered going to the cops, but his classes and experiences told him just how futile that adventure would be. Women who’d been raped or assaulted faced a gauntlet of horrifying and accusatory statements, and men were faced with a blank stare of utter disbelief. Men weren’t sexually assaulted. Women mostly lied about being sexually assaulted.

           He’d firmly decided against filing the report.

           “It is interesting that this person has chosen you,” Hannibal said, tilting his head. “Why do you think that is?”

           “He thinks…I can connect with people on a level beyond human interaction,” Will said slowly. Don’t give it away. Don’t give it away. “But I’m sure that I upset him the other night, so I may not hear from him ever again.”

           “How did you do that?” Dr. Lecter asked, intrigued. His eyes lightened perceptively.

           “Are we going to start calling these therapy sessions, Dr. Lecter?” Will replied dryly.

           “These are mere conversations between acquaintances,” Hannibal replied genially. He inhaled the bouquet and smiled appreciatively at Will, nodding his approval. “Some would argue this a more of a summer wine, but I enjoy the freshness of it.”

           “I thought something light for the day,” Will said. Something light while discussing something dark.

           “A lovely thought. But do go on.”

           “I went out with friends to a club they like, and I got a little drunk,” Will revealed, rubbing the back of his neck. “He basically informed me that he didn’t like that.”

           “Are you so sure it’s a he?”

           “If the murders that are correlating to the letters are him, then yes.” He thought of the muggy, cold air that’d collected in the space around them, the heat that’d burned his skin. That was no woman that’d pressed him against the wall.

           “He feels entitled to where you go and what you do, then,” Hannibal observed. “Why do you think that is?”

           “Obsession,” Will replied automatically.

           “So you believe this person is obsessed with you?” Will shrugged, a non-committed gesture.

           “He’s obsessed with some part of me that he thinks he can see, but he doesn’t really know me. He’s never spoken to me, but he’s made assumptions, and he’s obsessed with those ideas.”

           “By your logic, then, if he did come to know you, would it cease to be an obsession? Would it transcend to something more?” Hannibal wondered. “You who looked at the murders that you feel are linked to this admirer, you assumed to know of them the way this admirer assumes they know you. In your own way, does that make you obsessed in some form or other?”

           “I only looked to see after their deaths correlated to me, though,” Will protested.

           “Then perhaps the obsession is with yourself, that you see someone kill another and suppose it has anything to do with you,” Hannibal replied with a sly smile.

           “…Maybe,” Will said reluctantly.

           “Are you, perhaps, upset that he didn’t ask permission before sending you such letters?” Hannibal inquired when Will didn’t add anything. “I should have asked permission as well before engaging in any sort of conversation –my mistake.”

           “It’s different with you,” Will said, looking up to his face. “You aren’t running around town killing people just to get my attention.”

           “Thankfully,” Hannibal replied gravely. He maintained an intense, searching stare, and the longer Will looked, the more he found his breath coming somewhat short, wanting.

           Wanting what?

           “And…I like our conversations,” he added a beat later. He looked out of the window where passersby hurried through whatever errand sent them scurrying so quickly. He felt Hannibal’s stare on his skin like a stain he couldn’t quite scrub off, and he wasn’t sure whether he should elaborate or slink back to the bar where he’d pretend to wipe it down for a little while. Hannibal busied himself with enjoying the wine, and that was enough compliment for him.

           “I enjoy our conversations as well, Will,” Hannibal said at last. “Despite your reluctance for any interaction with others, once you put aside a refusal to be anything more than professional, you’re quite adept at socializing with people, as adults are wont to do.”

           “My refusal to be anything more than professional?” Will asked, eyes flickering to Hannibal’s lips. They twitched.

           “Oh, yes. I could see the fear in your eyes, at first; God forbid we became friendly.” It took him a second to realize that Dr. Lecter was teasing him. Will smiled wryly, and he looked to the bar, giving a start when he saw his boss. He stood and held up the server tray, akin to a shield, and he nodded to Hannibal, as professional and aloof as he could make it.

           Whether his boss bought it or not, that much was uncertain. Hannibal left a generous tip, and Will was left with an odd feeling that made his bones press tight against his skin.

