#and it's so bad that even thinking about getting surgery or spending $200 on a prosthetic gives me MORE dysphoria bc I just can't help

[mycelium-bf]

vent// dysphoria tw

[cathchicken]

My birthday went really well! I got lots of my favorite food (and got sick haha) but it was very worth it. My mom even got an early flight home!! So I was able to spend the evening with her! As for presents, I got more candy, but mainly a lot of money haha. My mom creatively wrapped everything… so it was interesting! I then got cake, crumb cake. My favorite cake and the only cake I like haha. I couldn’t eat much though, I was so full from dinner

BUT now I have like 200 in spending, so I am gonna probably indulge haha. My first thought was being able to afford lasik surgery… my eyes are pretty bad, and I think it would be helpful in the long run (but I don’t think lasik can fix astigmatism? Since that has to do with the shape of your eye) but we will see

otherwise I have a lot of fun things I’d buy. Maybe a few month subscription to one of those food box things, or maybe I could find something neat on Etsy. I remember seeing once someone who made custom chicken plushies, and I’ve wanted to find a way to honor Periwinkle for a while now… I’ll think about it

anyways! I’m sorry I wasn’t too active, I was planning to still get things done but I ended up goofing around the whole day. Oh well

[aropride]

this is driving me insane i can't stop thinking about it. i keep seeing posts i know are vagueing that post and it's so insane to me how much it got twisted.

here's the posts that started the discourse. copy pasting for accessibility and to remove urls. these posts are in reference to a screenshot of a tiktok with the caption "Taking my daughter to my laser hair removal appt so she learns about self care and doesn't feel guilty about it when she gets older."

this is fucking ghoulish (in next reblog) the way enforcing harmful and patriarchal beauty standards has gotten rebranded as "self care" and something that is no longer done to please men but now something that is "liberating" and something you do "for you" now is fucking insidious . taking your four year old daughter to watch you get laser hair removal is not "teaching her about self care" it's teaching her that there is something wrong with her from a very young age, and that she'll need to spend the rest of her life getting it fixed . you cannot reframe indoctrinating your own fucking daughter into this as a girlboss self care queen move. this is insane. (next reblog) self care is when you shave your legs… for yourself! self care is when you get a nose job…. for yourself! self care is when you when you spend 200$ on wellness products and diet tips and buy buy buy so much makeup that you need to put on everytime you leave the house or else you are an ugly pig … for yourself! self care is when you buy what the tell you to buy and do what they've always told you to do but don't worry girl. you're doing this for YOU this time . girl slayyy you are so hashtag crushing the patriarchy. i want to kill myself. (next reblog) (screenshot of a comment reading: "I don't get how everyone here claims to support trans people and body autonomy, and then claim that gender affirming care such as laser is furthering the patriarchy. That's literally a TERF talking point. Cis people should be allowed to have gender affirming care too." comment over) it's so over man it's never been more over than it is rn (next reblog) "laser hair removal is gender affirming care and cis people should be able to access it too" ok why is laser hair removal gender affirming care though. why is being completely removed of all of your body hair something that is seen as part of "being female" to the point you're expected to perform or you will be constantly shamed. that is the point i'm getting at here. this shit doesn't exist in a vacuum. patriarchal expectations surrounding womens body hair also hurt trans women and i don't think it's bad to point that out. (next reblog) "beauty standards are bad actually and hurt women" "well trans women are forced to adhere to those beauty standards too . so you're against gender affirming care" what?

okay. this seems very straightforward to me. basically just "you shouldn't teach your daughter that adhering to patriarchal beauty standards is self care because that will mean she internalizes the idea that having body hair is bad, which is fucked up. i don't think body hair should be seen as part of being a woman, it's harmful to cis and trans women, societal standards of womanhood are fucked up". which is a really normal feminism 101 take tbh. when i was 12 and found out what feminism was that was like, the first thing i learned, is that not shaving is a morally neutral action. it's fine. this post is literally just saying "shaving isnt inherently self care and saying it is might be damaging for little kids."

but people got really mad about that for some reason. so then there's this post, from someone else, responding to carson's post.

if you argue for restricting access to laser hair removal (or whatever surgeries) on the grounds of Protecting Women and even "well trans women shouldn't be pressured to have these procedures anyway! :)" I think you should play in traffic

and i see what they're saying. obviously i think people should have bodily autonomy.

but like. that's... not the point carson was making . i've reread the post trying to figure out where it says that and it doesn't. that's just not what the post says. nobody is arguing for restricting access to laser hair removal. people are just saying it's fucked up that women are pressured into getting it.

and then there's another post, also responding to the original posts:

Blonde cis woman who gets peach fuzz you need a microscope to see if she doesn't shave: "Aren't trans women such gender conformists for shaving their body and getting permanent hair removal. They are upholding patriarchal beauty standards entirely by themselves. I don't shave, because I have courage to against the dictates of femininity *sees an unshaven trans woman* Ugh, she isn't even trying.

in the spirit of good faith i won't assume that this person was calling carson a cis woman and rather that this is just a stereotypical type of person they're mad at. but like. who said this ? i reread the posts again just in case. it doesn't say that . it says that the one specific mother in the original tiktok is harming her child by teaching her that following patriarchal rules about womanhood is self care. it says nothing about trans women "upholding patriarchal beauty standards entirely by themselves" and it definitely doesn't shame trans women for not shaving.

okay one more post.

People when a transfem lets out so much as the slightest hint that societal standards have harmed her in a way that makes body hair a source of anxiety because of how she'll be treated by people and that has maybe caused her some dysphoria at some point in her life: "You are directly responsible for the patriarchy and should be ashamed of promoting it. Clearly you know nothing about real women's struggles despite being part of a subset of woman that is under a disproportionate amount of scrutiny for this sort of thing." People when a transmasc expresses a desire to get more body hair when he goes on t because of his own dysphoria: "yeah that's awesome bro you go get that manly manly body hair!"

first of all. really obsessed with the society people made up in their heads to get mad at where everyone loves trans men and supports our medical and transition decisions. this doesn't happen. like straight up society at large is not throwing parties for trans men who transition. overwhelmingly even in queer spaces it's discouraged. if i had a nickel for every joke from a cis queer woman abt how testosterone turns trans guys into Big Scary Men and Why would anyone choose to be a man and etc etc etc. it's a lot! i've heard it a lot!

but anyway. yes obviously transfems are harmed by societal standards about body hair. both from dysphoria and threat of violence and discrimination. but, like. when did carson say all that stuff about "real women's struggles". point me to the place in the post where trans women were blamed for cisheteropatriarchal beauty standards. where was it stated that trans women getting laser hair removal is them being responsible for the patriarchy. where does it say that in the post.

if i didn't know these posts were about carson's post i would probably not be able to figure it out because they're just so far removed from the actual point being made and it's so baffling to me. isn't it exhausting to take everything in bad faith. isn't it tiring to twist someone's words just to get mad at the version of them u made up in ur head. aren't you tired. isn't there something better to be doing

honestly fucking insane that carson said "i dont think women, cis or trans, should have to shave or get lazer hair removal to be respected and/or seen as women" and people went "wow i cant believe this person said that trans women shouldnt be able to get lazer hair removal" like What the fuck are you talking about . that's literally just not what carson said.

[timemachineyeah]

Looking for Fat Capacity office chairs, which were definitely more expensive than usual office chairs, got me thinking about the health costs of being fat. By that I don’t mean “obesity kills!!!” I mean the ways being fat in A Society is an accessibility issue that no one wants to solve.

We talk a lot in fat acceptance circles about the health costs of medical malpractice and neglect. The psychological costs of constant shaming. The stress, which isn’t good for people. The health risks of diet culture and pressure to take on disordered eating or unhealthy exercise or dangerous surgeries, all of which can add to worse health outcomes. Prescriptions not being testing on higher weights or being prescribed in the wrong dose for fat baddies. Medical equipment not being made to size. And more.

But we don’t talk enough about chairs. Shoes. Toilets. Showers. Mattresses and bed frames. Towels. Backpacks. Cars and seatbelts.

My mom, who is not fat, needs surgery on both her feet, which have slowly deformed over time from bad footwear. When I was still in middle school she sat me down and gave me a long talk about good shoes. You need arch support, she said. Bad feet run in our family. The first time I woke up and found I couldn’t walk except to shuffle around, I was 21. Good shoes? Are essential for me. I am able to remain mobile by spending outrageous amounts of money on very expensive shoes that aren’t even pretty. They are ugly as fuck, but I can walk!

But those shoes. What weight limit were they tested on? How high did it go? How much support would they give me if I weighed 100 more pounds? 200 more? Do they even run trials for that kind of use?

When you get to the “extremes” of fatness, do you reach a point where you just don’t get to have arch support? Too bad, so sad? How quickly does that accelerate physical disabilities?

I spent hours yesterday down an office chair rabbit hole. Reading reviews for chairs with 400 and 500 pound capacities from funny informative fat people. But in one of them there was a Q&A, like you often find on Amazon and other review sites. A user posted a question, and someone responded with basically: please get a bigger chair. A smaller chair will kill you. This isn’t a judgment. I myself am a fat man. I speak from experience. Get a chair that can hold you, or you will die an early death.

Of course I can see why someone would try to make due. Even when there ARE things made to accommodate fat bodies, they are often incredibly cost prohibitive. Combine that with the statistical correlation between fatness and poverty and... well... the people who need these things most are the least likely to be able to afford them.

There’s so much evidence that merely being subject to systemic stress and negligence, on its own, can reduce a person’s lifespan. How much worse is it when you can’t find a viable pair of shoes, don’t have anywhere to sit when you leave your home, can’t easily navigate spaces? How much chronic pain could be alleviated, how much activity could be restored, if fat people had everyday access to things built for fat bodies?

What kind of better outcomes could be achieved, if any of this was actually about health?

[webeattheuniverse2to1]

Tell me a lie, I’ll believe you

CHAPTER 6

Time ... how many times have we wished it to pass quickly?

When we get bored, we want time to be in a second. But, if we stop and think ... for what?

Why do we want to escape those situations? What awaits us? What's after?

Instead, we should stop and enjoy those moments. The moments that we consider less significant.

The ones we believe we can have forever. That will never end. Do you know what they are called? Happy Island. But I call them limbo. The calm before the storm. The light before the dark. The day before the night. We know how long they will last, because we know when they end. But we can't know when the night will end.

We can only commit ourselves to survive, in the memory of the light.

And curse us for not having fully savored those moments, wishing they would pass.

And now? Here is the answer? We still needed time.

The first time was at Kepner's wedding. Even though she hadn't used the words "will you marry me" directly, she meant that. And he was angry when she said she wasn't ready. Not 'no', but she just wasn't ready.

The second time ... well, that was a disaster.

He thought she was ready. But she wasn't. In fact, it wasn't that, just 'I can't'. He could not. Those words were like a punch in the stomach. She didn't tell him why, but she just couldn't.

The third time ... there was no question. It was just 'no'.

Not 'I'm not ready'. Not 'I can't'. Only no.

Take or leave.

Stay or go.

And he made the mistake of choosing the latter.

And he curses himself for doing it.

If he had listened to her, if he hadn't forced her ... now maybe everything would be different.

If he and he alone listened to her, they could both take the day off the next day so she could tell him everything.

Today they could have been together.

Instead they shot her.

Weather. Here's what he wanted. He still wanted time with her, to be with her. To be able to stand by her, listen to her talk about hospital gossip over and over ... those talks he never paid much attention to. But he should have done it. What would he give him to be able to hear her laughter again echoing through the loft walls.

The loft. That landfill she had bought for them, so they could be alone and where to start building a life together.

Alex thinks about this as he walks into the loft after two weeks.

He didn't want to leave Jo, but she had been taken to the operating room so that the others could understand how far the infection was. He wanted to stay close to her, but in the end he was forced. How could he go against Bailey? So now he finds himself there. It feels so empty without her. As if something is missing. Alex sighs, walking over to the bed and sitting on the edge, looking around. The couch. The one she had bought for him with the money she won on the bet. The kitchen. Where he had failed miserably several times to cook something. He chuckles at the thought as their whole story passes by. Blurred images of Jo disappear as a lone tear escapes his eye. He turns behind him to look at her side of the bed. He forcibly closes her eyes, bringing her eyebrows closer together, warding off tears.

When he opens them, he takes a deep breath. Suddenly his sense of oppression seems to crush him as he quickly gets up, throws his clothes into a duffel bag and walks away.

He can't be without her. And if she doesn't survive ... he doesn't know if he'll be able to live there.

An hour later, he is in the gallery above Jo's operating room. They had tried to stop him, but nothing could be done. They couldn't keep him away.

He was watching intently, but then decided to turn on the intercom. "How is her?" he asks. "Karev, what the heck are you doing up there?" Bailey asks, without looking up at her. "Bailey, come on, how is Jo?" he asks more and more impatient. She sighs, looking at Jackson across the table. "All in all, better than we expected. But, Alex, we don't have to rush. The drugs are working, but the infection is still there." Alex nods, sitting down on one of the chairs behind him.

Ten minutes later, they are ready to shut down when the monitors start ringing. Alex leaps to her feet, almost shouting over the intercom. "What is happening?!" "Heart rate is dropping!" Avery yells. Soon after, the heart rate monitor line flattens out. "Start compressions!" "Prepare the plates!" Bailey stops with the compressions, but there is no heartbeat. "Nothing, load at 200!" she says, placing the plates on Jo's chest. "Clear!" she shakes her head when there is no result. Avery resumes compressions as they prepare the plates again. "Ok, load up to 250! Clear!" they are all looking at the monitor, which continues to mark the flat line.

Then suddenly the frequency increases and the heartbeat resumes. Alex runs a hand over his forehead, leaning against the glass. Everyone in the room sighs with relief. "Well, now let's close ...! And, Jo, don't play tricks like that anymore ..." Bailey sighs, taking the thread from the nurse.

Once again, Alex puts on her gloves, mask and scrub before entering Jo's room. Even if he was improving, they shouldn't let their guard down, because at this moment it would take little to make the situation degenerate.

He stops in her doorway, watching her. She looks different to him. She is different from the energetic and perky Jo he was used to. She was ... different. Paler than usual. She seemed more worn out than a few days ago. "Hey ..." he is shaken by her thoughts from her submissive voice. He looks at her, a faint smile gracing her face. He smiles back at her, moving closer to her. "Hey ... how are you feeling?" he asks cautiously. "I've been better ..." she says in a faint voice. He gives her her usual crooked smile, even though he's not sure she can see it through the mask. He places his hand on her cheek, gently stroking her with her thumb, looking at her softly.

"How did the surgery go ...?" she asks. He sighs, trying to stay optimistic. "Well ... it went well ... you are healing, it will take some time, but you will be fine ...!" he reassures her. She looks him directly into her eyes, sighing. "You can't tell ..." "Oh, I do ...!" she frowns "Alex, you know I may not make it ... I may have been fine before I was seriously ill ... what are the chances that I will fully recover ...? We are doctors, you know it could happen ..." " Jo- "" Alex, "she says, taking his hand with what little energy she has left. "Please ... don't have too many illusions that I'll make it ... I don't want you to feel bad for me ... you can go if you want, I'll understand ..." "Shut up ...!" he says bluntly, taking them back to that night in the storm. "I'm not leaving you, for nothing in the world, okay? I don't want to leave to never see you again. I don't want to be without you ...! I don't want to live without you ...! I won't go away. And I know that you won't either ...! You won't die, you'll be fine because I need you! I don't want a wife, I don't want children, I don't want a house with a white fence without you! I don't want to give up on you. You are all I need. You will be fine, you will live, okay? Because I don't want to wake up in the morning without you by my side. I don't want to see movies sitting on our sofa without you next to me. I want to try to put together a dinner without you laughing. I don't want to have children if you're not by my side. I don't want to have a wife if this isn't you. I don't need anything, just you Jo! " he says, wiping the tears from her face as she leans into her touch. "I was wrong, Jo. I shouldn't have cared. I shouldn't have given you an ultimatum. I shouldn't have left, but I should have listened to you. And I know you don't want me to blame, but all of this ... I feel it's my fault .. . I shouldn't have left you, and I swear to God, I will never, never again. Because you are worth everything and more Jo, really. That night I was serious. To me you are everything. I love you, Jo. And I don't have I need marriage, I don't want it. I want you. And if you want the same ... well, then you don't need to be married, just be together. After all, that's marriage, isn't it? 'each other for life. For better or for worse. Health and disease. Forever. I promise you, Jo. Forever. I will not leave you. " she giggles in tears, putting all her strength together and placing a hand on her cheek, looking into her eyes and nodding. "If ... if this is marriage ... that's what I want ...!" their submissive laughter mirrors as Alex presses his forehead against hers. "I really wish I could kiss you right now ..." she whispers to him. He chuckles at her, stroking her cheek. "Rest now ... I'll be here when you wake up," she says. "Do you promise?" "I promise," she assures her. When she thinks she is asleep, she whispers "I love you too Alex".

In the end ... after dark the light goes back to spending. After the night the sun will rise again. The bad times ... well, those will always be there, but they last forever.