[brandyfields66-blog]

What This Mom Learned About Food Culture in America After Her Baby Stopped Eating

You'll want to have tissues handy when you dive into The Eating Instinct: Food Culture, Body Image, and Guilt in America. Though the new book from Virginia Sole-Smith might sound at first blush like a feminist or body-positivity book-both of which it is-it's also a deeply personal, heart-wrenching story.

Sole-Smith's elder daughter, Violet, stopped eating by mouth at nine weeks old, and didn't start again until she was about 16 months old. Rare congenital heart defects landed Violet in the hospital four weeks into her tiny life, and she emerged with what's known medically as an oral aversion or infantile anorexia. It's “when a child refuses to eat as a way of protecting herself from perceived trauma,” writes Sole-Smith. Violet was restricted to feeding tubes for much of her infancy, leaving her mother stricken, frightened, and wondering, “What does it mean to learn to eat, in a world that's telling us not to eat?”

A journalist who covers health, parenting, lifestyle, and culture, Sole-Smith dove into the topic with a reporter's zeal for talking to experts. She interviewed dieticians (including some with their own eating disorders), poverty-stricken moms recovering from cocaine addictions, “health at every size” activists, anti-fat doctors, and plenty of researchers. The result is a data-packed book with the epic tale of little Violet re-learning to eat threaded throughout.

Here, Sole-Smith delves deeper into a few of the topics she covered in her book.

RELATED: Why We Need to Stop Talking About Food and Guilt

Your book ends with your desire to feed your younger daughter by mouth. Did that work?

Beatrix is 10 months old and a very typical eater; she took swimmingly to breastfeeding and bottle-feeding. I really went into baby number two thinking my number one goal is a baby who eats by mouth. I am not picky. I also knew after the devastating experience with Violet and breastfeeding [that] I didn't want all that pressure on my shoulders.

We did combination feeding [a mix of breast milk and formula] from the beginning. She had a little formula her first night [to] help take the pressure off. My milk took a couple days to come in. … Then we did what worked. I was like, “I'm not listening to anyone this time. Tell everyone to shut up. I'm going to feed the baby the way that makes sense.” 

The “breast is best” breast-feeding pressure thing that moms hear; is it hammered a lot?

A few years ago when I had Violet it really felt like I had to breast-feed this baby or I had failed as a mother. I don't think that's quite there anymore. What I'm still seeing is now a set of “allowed” circumstances in which you can [choose not to] breast-feed but you have to have failed at it. … “It's OK to be using formula if you had a traumatic birth. If there are reasons … because XYZ happened.”

We're not yet to a place where people can generally do what I did [with Beatrix], which is, “I'm going to do what works and not feel bad about it. I'm gonna stop breast-feeding when it stops being fun.”

RELATED: The Mindful Eating Hack That Helped Me Stop Obsessing About Food

Isn't breast-feeding also a big time commitment for women?

It's a huge time commitment. Anyone who says, 'Oh, breast-feeding is free,' doesn't think a woman's time is worth anything. My billable hours are [worth] a lot more than a can of formula. It's another way that our culture is saying, “We control women's bodies; we control women and food.” That's what I'm arguing against in the book. There's a lot of overlap between diet culture messages and exclusive breastfeeding messages. I think the two have gotten pretty murky. The literature is not cut-and-dry on what the healthiest choice is. There are many circumstances where formula is the healthiest choice for the baby. We don't celebrate that. We just say, “Women need to turn their bodies over to the babies,” just like we say the rest of the time, “Women have to be as thin as possible.” It's all of a piece, in my mind.

Trying to get Violet to eat by mouth, you used the “division of responsibility” theory. Can you explain it?

It's a theory developed by Ellyn Satter, a family therapist and nutritionist, back in the 80s. She's written several books about it, but I'm seeing it more and more in the mainstream conversations around kids, which is really exciting. The premise of it is that children are autonomous beings who should have agency over their bodies and what goes into their bodies. Rather than parents being in charge of every bite of food and meticulously counting out portions and all that, it says, “Nope, parents and children are in a feeding relationship, and they each have certain roles.”