[rosy-wooyoung]

Let’s get emotional…

I know no one will read this but i’m still putting it out there!

today is my account anniversary!! 🥳🥳

I created this blog on the 14.12.2019, and a year later, nothing really changed. It’s just me, still sitting at my desk, my whole back hurting with cold hands and my pathetically low self-esteem. It was one boring evening, I remember, I had just eaten dinner and I rushed to my computer to come back on Tumblr to read more ATEEZ content because I was fascinated by them, their talent and stage presence. (I still am, don’t worry) And then, I thought damn, I wanna write for them as well. You know what?

Fuck it. Imma do it.

I put the task of finding a username aside and start feeling inspiration flooding in my mind. I spend the entire evening writing as the words come, not caring about the coherence, the grammar nor the consistency of my writing, I just type and type until my fingers are cramping and my brain lagging. It’s just an amazing feeling when you don’t have to rack your brains to find ideas or words, I just had to think of an ATEEZ member, and the imagination would immediately submerge my mind. 

I truly aspire to find back the motivation I had a year ago.

The next morning, I even skip breakfast because I wanted to create, brainstorm, rewrite and correct the works I had produced the night before. I completely ditch my uni homework - don’t do that kids - until the end of the afternoon, where I post a note, introducing myself to the atiny Tumblr community. I was very anxious and shy before posting my first imagine, but I was immediately welcomed with likes, 20 on the first day to be exact. It was HUGE for me. 

I’m someone extremely self-conscious and very hard on myself, so it was kind of a struggle to post content out on the Internet for strangers to read. I’ve always feared judgement, I’ve bathed in it since the day I was born and I can’t seem to get rid of it. 20+ fics are still rotting in my drafts, I’m just too insecure to release them, so I ignore them and always search for new content to write about. I’m also scared to disappoint, but that’s another story. Aside from that, I’m really grateful because I’ve never received this much love and support in my life since I started this account. Whether is keyboard smashing in the reblog section or just someone saying “uwu that was so cute 🥺”, my day is automatically better. I have never received support or compliments from my parents, siblings or friends that I thought were the closest. Never. And it’s a weird yet great feeling!!

The first two months were amazing. By the beginning of February, I had hit the 200-followers milestone. It was something unbelievable for me. You may think that I’m exaggerating, but I was really thinking that I would only get like maximum 50 followers, and I would have still been happy about it. My account was doing great, but at this point, it was my health that started going downhill.

The pandemic and the stress from it aggravated everything, weakening my heart to the point of needing urgent surgeries (2, almost 3 in October, where there was a risk for me to d*e. Great when you’re a young woman who only spent her twenty first years of existence studying and worrying about her future :/). I get stressed out extremely easily and my doctor diagnosed me with severe anxiety and depression a few years ago. And guess what? They were acting up of course, so nothing was by my side. I was lost about my future and my career – I still am haha (pain) – and it was a hard time for me, for us. I’m still not at my best, but at least I’m trying, that’s what matters the most, right? This blog and the people I met there were my source of comfort and light, my safe place, it helps me a lot to just read or laugh at what I see in my dash to make me forget about everything that is bothering me. I met wonderful, supportive people on there and I can’t find the right words to truly express how I am feeling. And here I am right now, a year later, Tumblr being my solace because I can read really really good fics and wips, as well as exchanging with other atinys and people from other fandoms.

I still have those moments of doubt when I’m about to post something like, will this be appreciated? Isn’t it too cliche, too bad, too fluffy, grammatically correct, cool enough, aesthetic enough, cute enough, did someone already write something along those lines without me knowing it? Will I get accused of stealing or plagiarising? 

I can’t stop overthinking, but I’m trying to work on it, I really am, even if it’s hard. It’s really not something easy and I get defeated quite quickly, but at least I’m trying.

Even if I lost loved ones during this year (friends that ghosted me for other people, my grandpa passing away from cancer, watching and knowing acquaintances dying bc of covid…) I’ve got to know beautiful angels on here, my mutuals and my followers!! Even if we don’t talk 24/7, I really love and appreciate every single one of you. I know we’re just internet friends, but you really count for me. Please excuse me if you’re tired of seeing me being constantly apologising or being weird and absolutely not funny, I’m trying to become a better person. I absolutely adore when you mention me in tag games or send me love and support via asks or private messages, it makes my heart go really warm. If it were possible, I’d give each single one of you a hug and a big kiss on the cheek because you all deserve it and I love you.

Thank you @atbzkingdom, @closer-stars, @barsformars, @trashlord-007, @ateez-little-star, @tinkerbellwoo, @chrryhwa, @ateezlips, and everyone that I missed that follow me and support me, I luv you all sm :-]

Sorry if this post doesn’t make sense, I just wanted to try and express my gratitude as well as my love for everything you gave me. I hope 2021 will be better, kinder for all of us, and I wish everyone reading this to be(come) happy and healthy.

with all my love, rosy ♥

[blazehedgehog]

So rather than attach it to the last (rather large) post thread, I’ll start a new one. If you didn’t catch it on Twitter, friends managed to raise some money through nothing but sheer good will and I ended up booking a stay at the same hotel we should have gotten for free.

I’m starting a new thread because I want to ask a question, but first I want to clarify and provide a better timeline of everything that’s happened. This isn’t exact, but it’s as close as my memory can remember right now:

Late 2019/Early 2020: Whoever owns my apartment complex sells it to a new company in California. The complex is in Nevada. It’s a big apartment complex; it used to be two separate ones that were right next to each other and they merged to create a “project” that houses something like 150-200 units. If you consider families, somewhere in the realm of 300-700 people live here.  

April/May 2020: We get a notice on our door announcing that our new owners want to renovate the complex. Every single unit. It’s such a big ordeal that they have to put in to get funding from the State of Nevada to do it. The initial claim is that they will move us out of our apartment unit in to a new unit for up to a month or two (at no cost to us) while they renovate. More information will come in summer 2020 during a town hall meeting we will attend in person. I expect that with the pandemic starting and “shelter in place” orders going out that there’s no way they’d be dumb enough to go through with any of this. The notice ends with them pleading with people not to take this as a cue to move out. In the months to follow, we spied at least four people who were smart enough to get out before the renovation hit. We considered it, but the housing authority we have to rent through went dead silent the moment the pandemic ramped up and have yet to say even a single word to us (even now).  

Late October/Early November 2020: The town hall meeting finally happens, online, in a Zoom meeting. Three people in California dictate to the 40 or 50 tenants (maybe more) that attend the meeting how this is going to go. Plans have changed: the renovation will take place across ten days. Very tight schedule. In and out as fast as possible. In batches of 4-5 units at a time, going alphabetically across the complex, units will be renovated. New paint, new carpet, new cabinets, new sinks, new toilet, new shower, new appliances, redone balcony. Renovation teams will come in at 8am and work until 5pm. After 5pm, we will be allowed to return to our unit and sleep there. We will be allowed to keep one bed (per person) and one TV, which the renovation team will move out of the way during the day and return to our unit when they leave. We are also told we will be getting a sealable plastic tub to store personal items (toiletries and such) that the renovation team will also handle. We are assured they will be adhering to rigorous sanitization standards, with multiple temperature checks daily, masks, and gloves. During the day, we are free to go wherever, but the complex will be setting up what they call a “hospitality trailer” -- a communal space for everyone currently effected by the renovation to hang out inside, together. There will be port-a-potties and wifi. We’re told meals will also be provided, possibly in the trailer, but details are unspecific. We’re also told some landscaping will be done. All told, between renovating units and landscaping, they say the whole process from beginning to end will take 18 months or more. Tenants in the Zoom call ask questions -- if we don’t want to stay at the hospitality trailer, we’re told we should consider staying with family during the day. They ignore multiple questions from people asking if this will cause the rent to go up.  

December 2020: Renovation begins, starting with apartments in the A block. We’re somewhere near the middle of the alphabet, and going by the ten-days-per-unit estimate, we’re expecting the renovation to hit us around March-ish, maybe even as late as April. I develop an ugly toothache; my face swells up. I do a phone visit with a dentist and he prescribes me antibiotics and schedules me for an appointment on January 18th to pull the tooth.  

Early January 2021: Going to check the mail one day, I notice it feels like they’re spending a long time on the first few sets of units. Then, all of a sudden, renovations surge ahead, and units worryingly close to our letter start putting tarps up over their balconies, signalling they’re either mid-reno, or at least packing.  

January 18th, 2021: Tooth is “fine” (big cavity, no pain) but we discuss options for pulling multiple bad teeth with this problem tooth, since a lot of my upper teeth aren’t in great shape. Will require multiple rounds of surgery to remove them all and set up replacements. First round of surgery is on February 24th. I immediately wonder if we’re going to get called early for renovation and it’ll land simultaneously with the surgery. I try not to think about it.  

January 30th, 2021: We receive a notice that our apartment’s number is due. It’s post-dated, which means the notice is late. We’re supposed to have 45 days notice, and the move-out date listed in the notice is February 23rd. By the 45 day rule, this notice should’ve arrived January 9th. There’s also a degree of confusion: the notice was delivered to our apartment, but the notice is addressed to the apartment below us. Parts of the notice still mention our apartment number. We call the front office for clarification, and they tell us that the notice was indeed meant for the people below us. According to them, we’re in the clear for now. “You’re close...” tells us the person on the phone, “But it’s not your time yet.” We consider preparing early, but it sounds like we have to use the provided packing materials for organizational reasons when the movers come.  

February 5th: I record my Patreon Podcast. I mention the renovation. If you consider 10 days per renovation, based on when the notice was actually delivered, I’m expecting we’re going to get our notice in the next few days.  

February 8th: We get a knock on the door. A man from the front office is checking in with us to see how packing is going. Packing because the notice was actually for us. It was for all four units in this block. We tell him: we called. They said it wasn’t our time yet. He just kind of shrugs and asks if we need boxes. Of course we do. Our 45 day notice has been cut down to less than 14 days. On top of that, we’ve got doctors appointments and things coming up that’s going to eat in to this time. He says everything has to be in the office-provided UHaul boxes. Even if we have items already in cardboard boxes, they have to be specifically repacked in UHaul boxes.  

February 13th: After days of trying to contact my dentist office via email, I finally get a hold of them via text. I try to reschedule my appointment, but the receptionist tells me it’s just another consultation, not surgery. I hope she’s right. The stress of all of this is making it hard to get packing as fast as we need to.  

February 15th: My Mom tells me she’s managed to book an appointment for her first round of covid-19 vaccinations. Unfortunately, it’s on February 23rd, the day we’re being moved out.  

February 16th: We talk to the people below us, an elderly couple. They’re panicking about packing because they have so much stuff. They mention that the front office booked them a hotel for the duration of their renovation. All they needed was a doctor’s note proving they needed it. Given that my 75 year old mother has a doc appointment literally the next day, this seems like extremely good timing. After doing curbside pickup for a grocery order that day, we pass the movers on our way back in as they are loading a unit in to their Ryder truck. None of them that I see are wearing masks or gloves.  

February 17th: Doc visit happens, she implies that he kind of blew her off. She’s had chronic pain in her hands and knees for years, and in particular, the pain in her hands has been getting bad, fast. She wraps her thumb in sports tape because bending it hurts. She used to be a waitress, she used to be a cake decorator, she did data entry for a couple years, and now she’s dabbling with painting. Her carpal tunnel is severe and its accentuated with arthritis. Doctor just kind of shrugs it off, tells her if it gets worse to come back in a few months, even though arthritis can kill people if not treated properly. Still, he writes her a cursory note for the apartment front office. She talks to them and they’re very glad she contacted them about this; it sounds like the kind of thing that’s only available to people who ask, since presumably the owners don’t want to shell out $900,000+ rooming the entire complex in a hotel. Either way, we’re excited; maybe this renovation won’t be so bad. They tell us the name of the hotel and where its located.  

February 18th: While doing laundry in anticipation of packing things up for the hotel/renovation, we happen to catch someone in the laundry room who just got back in to her apartment after her reno finished. She tells us a horror story: everything they told us in the Zoom meeting was a lie. They are renovating way more than 4 units at a time, they aren’t going alphabetically anymore, and she theorizes they’re going with a cheaper renovation team because half of her apartment straight up wasn’t done. The new tile was cheap plastic, which was already gouged by the time she got there. No new fridge, no new shower or tub, no new toilet. “Those will be happening this summer,” she tells us. Sinks got replaced, but the new sinks are apparently bigger than the old ones, leaving less counter space (a particular problem in the bathroom). Carpets were new, but already a dirty mess because of the movers. She had to go around and pick up nails stuck in the carpet that were left behind by the renovators. Since they didn’t take the fridge, she got to keep her food in there, which was important for her because she had special dietary food that needed to be refrigerated. The bad news? Some of that food was stolen. She had a broom and a dust pan stolen, too. She mentions how poor communication has been. We mention the hotel, and she lights up. She didn’t stay in her apartment either, they put her up in the hotel, too. So at least there’s that silver lining. Though she regrets it, because they damaged her TV while she was away. She finally helps clarify the food situation for us, too: we’ll be receiving a “food voucher” to pay for our meals, whatever that means.  

February 19th: My Mom was supposed to call the front office to confirm we got the hotel, but in all the confusion, she didn’t get around to it. We’ll have to wait the entire weekend to get confirmation. But if the elderly couple below us got a room, and the lady we spoke to at laundry got a room, it sounds like we’re a lock.  

February 22nd: The front office checks in on us again, shrugs their shoulders at how behind we are on packing, and offers us more boxes. They only give us large boxes; we need small, medium and especially rolls of packing tape. They mention they’ll have more later once they open the storage unit, but we never get any. Across this entire ordeal, we’ve only gotten a single roll of packing tape. We bought several rolls of our own after being tired of waiting. Front office guy says our fridge is being replaced, but we can still keep food in our old one and we’ll just “come in and change it out.” Whatever that means. Later, after getting off the phone, we learn we were rejected for the hotel. The doctor’s note wasn’t good enough and the head office in California denied our request. My Mom tries to contact her doctor again to get a more detailed note, but he doesn’t return her call. We’re going to be living out of the car for the next ten days. We talk about protesting this; by stopping packing right now and refusing to leave, but eventually decide that would be a bad idea. We don’t want to risk the movers breaking any of our things. A couple friends start spreading around my paypal.me link in the hopes of raising money for us to stay at a hotel. They raise a little over $200, but it’s hard to justify spending that on a hotel.  

February 23rd, Morning: By this point, we’re running on empty. No sleep, physically exhausted, stressed out of our minds. Both of us on the verge of tears several times. With everything going on, we’re a little over halfway done packing and there’s no time left. We quickly move from “pack everything” to “pack what’s important so the movers don’t have to touch it.” Whatever we can’t finish, the movers will pack for us. At 7:30am the movers arrive, and they knock on the door at 8am. They are very polite. They are all wearing masks and gloves. We tell them they are nowhere near ready, and they offer to do our unit last. We do the best we can and leave the rest to them. On our way out, we talk to the elderly couple that lives below us, who claim the moving truck won’t be enough to hold everything in their apartment. It’s a big truck and a small apartment. I find that hard to believe. We go park somewhere and doze in the car until my Mom’s vaccination appointment at 10am. More friends, some of them with very large followings, start spreading the paypal.me link around. Momentum begins to build.  

February 23rd, Midday: We get to the vaccination place only to realize we forgot some things at the apartment. We quickly jog back across town and plan to ask them if it’s okay if we can go in to the apartment and retrieve it. When we get there, they’re still unloading the couple below us, and I notice they aren’t just taking UHaul boxes, but regular cardboard boxes, too. Given it’s been almost two hours, this might be second truckful, maybe even the third. I grab the stuff we’re missing and we head back to the vaccination park. Afterwards, we hang out at my brother’s just in case my mom has an allergic reaction to the vaccine and she needs help. She’s fine, and by the time we’re through there, it’s getting to be time to head back to our apartment for the night at 5pm. Before we leave my brother’s, I use their wifi to check my Paypal account. I joke, “I’m worried that I’ll open my account and it’ll say $2000.” Combined with the little bit of money I already had in my Paypal, the donations have pushed my account close to $2200. I burst out laughing. “YOU WANNA GO GET A HOTEL?!” I shout. We agree we’ll spend the night in the unit tonight and decide what we’ll take with us to the hotel in the morning.  

February 23rd, Evening: It’s close to 6pm and the movers are still there. They were supposed to clock out almost an hour ago. I browse Tripadvisor and Expedia in the parking lot and decide to just book the same hotel they dangled in front of our faces, since reviews specifically point out it’s clean and has extremely good quarantine practices. Expedia lets me pay with Paypal directly, but there’s a problem where it won’t connect to my Paypal account. As I go to transfer the money out of my Paypal and finish booking the hotel, the wifi dies. The movers just unplugged our modem and packed it up. They probably weren’t supposed to do that, and they picked the worst time, too. We spend the next 45 minutes driving around town trying to find free wifi so I can book this hotel. We end up parking at my brother’s place and leeching his wifi from the driveway. Hotel booked, check-in is at 3pm on the 24th. For now, it’s back to the apartment to decide what to take with us.  