Parents are in charge of what food is offered, where it's offered (preferably at a table, not in front of the TV or mindlessly grazing around the house), and when it's offered. They try to keep kids on a schedule so that kids have time to get hungry and come to the table hungry. After that-after they've said, “OK, we're eating dinner at this time, and this place, and here's what your choices are,” the parents' job is done.

Kids are in charge of how much they eat, which of the foods they eat of what you offer, and even whether they eat at that meal. They're in charge of listening to their bodies, in terms of hunger and fullness, and in terms of, “Of the foods you're offering me, what do I really need right now? Maybe I don't really need a piece of chicken at this meal; maybe I'm really hungry just for the pasta.” That's fine. We kind of trust kids to listen to their bodies and know what they're really hungry for.

RELATED: 20 Signs You're Too Obsessed With Your Weight 

Having seen parent friends negotiate “one more piece of chicken before you're done,” I feel like this must be controversial. Is it?

We had to do division of responsibility; we were in an extreme situation. What I see with parents who are feeding kids in more typical situations, is when they're not practicing division of responsibility, it's probably fine for a while, depending on the temperament of your kid. A lot of kids are like, “Yeah, I'll have another bite of broccoli, whatever. My mom really cares that I finish all these blueberries, so I'll just do it.” … That's fine. Not every family will find that strategy problematic, at least in the short term.

But what will happen over time is that child is being given the message that many of us received as kids of, “I don't know what's best for my body. I don't know what I'm hungry and full for. When I do feel full, maybe I can't trust that, because somebody else-this adult that I love and I trust-is saying, 'No, no, no. I know what your body needs. It doesn't need a cookie. You shouldn't want a cookie. You should want broccoli.'” That doesn't line up with the kid's [experience]. It's a really confusing message to send to kids.

My concern is that over time, with typical eaters, that leads to undercutting their sense of trust in their own bodies, and that makes them much more vulnerable to the messages of diet culture. Because now they've sort of grown up thinking, “I don't know what's best for me with food.” So of course when they're struggling with weight, or feeling unhappy with their body for whatever reason, they think, “I must need a diet or this external rules to tell me what to do because I've never known. No one's ever said, '[You] know what's best for your body.'”

I want to be clear: It's not about shaming parents who do that. It's just about thinking long-term. We're thinking short term, “I gotta get this kid through eating without a meltdown.” I have all the empathy in the world for that. Those short-term decisions are hard to pull off. … What you want long-term isn't always what you want short-term.

RELATED: The Eating Disorder Many Women Don't Know They Have

Some would say, “Kids are wrong that they need cookies. I know more than they do.”

What I would say is, I don't think any of us know as much as we think we know about nutrition. The nutrition advice is always changing. When I was a kid in the '80s, it was all about fat, and low-fat and fat free, and now we're all, “More with the avocados and coconut oil!” The science on this is not settled in any way.

To say I'm gonna follow nutrition instead of letting my kids listen to their own bodies, you're not taking the more cut-and-dry fact-based approach by any means. There is good data supporting division of responsibility. It's not as robust as I'd like, but we are starting to see more data supporting that teaching kids to honor hunger and fullness is a way to put them towards a healthier relationship with food. The parent is still in charge of choosing the what. You are still choosing the nutrition. But we're not dictators. We're more benign leaders.

We always have a banana on the dinner table; it's one of my daughter's safe foods. If she's not going to eat the rest of the meal, I know she'll eat the banana, and I've accommodated her that way.

In your book's conclusion, you dream of a world of judgment-free, guilt-free eating. Are you an intuitive eating proponent?

Yeah. I'm in no way an expert on it. I'm not a dietician or someone who can offer the specifics of how you learn that. It's something that I aspire to and practice myself, I try to encourage it with my kids, and as with all things, I'm always overly hesitant to use the label, because there are lots of diet plans marketed around intuitive eating that are really not. Caveat that I'm for true intuitive eating, not intuitive eating with a goal of weight loss. It's the only way I've found that makes sense.

Alex Van Buren is a Brooklyn-based writer, editor and content strategist whose work has appeared in The Washington Post, Bon Appétit, Travel + Leisure, New York Magazine, Condé Nast Traveler, and Epicurious. Follow her on Instagram and Twitter @alexvanburen.