February 23rd, Night: Upon getting back to the apartment around 7pm, we find it’s... a disaster area. They spent so long unloading all the other units, they did not have time to finish packing and unloading what was left in our unit. There’s garbage everywhere, it’s mixed in with the stuff we want to keep, some of it’s broken, it’s horrible. It looks like they just swept everything off the tables on to the floor. TV remotes and mail are spread out all over the place. They didn’t leave us any lamps, so the only lights in the apartment are the front door light, the kitchen light, and the bathroom light. They might have left us our mattresses, but they didn’t leave us any pillows or blankets. Still, we spent the better part of the night sorting through the “trash” and separating it out in to the stuff we wanted to keep. We pack up most of the apartment with whatever materials the movers left behind, but we eventually run out of boxes and tape. We still managed to pack 99.9% of what was left. From 7pm to 2:30am.  

February 24th, Morning: At 7:30am I'm woken up by the movers pulling up. I can hear them joking in the parking lot about who gets the honor of being called "papi" and cracking rude jokes about "assuming gender." They probably think nobody's around to hear them. We ask them for more time so we can wake up and get dressed. As we're loading up the car with stuff to take to the hotel, we overhear the movers complaining about how they are being made to wait because we were supposed to be out of here by 8, and it's close to 9. My Mom gives them an earful about how little time we had to pack compared to how long we should've had. "That's been happening to a lot of people here." one of them tells her. My whole body hurts after days of little sleep and packing extremely heavy boxes. I’ve had a throbbing headache for almost 48 hours. With the dentist appointment at 3pm that afternoon, we go to a park and I doze in the car for another five hours.   

February 24th, Afternoon: Dentist appointment goes smoothly; they offer to start surgery, but I explain to them what happened with the renovation and they are perfectly fine postponing until a later date. By now, my feet hurt where the soles of my shoes have been rubbing. My ankles and knees are hurting from being crunched up inside a car for two days. My back hurts from all the lifting. I’m beyond miserable and realize there’s no way I could bare to spend 10 days living in this car. Thankfully, with the dentist appointment out of the way, it’s check in time. The hotel room is nice, but given I’ve never stayed in a hotel before, I don’t have much of a comparison. But when I fall asleep that night, I sleep harder and longer than I have in years.  

February 25th: The elderly couple that lived below us at the apartment are here at the same hotel we are, and we talk to them. Turns out, the lady has the same doctor as my Mom, and they were rejected from his note, too. The approval they got for the hotel came from her husband’s doctor, who wrote an extremely detailed note about his oxygen needs. They mention that people living in our complex with disabilities weren’t housed here and they don’t know where they are or what happened to them. They also claim that the food provision stuff from the apartment front office is apparently some kind of a $45/day meal credit we get at the end of the renovation. But again, it’s still not clear, and the apartment itself has never clarified. That night, we return to the apartment again to raid our fridge for stuff to bring to the hotel. Now, if you remember, we were supposed to be able to sleep at the apartment every night. The apartment we returned to was in such a state that it would have been impossible to sleep in. No sinks, no toilets, no stove, no running water of any kind, and all of the outlets stripped down. Literally the only thing we could have done was sleep there; nothing else was possible. And even then, remember: no bedding. No pillows, no blankets, and it’s still winter out there.  

Update on things I forgot: Also on the 25th, elderly couple in the unit below us also told of how the movers had thrown their $950 couch outside and left it in the dirt for multiple days, asking if it was “trash” because one of the washable seat covers had a single pet stain on it. (When we visited the apartment that night to raid the fridge, we even saw it) Not only that, but last year, our bathroom tub had been leaking in to one of their closets. They had to shut our water off for several days and fix the pipes. Apparently this caused black mold in their apartment that wasn’t discovered until they started hauling boxes out. Upon bringing it up with the renovation team, they got told “there’s black mold everywhere! it’s in the grass! it’s fine!” The husband went in to take pictures of the black mold, but by the time he got over there with the camera, the renovation team had already painted over it. Apparently another tenant on the other side of the complex had mold problems so bad that she’s been paid to stay at this hotel for more than a month already while they deal with it.

Which brings us, roughly, to today.

Now, the question I mentioned way back at the top: what are my options here, legally? A lot of friends have told me up and down that this is either illegal, or should be illegal, but I have no idea where to start with any of this stuff and frankly I’m a little gun shy. I don’t know what Nevada housing law is like, what renters rights are, and I don’t want to risk being evicted. But I also know that the threat of being evicted is also what keeps people complacent.

All I really know is that basically everything they originally told us was a lie, and they never informed us of most of these changes. As for the rest, well... just read for yourself.

Whatever you know, I’d like to know.

[goodhypnoboi]

Ahaha. Full disclosure time. I follow/unfollow blogs as I feel comfortable.

I’m not gonna shut this down, but I’ve come close to deleting this blog. I’m not someone big in the community- if my measly 200 followers has anything to say on that- and I’m also one of the youngest participants, having only reached 21/22.

My experiences date back to when I was a minor, getting involved in kink.

This can and might be triggering, I suggest you click off from here if passive mentions of abuse trigger you.

Recently there’s been allegations (a majority having backing) against gaming youtubers I happen to enjoy. Unfortunately rape, and other aspects, horrify me, and can be highly triggering.

It has been and I’ve struggled with it. I’ve been impulsively doing + agreeing to things but I’ve also been more hurt by things. Recently someone said they saw me as someone knowledgeable about the community and went on to mention disillusionment after I had offered to assist in finding content they came to me, to ask about.

I had also mentioned I was going through a rough time.

That’s, not okay to say. I don’t care how highly you see another person, or how much you see them as a pillar to the community, everyone has different tastes and the community is vast and scattered,

It also places a larger burden on me I was definitely not ready for.

I was 15 when I first got into erotic hypnosis. Coming OUT of an abusive relationship with an adult predator, who considered me intelligent and a pillar of the community.

My “tips” are things I’ve passively learnt from other blogs consisting of subs and hypnotists, as well as tists who guided me through that time into a safer environment.

This is why I don’t deny minors from my educational posts, I never want someone like me existing because I’ve pushed them away, and there’s going to be someone like me who didn’t listen to warnings.

This also infuriates me, because, I’m not knowledgeable as a pillar of the community. I know how bad things are BECAUSE I suffered it for months until I stopped when I was 17 years old.

I went on Omegle and found people who hurt me, I didn’t take precautions and I got burned badly. I was a minor and I was hurt.

When I officially became comfortable enough to engage with the community again, I made this tumblr, albeit I had been on the side lines.

After making it, I’ve had five full conversations with people in direct messages, one of them coming to me for help and then lashing out because I have issues with wording due to my autism.

I’m not a “pillar” of the community, I’m on the side of it, I’m actively outspoken, but I’m not a pillar.

And I’m so young too, don’t make me into a hero that’s above people, it’s terrifying, and it directly ties into abuse I’ve faced.

I’m so done with the idea, I’m someone that takes care of people. I’m a sub because I enjoy being taken care of, but I want to HELP people.

I’ll do my best to help people.

Being blown off in such a way is insulting.

It’s demeaning and belittling to how I offered to help.

I’m a young trans dude, who identifies with autigender, trying to live his life.

Most of the time I don’t interact with the community.

I have followers and mutuals- who might not know my main and follow me back on there- as well as friends that I trust in the community. But by no means am I a pillar.

People who would be more of a pillar are people like WrittenByNath and SleepingGirl-H (I think that’s her user). Both of which are more integrated and more apart of the community, and even still they’re living people who can make mistakes or not know something. It just comes with the territory.

As well, people are resource textbooks. We need time to figure things out, and I for one spend more time outside the community than in it. Precisely because a) I’m trans, b) I’m fucking traumatized.

Just because I want to help and make resources for help, doesn’t make me any less of a young, scared, struggling adult. I’m not in a good place in life right now, being on disability and having so many issues financially because I am the only one with income.

This entire post was made because I’ve been having CONSTANT breakdowns recently. I’m a mentally ill + neurodivergent trans man with heavy trauma. I’m not some higher power.

If you worship me or see me as someone better than what I am, stop. Just stop. I’m a human being, who struggles in life and hardly interacts with the community.

I’m so tired. I’m stressed. I’m come to on other blogs because I’m smart and know things. I’ll let you in on a secret, the things I know come from trauma, research or listening to others. None of my information actually comes from wisdom or networking, rather I’m silently there picking up on shit.

I’m so fucking tired of this, man.

Just, next person to act like I’m some kind of saint is getting blocked. Treat me like a young adult who is a human being, thanks.

I sparsely post here but I might actively take a break from the community due to breaking down and other mental health issues, not to mention I literally have a trip for my partner’s surgery happening sometime in the next week- either by plane (can’t afford it) or by vehicle if we can.

I’m tired, stressed and just... not alright. I’m actively in a bad mindset.

I made this post on a whim out of anger, and likely due to a breakdown, I’m not naming who came into my DMs, and I still plan to reach out on their behalf. I don’t blame them for acting the way they did, because I completely understand where they came from.