To get our top stories delivered to your inbox, sign up for the Healthy Living newsletter

[reynoldslevi10-blog]

What This Mom Learned About Food Culture in America After Her Baby Stopped Eating

You'll want to have tissues handy when you dive into The Eating Instinct: Food Culture, Body Image, and Guilt in America. Though the new book from Virginia Sole-Smith might sound at first blush like a feminist or body-positivity book-both of which it is-it's also a deeply personal, heart-wrenching story.

Sole-Smith's elder daughter, Violet, stopped eating by mouth at nine weeks old, and didn't start again until she was about 16 months old. Rare congenital heart defects landed Violet in the hospital four weeks into her tiny life, and she emerged with what's known medically as an oral aversion or infantile anorexia. It's “when a child refuses to eat as a way of protecting herself from perceived trauma,” writes Sole-Smith. Violet was restricted to feeding tubes for much of her infancy, leaving her mother stricken, frightened, and wondering, “What does it mean to learn to eat, in a world that's telling us not to eat?”

A journalist who covers health, parenting, lifestyle, and culture, Sole-Smith dove into the topic with a reporter's zeal for talking to experts. She interviewed dieticians (including some with their own eating disorders), poverty-stricken moms recovering from cocaine addictions, “health at every size” activists, anti-fat doctors, and plenty of researchers. The result is a data-packed book with the epic tale of little Violet re-learning to eat threaded throughout.

Here, Sole-Smith delves deeper into a few of the topics she covered in her book.

RELATED: Why We Need to Stop Talking About Food and Guilt

Your book ends with your desire to feed your younger daughter by mouth. Did that work?

Beatrix is 10 months old and a very typical eater; she took swimmingly to breastfeeding and bottle-feeding. I really went into baby number two thinking my number one goal is a baby who eats by mouth. I am not picky. I also knew after the devastating experience with Violet and breastfeeding [that] I didn't want all that pressure on my shoulders.

We did combination feeding [a mix of breast milk and formula] from the beginning. She had a little formula her first night [to] help take the pressure off. My milk took a couple days to come in. … Then we did what worked. I was like, “I'm not listening to anyone this time. Tell everyone to shut up. I'm going to feed the baby the way that makes sense.” 

The “breast is best” breast-feeding pressure thing that moms hear; is it hammered a lot?

A few years ago when I had Violet it really felt like I had to breast-feed this baby or I had failed as a mother. I don't think that's quite there anymore. What I'm still seeing is now a set of “allowed” circumstances in which you can [choose not to] breast-feed but you have to have failed at it. … “It's OK to be using formula if you had a traumatic birth. If there are reasons … because XYZ happened.”

We're not yet to a place where people can generally do what I did [with Beatrix], which is, “I'm going to do what works and not feel bad about it. I'm gonna stop breast-feeding when it stops being fun.”

RELATED: The Mindful Eating Hack That Helped Me Stop Obsessing About Food

Isn't breast-feeding also a big time commitment for women?

It's a huge time commitment. Anyone who says, 'Oh, breast-feeding is free,' doesn't think a woman's time is worth anything. My billable hours are [worth] a lot more than a can of formula. It's another way that our culture is saying, “We control women's bodies; we control women and food.” That's what I'm arguing against in the book. There's a lot of overlap between diet culture messages and exclusive breastfeeding messages. I think the two have gotten pretty murky. The literature is not cut-and-dry on what the healthiest choice is. There are many circumstances where formula is the healthiest choice for the baby. We don't celebrate that. We just say, “Women need to turn their bodies over to the babies,” just like we say the rest of the time, “Women have to be as thin as possible.” It's all of a piece, in my mind.

Trying to get Violet to eat by mouth, you used the “division of responsibility” theory. Can you explain it?

It's a theory developed by Ellyn Satter, a family therapist and nutritionist, back in the 80s. She's written several books about it, but I'm seeing it more and more in the mainstream conversations around kids, which is really exciting. The premise of it is that children are autonomous beings who should have agency over their bodies and what goes into their bodies. Rather than parents being in charge of every bite of food and meticulously counting out portions and all that, it says, “Nope, parents and children are in a feeding relationship, and they each have certain roles.”

Parents are in charge of what food is offered, where it's offered (preferably at a table, not in front of the TV or mindlessly grazing around the house), and when it's offered. They try to keep kids on a schedule so that kids have time to get hungry and come to the table hungry. After that-after they've said, “OK, we're eating dinner at this time, and this place, and here's what your choices are,” the parents' job is done.

Kids are in charge of how much they eat, which of the foods they eat of what you offer, and even whether they eat at that meal. They're in charge of listening to their bodies, in terms of hunger and fullness, and in terms of, “Of the foods you're offering me, what do I really need right now? Maybe I don't really need a piece of chicken at this meal; maybe I'm really hungry just for the pasta.” That's fine. We kind of trust kids to listen to their bodies and know what they're really hungry for.

RELATED: 20 Signs You're Too Obsessed With Your Weight 

Having seen parent friends negotiate “one more piece of chicken before you're done,” I feel like this must be controversial. Is it?

We had to do division of responsibility; we were in an extreme situation. What I see with parents who are feeding kids in more typical situations, is when they're not practicing division of responsibility, it's probably fine for a while, depending on the temperament of your kid. A lot of kids are like, “Yeah, I'll have another bite of broccoli, whatever. My mom really cares that I finish all these blueberries, so I'll just do it.” … That's fine. Not every family will find that strategy problematic, at least in the short term.

But what will happen over time is that child is being given the message that many of us received as kids of, “I don't know what's best for my body. I don't know what I'm hungry and full for. When I do feel full, maybe I can't trust that, because somebody else-this adult that I love and I trust-is saying, 'No, no, no. I know what your body needs. It doesn't need a cookie. You shouldn't want a cookie. You should want broccoli.'” That doesn't line up with the kid's [experience]. It's a really confusing message to send to kids.

My concern is that over time, with typical eaters, that leads to undercutting their sense of trust in their own bodies, and that makes them much more vulnerable to the messages of diet culture. Because now they've sort of grown up thinking, “I don't know what's best for me with food.” So of course when they're struggling with weight, or feeling unhappy with their body for whatever reason, they think, “I must need a diet or this external rules to tell me what to do because I've never known. No one's ever said, '[You] know what's best for your body.'”

I want to be clear: It's not about shaming parents who do that. It's just about thinking long-term. We're thinking short term, “I gotta get this kid through eating without a meltdown.” I have all the empathy in the world for that. Those short-term decisions are hard to pull off. … What you want long-term isn't always what you want short-term.

RELATED: The Eating Disorder Many Women Don't Know They Have

Some would say, “Kids are wrong that they need cookies. I know more than they do.”

What I would say is, I don't think any of us know as much as we think we know about nutrition. The nutrition advice is always changing. When I was a kid in the '80s, it was all about fat, and low-fat and fat free, and now we're all, “More with the avocados and coconut oil!” The science on this is not settled in any way.

To say I'm gonna follow nutrition instead of letting my kids listen to their own bodies, you're not taking the more cut-and-dry fact-based approach by any means. There is good data supporting division of responsibility. It's not as robust as I'd like, but we are starting to see more data supporting that teaching kids to honor hunger and fullness is a way to put them towards a healthier relationship with food. The parent is still in charge of choosing the what. You are still choosing the nutrition. But we're not dictators. We're more benign leaders.

We always have a banana on the dinner table; it's one of my daughter's safe foods. If she's not going to eat the rest of the meal, I know she'll eat the banana, and I've accommodated her that way.

In your book's conclusion, you dream of a world of judgment-free, guilt-free eating. Are you an intuitive eating proponent?

Yeah. I'm in no way an expert on it. I'm not a dietician or someone who can offer the specifics of how you learn that. It's something that I aspire to and practice myself, I try to encourage it with my kids, and as with all things, I'm always overly hesitant to use the label, because there are lots of diet plans marketed around intuitive eating that are really not. Caveat that I'm for true intuitive eating, not intuitive eating with a goal of weight loss. It's the only way I've found that makes sense.

Alex Van Buren is a Brooklyn-based writer, editor and content strategist whose work has appeared in The Washington Post, Bon Appétit, Travel + Leisure, New York Magazine, Condé Nast Traveler, and Epicurious. Follow her on Instagram and Twitter @alexvanburen.