[planetsam]

The bad dreams are not new.

Remembering them is.

She usually pushes past them and focuses on survival. But sometimes they win and she hates that. She wakes up violently with her heart pounding and her body soaked for the third time in a week. She refuses to lay in her own sweat and actually has to do her laundry. While her sheets are in the machine she decides she can’t sit in her room and pads into the kitchen for a snack. She’s expecting to see Hamish there. And Jack’s not that much of a surprise. The wildcard is Randall. Her stomach flops as she hesitates in the doorway, loathing the feeling of being an outsider in her own damn house. All six of their eyes swing to her. Something snaps in Randall and he crosses to her in a few quick strides. She stands her ground as he comes up to her toes.

“It was just a dream,” she says. His eyes rove over her. She really doesn’t like it. “Randall,” she snaps his name, “it was just a dream. What’s wrong with you?”

He’s starting to freak her out so she puts the back of her hand to his forehead. It’s hot. Really hot. Worse, he pushes up into the touch and his eyes close. Over his shoulder she glares at Jack and Hamish. One of them has to be better at this than she is. Randall breaths audibly. She loses her glare to look at him as he winces and then opens his eyes. They’re less disoriented but he still doesn’t look well. She drops her hand, stopping short of wringing them and she can feel the awkwardness slam into both of them.

“Sorry,” he says, “that nightmare, man that was a rough one,” he looks back at Jack and Hamish and squares his shoulders, “sorry for freaking you out. I’m going back to bed now. See you in the morning!”

He turns and retreats, leaving her standing in the doorway. She looks at her pack mates and Jack has his face in his hands. Hamish hisses her name and jerks his head towards the stairs. Lilith knows he’s right but she definitely isn’t the person to offer someone comfort. Hamish glares and she returns the look, though she knows he’s right. She can’t go up there and pretend to be all soft and cuddly though. Randall’s the one who makes her feel better. Not the other way around. She marches up the stairs, knocks twice on the door and opens it anyway when there’s no answer. Randall will just bullshit anyway.

He spends most nights on campus which is a good thing because his room is completely trashed. Not in a way that they would hear it, but in a way where everything’s bent or twisted or cracked. It’s brute strength, not like something he’s done in a panic. He’s in the corner in his closet. Or half in it anyway. The door is off the frame and propped against the wall. Deep claw marks are across it. But she focuses on him. He’s hunched over, his head between his knees and he’s breathing hard. Its the best position for this. Worse she can see his prep book. Amidst his careful highlights there’s a slash of orange going down it. He doesn’t look up at her but she sees his shoulders stiffen and his breathing hitches. He winces when she closes the door. She walks over to the book and picks it up, settling herself against the wall perpendicular to him.

“The most widely used differential stain for bacteria is?”

“Gram stain,” he answers.

”A colony of smooth strain bacteria is grown on a culture containing an experimental drug that cleaves nucleic acid base sequences wherever adenine is paired with ura—“ she frowns at the word, “uracil?” She nudges his shoulder with hers. He jerks up and swipes his cheeks, looking at the book.

“Yeah, uracil,” he confirms. She grabs the book back before he can finish reading the question, “it’s B,” he says.

She rolls her eyes and turns the page. Randall’s out of his ball. Slowly he shifts into a cross legged position. He leans over her, taller even when they’re sitting. She opens her mouth to tell him not to read over her shoulder but his chin just settles against her shoulder. He exhales slowly, taking those deep breaths like before. She holds herself still because if this is helping maybe she can do it, even though she hates how passive it makes her.

“Is having everything jumbled a part of it?” He asks. Heat floods her face. She still feels weird about the Order thing. Weird and guilty and angry. Randall’s brows knit together. “I can’t focus.”

“I think thats because you were tortured,” she says. He sighs like that makes sense.

“You got tortured,” he points out.

“I have experience with the Order,” she says, “for all the good that did,” he goes to move and she clamps her hand on his, “can we not make this about me? This is about you,” she says. She glances at his expression, “are you pouting?”

“No,” he scoffs, sitting up, his lips quirking,“I don’t pout.”

“It looked like you were,” she snaps, then remembers she’s supposed to be focusing on him. She can’t bring herself to apologize though and just looks down at the book in her lap. The medical jargon is annoying, between the wolf healing and the potions she remembers, it seems like such a contradiction. While she’s glaring Randall gets up and settles in front of her. She knows if he asks she’ll tell him about her order time. She realizes neither of them fully enjoy talking about themselves. Timber doesn’t support the instinct she has to run which means it’s some coward part she wishes didn’t exist. Marking the page she sets the book down. “What?”

“I got stuck in a well as a kid.”

Her eyebrows shoot up because that is not what she was expecting.

“Total accident, i thought something shiny was in the bottom and leaned too far over. I fell in. I was cold and scared. When i got out, there were so many people. I felt helpless,” he looks thoughtfully down, “the paramedics made me laugh. And they made me feel better. It’s why i want to be a doctor,” he scratches his neck, “it’s also why i’m not great with being trapped in spaces i can’t get out of,” he gestures around at the twisted furniture.

“Of course you figured out the problem,” she says, rolling her eyes. He offers a shy smile. “You’re an idiot.” He frowns, “you shouldn’t be figuring all this out on your own. Thats what i—we’re here for,” she glares as his gaze softens. “I’m not a mind reader,” she snaps.

“I never asked you to be,” he says.

“Well you should,” she lashes back, getting to her feet, “you always know when i’m hurting. I didn’t know you were in here making modern art,” he opens his mouth, “i know that’s the point!” She snaps before he can say it, “i’m not the idiot here.”

She grabs the nearest thing and twists it back. She can do that at the very least. Randall gets up and she know she’s played into his hand. They’re not focusing on him like she knows they have to. She’s not a coward. She just wants to be really clear that she is not cut out for this. He leans against the desk as she twists his lamp back.

“I’m not good at this,” she says flat out.

“What? Being psychic?”

“Comforting people,” she says, “i used to be. Before—“ she cuts off. The Order stabbed her in the back. She’s just opening herself up to another attack doing this. “I’m not. I don’t want to be.”

“I don’t want that,” Randall says, “look at all this. I didn’t want you to know. I don’t want you to coddle me because of what happened. I know how to calm myself down.” He picks up the book, “When i was in that well i recited every color i knew. I like facts.”

“Nerd,” she mutters, even though he has a point.

“Super nerd,” Randall says, “people aren’t going to believe someone as cool as you would like me,” he says. She rolls her eyes. “Quiz me?”

She rolls her eyes and takes the book.  He sits in front and one of her feet lands on his shoulder. She can feel the faint ridge of his scar. She presses into it with the ball of her foot and he cranes his neck to give her better access.

“Idiopathic pulmonary fibrosis is a disease in which scar tissue forms in the alveolar walls,” she begins, watching his reaction, “Which of the following findings would likely be detected through spirometry in a patient with IPF?” She gives the choices.

“B,” he says, rolling his neck as she skates her foot up it.

“Is your neck sore?” She asks.

“Kind of?” He says, “it’s itchy. I don’t think Grey liked the surgery.”

“Or the twisting,” she supplies.

“That too,” he says, “next—“ she digs her foot in harder and his head flops forward with almost a groan, “jesus, Lil.”

They’re all good with their feet. Shoes are the most expensive to replace so it’s not unusual for those to be the things they don’t ruin. She’s flung more sneakers over phone lines than she ever wants to admit before taking off barefoot. She refuses to flat out rub his back though. She’s not that kind of girlfriend. She does dig into his other shoulder with her other foot as she leafs through the pages of his book for more questions.

“If the goal of the health communication is to have influence on individuals, families, neighborhoods, medical and social service organizations, and ultimately public health policy, they are adhering to what?”

“E-ecological theory,” he says, shuddering as she digs into both sides of his neck at the same time.

Maybe she can be a power drunk girlfriend.

“A ball starting at rest accelerates at a constant rate for 5 seconds, ultimately reaching a velocity of 200 m/s. What is the distance traveled by the ball over the time interval?”

He doesn’t respond immediately and she pauses, tapping the side of his neck with her foot.

“What?”

“Focus,” she scolds.

“500m,” he says. She digs her foot in again and he makes a wordless sound.

“You don’t seem jumbled up to me,” she says, stilling her feet on his neck. He twists and she cocks her head to the side, waiting to see what he’s going to do, “everything’s right so far.”

His hand wraps around her foot and he gets to his feet, dragging his long fingers up her leg. Just standing up reminds her how much he has on her height wise. But when he stands up he’s graceful about it in a way that makes her mouth go dry. He trails his fingers up her leg until he’s standing in front of her. She’s quizzed him before but it doesn’t end in anything resembling this. He slides his hand off her leg and braces himself on the desk, bracketing her in his arms. The only places they come close to touching are where her legs land on either side of his hips. Randall usually catches her gaze and smiles. This time it takes much, much longer than she thought for his lips to curve up.

“Thanks Lil,” he says.

He’s close enough for her to push up and kiss him. She’s not gentle. The opposite of it but she kisses him slowly and deliberately. Like she can ground him back here just with her mouth. It’s a stupid thought, she knows that, but it doesn’t stop her from trying. Every time he kisses her she finds she likes it more, and that in itself is kind of terrifying for someone so used to having things taken away. She pulls back and opens her eyes, taking in the dark circles that stand out under his pale skin. It takes him a moment longer to open his eyes. He ducks his head forward and presses their foreheads together. She doesn’t like putting her feelings into anything, but especially not into words. The quiet between them though speaks volumes. She kisses the corner of his mouth and slides his book to the side before sliding forward. She means to get to her feet but his hands catch her and she winds up with her legs around his waist. She regards him for a moment.

“It’s not that impressive,” she says, looping her arms around his shoulders, “my room,” she says, nodding her head to the door.

“You sure?” He asks.

“I’m not sleeping on your gross floor,” she tells him, “you remember how to get there?”

“Your room it is,” he says and carries her around the corner to her room. When he lays her on the bed she tightens her legs around him and pulls him with her, popping up only long enough to fling the sheets over them, “my floor’s not gross,” he says.

”Really, Randall?” She sighs, “you’re in your girlfriend’s bed and you want to tell me how not gross your floor is?”

“Well I do the cleaning—“ he stops, “did you say girlfriend?”

“No,” she says rolling on her side, “clean your ears out.”

He must really be exhausted because it takes him a moment to roll over and wrap his arms around her. She’s willing to admit his floor isn’t gross but she’d rather sleep in a bed. But she knows that’s not the reason for the smile she doesn’t even have to look at to be aware of. He’s stupid transparent sometimes. It might not be the worst thing in the world. He doesn’t thank her again, which she’s glad about. The last thing she wants is for this to be a thing.

“Also don’t become an artist,” she adds.

“Are starving artists not your thing?” He asks with a teasing grin.

“No,” she says and can’t quite resist shifting back against him before looking back at him, “but doctors might be.”

[the-mira-life-project-mtf]

MILE STONE! Makeup Shopping (My MtF~HRT Journey)

So today, I had a wonderful visit with my PCP who also manages my transgender progress. It was now been officially 1 Year on HRT and since May of 2018, I have learned so much!

While visiting, we covered general health and then transgender health and talked about the next step. I will save the clinical notes about surgery for another post (as this one is all about my experience on buying makeup for the first time in my life).

When I first began my HRT back in May of 2018 I do recall in one of my blog posts that I would never consider looking into wearing feminine clothing or using makeup. But as noted in my posts about the ‘mental transformations’ while using hormones...I have to agree something has changed. Oddly, I find myself socially appropriating to act more feminine then masculine. Most of this transformation began shortly after coming out as transgender to family and friends.

Even prior to my coming out ceremony, I already began looking into feminine clothes for pictures and status updates, but to never wear in public. But with my families pushing me to dress...well...in a dress, the times are changing. One thing I did not realize is that men’s clothes and female’s clothes are designed not only to look aesthetic, but also to support and insinuate the chest and rear...in basic terms, sex appeal.

Even now, I find that my male clothes do fit my expanding hip and rear size and chest size like it did a year ago and it feels kinda ‘cramped!’

Todays visit with Dr. Worth was to talk about surgery and my uncomfortable situations I am experiencing and I talked about my need for facial surgery as I am not passing for female as I am still being called ‘he’. She advised that as I wait for my consultation with plastics, I should consider makeup.

I have no knowledge of makeup as I just nodddd and said ‘Ok’. She continued that if I learn how to use makeup, I could hide my five-o’clock shadow and define my cheekbones. All that went right over my head. But with the unlikely chance of surgery, I need to learn new methods.

Dr. Worth said that two areas I could visit is Macy’s or Sephora at the Silverdale Mall. She added that with some money, they could show me how to do my makeup and try to sell me product. I took her advice and left to head home as I considered that Silverdale was just a town away for my location and it is along the way home. Won’t hurt to gain some education.

Then came the concerns: ‘What if they are not transgender friendly?’ ‘What if other shoppers make a scene?’ ‘I should just go online and order something.’ But where do I start? How do I know what to get? ‘I could buy over 200 dollars in trial and error or woman-up and just go to Sephora.’ as Dr. Worth said I might have more luck there.

I made up my mind as I programmed my GPS to take me to the mall and I’ll see what happens. I was thinking: ‘This could be a really bad idea or a really good idea...only one way to find out!’

I wall inside to the JCPenny, looking for this makeup place. I am making a lot of firsts today! First time considering using makeup, first time in a JCPenny and first time possibly purchasing makeup!

I find the Sephora store and just dread the remarks or comments I might have to endure from sales staff, but to my shock and surprise I saw a familiar face. My brothers boyfriend apparently works here as he sees me and is pleasantly surprised himself.

Talk about fears just melting away!

I explain what the doctor advised me and we went shopping to get me started. I work lie...even now as I write this blog, I don’t know all the exact steps! I was just glad that we and I were on the corrrect page about starting slow and that in time I can elevate to more serious cosmetics.

He asked if I had oily or dry skin and that was easy, ‘Dry’ I say as I never had oily skin, not even after starting HRT!

So we looked at moisturizer to apply first and then moved to primer and then base coat. He used a camera to find my skin tone (1Y08) and found a base to apply after testing a few colors. Next, we moved on to eyelash stuff, lipstick and brow brush. It was a little overwhelming!

He asked if I wanted to do eye shadow, which probably would not hurt as terminal disease make your eye shadow very dark and grey. Color be nice, but I want to slowly learn to appear female and not a clown at the circus!

He offered his help to learn how to apply in the upcoming weeks (which I will greatly accept) and seemed eager to help me with beauty as he is all about makeup and my brother Ryan is all about hair styling! For being a transgender individual, I have been blessed with an amazing family and friends!

When the price came up for the few items, I was shocked! 130.80! What did I buy?

Of all the items, the foundation was almost 40.00$! Is the normal? When I looked at the Sephora website, it was rated as expensive, so it makes sense. Typically, I would not spend this much, but because I knew that I might have help in the near future to do my makeup for the wedding and to learn...

Nevertheless, this was a good experience!

[ashencreature]

Important Update for partners across the board

This is long, and I’m sorry, but I just wanted everyone to know what’s going on. Honestly, I’m not expecting anyone to actually waste time reading through all this, but it’s just so I can try to ease my own anxiety in case the worst case scenario does come and I left some sort of explanation.

Ok, so, some of you know there’s been a lot going on for me at home in the last 3 or 4 years. But everything’s kind of getting worse by day and at this point, I’m not sure what to do anymore. 

When I was 14, I moved in with my dad. We moved quite a few times in the first few years I was with him. Hell, that first year alone, I was in 3 different schools. All for Freshman year. And the last house we were in that year, we stayed in for maybe 2? 

But when I was 16, the factory my dad worked at closed and he lost his job. That’s kind of where all this starts. Instead of getting a new job, he decided he wanted to spend all day drinking with his new friends and occasionally doing odd jobs for them or things with them. We had to move out of that house, take my dog to the shelter, and move into a trailer. It was only supposed to be for a year. But nearly 14 years later, and we’re still here. 

Now the landlord here is a real prick. More like a slumlord if you ask me. He jacks the rent up for the dumbest reasons and acts like he’s god’s gift to humanity or some shit. He told us himself, and had the park manager tell us, that we couldn’t fix our roof to stop the leaking because the walls would collapse of we tried to move it. So literally the entire 14 years we’ve been here, the roof has been leaking. My dad tried everything he could think of, short of tearing it out and redoing it, to fix it. Nothing worked. 

And in that time, the entire back half of the house got destroyed by mold. My bedroom, being the very last room, was the first to go. I think I slept in it for a year? And ever since, I’ve had to sleep in the living room because the walls had to be torn out due to the mold. It’s right down to the studs and the scant insulation. It’s been like that for over 10 years. Well, now the mold is spreading and getting worse. The bathroom is destroyed pretty much. The back hallway is the same. The floor’s rotting away, and the toilet is falling through the floor; again. 

Now, I think my dad went to the garage he was at for the first time when I was maybe 18? I don’t remember exactly. I do remember being in junior year and my friends either having to buy me lunch, share theirs with me, or pray that we actually were cooking in cooking class; which happened a lot less than you’d think. Other than that, I didn’t eat. Senior year was a little better because I at least would get money dropped off to eat. Not that the cafeteria had a lot of choices for me to pick from. I pretty much ate nothing but gross excuse for pizza and occasionally pretzels, fries, or Belgian waffles. 