To get our top stories delivered to your inbox, sign up for the Healthy Living newsletter

[thatinnerfeirygoddessphoenix]

Sensitive

I dont like to talk about my squishy side, but I suppose i need to embrace it instead of being ashamed of it.

My neice was upset about not getting to watch her show at bedtime. Were trying to get her into better things than T.V. I understand the struggle. Growing up it was always, sit down, be quiet, just go watch t.v. Stay out of our hair, basically. At least we were allowed to go outside.

As I rocked her to sleep and sang to her a made up song... A wave of feeling washed over me. Something close to sadness and joy. Kinda mixed together. I cant even describe it... I lay by her as she held my hand. She doesnt like to be alone. I started to cry once she finally fell into real sleep.

Because I DO love her so much. I want to protect her from the world. From the tragedies of my own childhood. From ending up like her mom or my mom... or myself.

The disparity ive been feeling... ive traced it back to the way i was brought up. Kind of, always alone. Unwanted. Afraid of people because i was hardly ever exposed to people. Except for the crazy people my dad knew.

My mom, antisocial and hermetic practically. Depressed over a long line of bad romances and self loathing. I didnt notice when i was a kid. All i remember is hunger, adventures outside, and climbing the roof of the shed to look at the sunset. Or maybe to hide....

I was fearless as a child. Danger was not a thing. Ghosts and monsters were just friends with ugly faces. I grew up in what i hate to describe as filth.

Darkness.

The addams family and monsters... the shunned and misunderstood. I recognize these things only now that ive learned how the monsters of the world were made.

An authors personal demons. Did Mary Shelley feel isolated and different? Cast from proper society because she wasnt "normal"

What is normal?

My dad, when he was there... didnt seem all the way there. I remember going to a party or meeting some shady people with him. His friends. I always wondered why that side og my family treated me differently. Like i wasnt really a part of their family.

Thats the reason i never felt comfortable around them. Not that i didnt WANT to talk ans be normal.... i just COULDNT. They said i was shy... when in fact i was terrified of social interaction. Afraid i would say or do the wrong thing because i didnt want them to hate me.

It lasted until high school. By then, i was so angry i didnt care about what people thought. If i didnt talk it was because i didnt want to be there. Music was my escape... In my life ive only had two breakdowns. One in elementary school, where i remember my favorite teacher holding me as i cried. After i had kicked and bit and scratched and screamed.

I dont know why I felt so intensely. I remember i just didnt want to go to school. I wanted to stay with my mom. That same teacher, i witnessed her fall and hiy her head on a balance beam in class. Everyone was so terrified, running around like chickens. I remember thinking, i could be a hero. I should go get help. But i just sat there.

Eventually someone else came by, some other kid did what i was too paralyzed to do. Thats some intense shit for a kindergartener.

The second meltdown, i was about 14 i think. I was sick and tired of my stepdad. His rules and chores. Only my sister and i had to do. Boys didnt do chores. Boys didnt wash dishes or cook. I only did them if my mom asked. I never liked my stepdad...

Sick of it all i just raged. Punched the walls, broke things. This one i remember less, but i was kicked out of the house and lived with my aunt after that. I liked it there. I helped her with stuff, but i was never forced to do anything. I could go out with friends. I had freedom. I missed that so much.

I used to watch shrek daily with my little cousin Britnie... now i cant really stand her. I feel bad for holding a grudge for so long. She emulated me in a lot of things. Art, music, even face painting and stuff... but she just ruined my perception of her.

I dont know how to let that go. My heart was broken and torn to pieces. I didnt even get a proper apology. When the other culprit literally CRIED at the thought of losing me.

He's changed too. My heart is still stuck in his eyes. Yet I sensed something in him... something, not right. I still dont know the truth, but i dont think i even want to know.

He wont talk to me anymore. Wont reply even to a badly worded apology. If i dont keep him off my mind i go fucking bonkers insane.

How can someone have such a hold on you?

Im scared of people, because the more you let them in, the worse it hurts when they finally fuck you over.

Now i understand crazy girls.