Anyway, so senior year rolls around and we’re all prepping for college. At the time, I wanted to go to AMDA for musical theater, and managed to get an audition there for that March. I had to force my dad to go to the meeting about FAFSA and to fill out the paperwork. Which he said he did, but I don’t believe it because he says they denied me. And I’ve never heard of FAFSA being denied. Not that it mattered anyway, because I bombed the audition and didn’t get in. So graduation rolls around and all my friends go off to college. I haven’t seen or spoken to most of them since. They never stop to visit when they come home and they never try to reach out on Facebook. Eventually, I got sick of being the one to initiate and maintain all conversations, so I just gave up. 

The 2 friends I still had at that time helped me to get jobs when I was 20/21 and living with them, in 2011/2012. This was because 2 of us and their mom were in a car accident on the way to my friend’s college at the time. We all nearly died. My friend had a concussion, their mom needed surgery, and I nearly got impaled by a fake Christmas tree. I ended up going to the hospital a lot later than they did with a copy of the report in the doctor’s hand and got told I wasn’t in an accident I had the flu, go home. Anyway, so after my friend’s mom’s surgery, I moved in to help around the house and look after my friend’s youngest sister. These jobs weren’t the best; Wendy’s and the deli department of one of the local grocery stores. But it was money. 

For all the good it did. Because by that time, my dad had quit working at the garage. So here I was, paying for rent, bills, gas, food, and child support for my brother. All on $200 a week. My anxiety was driving me insane. And I came to find out that my dad was going in and threatening one of the store managers, which was probably why the guy was such a scumbag to me. But I digress. So I was in the store for a month shy of 2 years. I started at maybe $7.45 or $7.50. an hour when I started. It was slightly over the minimum wage at the time. By the time I left, 2 years later mind you, I wasn’t even making $8, and I was working full time hours while only being part time. Everything that went wrong got blamed on me, even when it was my day off and I wasn’t anywhere near the store. I liked most of the people that I worked with, even if I hated the job, and the assistant department manager became a really good friend. She was 2 years older than me, and we hung out a lot. I’d spend the night at her house, I was at her wedding, I’ve been to her daughter’s birthday parties and so on. 

At one point, I was supposed to get training to be an assistant specialty cheese shop lead. They sent me to one class, told me about another, but never gave me any more details about it, even when I asked. Then they said they were going to train me over there, but never did. That was just the first of a long list of grievances. The culmination of which was on a Sunday night, our busiest day of the week. There was just me and 1 other guy in the department. Then 1 lady in the hot food section, 1 lady in the beer store, and no one in the bakery. But they expected me to take care of all 4 departments and still wait on the 20+ people that were at the counter the whole night. And I had an order to make and put away for the assistant department manager. Needless to said, I had a panic attack. I told my partner, and both of the other people nearby. They told the assistant store manager, and he didn’t care. They made me work for 3 and a half hours, through a panic attack, without a break. I couldn’t breathe and was on the verge of fainting. I finally had enough and told one of the ladies that I didn’t care what the store manager said, I was going to get my inhaler in the break room and get a drink at the water fountain, or I was going to faint. 

A few days later, I got called to the main office to speak to the store manager, who I usually didn’t have a problem with. And unfortunately, since my anger receptors are evidently attached to my tear ducts, I broke down in tears when I wanted to be furious. He basically told me that I was going to the bakery or I was getting fired. So the next day, I quit. There was a lot of other stuff too but that doesn’t really matter. Including being so sick that I couldn’t eat for over a week, fainting in the back room because they wouldn’t let me take a day off, and not being able to talk for over a month. The assistant department manager almost called the ambulance when I fainted, but you know, I’m clearly the problem here. 

So there we were, I didn’t have a job. My dad didn’t have a job. I was 23, and feeling just as helpless as I did at 16. I spent a year filling out job applications for a bunch of different things from craft stores to fast food to jewelry stores, but never heard back from any of them. The only interview I got was for Chipotle. But they wouldn’t even hire me. Naturally, cue the anxiety and depression getting worse. And around this time, our electric got shut off. This was in May I believe because it was just before my birthday. 

At that time I started thinking about going back to school. So I looked at schools and degrees you could do all online, because I knew I could never afford to go on campus. And, as most of you know, I started at CTU in July of that year. Now the program I did was an accelerated one, which meant I could finish gen ed classes faster, be done faster, and lower my tuition. I did as many as I could, but only my admission adviser was any help. My actual student adviser was never around, never responded to my emails, never called me back. But whatever. 

So for 3 years I spent pretty much all day, every god damn day doing schoolwork. I’d be at my local Dunkin from 3 in the afternoon until they closed at 11. Sometimes I’d be working even later next door because I still had stuff to do. The first year and a half I was fine. It didn’t bother mine, just like working didn’t bother me at first. But then, a year and a half after I started, I got sick. I couldn’t eat anything without my stomach cramping up and getting the worst migraines. It got so bad that one day at Dunkin, I felt like I was going to puke, and got up to go to the bathroom and almost fainted. Personally, I think it’s a combination of anxiety, depression, Celiac/gluten intolerance, anemia, and asthma. But I don’t know for sure because I haven’t had a doctor since I was going to the pediatrician. And even if I did, can’t afford it. 

So I’ve just been getting sicker and sicker. I was 125 pounds in January of this year. 11 months later, and I’m down to 108.5 the last time I checked. I think the lowest I hit was 107, and that was all 6 months after the weight loss started. There’s times it’ll go back up, but I can’t get past 110 or 111 tops. Neighbors who used to live down the road came to visit earlier this week, and all the lady could say was how skinny I got. I’m like yeah, malnourishment’ll do that to you. 

And to make things worse, my dad at some point went back to the garage and was working again, so things were slightly better. I say slightly in the loosest way possible. But, just after Christmas last year, my dad quit again. I’ve seen him apply to 1 job and go to 1 interview in the year since. Other than that, he’s been collecting scrap and doing shit for people who refuse to pay, including the landlord. In the last 7 or 8 months, despite how many times I’ve told him that my refund checks from the school aren’t free money I can spend however I want, my dad’s made me spend it. The $5,000 I had that was supposed to set me ahead for my student loans are gone. And I’m $5,000 deeper in the hole than I should be. Which means instead of being like $45 or 50 grand in debt I’m about $55 grand. 

Then, because we haven’t had electricity in almost 4 years, and with the mold problem, everything in the house is ruined. We had only cold water, and I took cold showers for as long as I could. But last winter, the shower pipes froze and burst. So even if I wanted to, I can’t do that. Plus, because we can’t use the washer and dryer, or hook up a generator thanks to the scumbag landlord, or afford a laundromat, our clothes have gone unwashed for over a year. Most of mine were sitting in the tub, which got filled with mold and bugs. I have practically no clothes left, with no way to wash them, and no way to shower unless I go to someone else’s house. And even when I do, I still don’t feel clean. Even after washing my hair 4 times or more. 

We were supposed to move into the place next door and tear this one down. But the landlord and my dad made a deal that he’d give it to us for the cost of the title transfer. Then suddenly, he wanted $600, then like $800 or $1,000. But he won’t stop asking about it, no matter how many times we tell him no. Him and his wife keep trying to say we’re $5,000 behind on rent which isn’t possible because with what rent is now, you can’t even get $5,000 as a total for a whole year, and this last year is the only time we fell behind because everything else was caught up. He gave us a bill full or errors. Payments that were made aren’t marked. Payments that weren’t made are. There’s random charges after the monthly rent cycle. Which I think are from when he was bitching about us paying the taxes for a place we didn’t even own and was still in his name. He told us we can’t run the generator for power because it was too loud. Though the noise ordinance here is 11, and it was always off by then. And when one of the neighbors asked how we were supposed to live, he told them it “Wasn’t his problem”. 

So when I started getting really sick, and unable to leave the house to go to Dunkin for school because I was too gross, the neighbors next door let us run an extension cord over to their place. Not a lot. Just enough for the light in the living room, the fan, a mini fridge, and to plug in my phone and computer. OH WANNA HEAR A GOOD ONE. THE LANDLORD TOLD MY DAD 3 SEPARATE TIMES IF I NEED TO PLUG IN MY COMPUTER TO GET A LANTERN. YES THE OLD FASHIONED OIL OR CANDLE TYPE LANTERN. WHICH YOU CAN TOTALLY PLUG AN ELECTRONIC COMPUTER INTO. So because of that, I was able to finish school and graduate in June. 

But, because I still can’t bathe or do laundry and have no clothes, I still can’t go to interviews. If I walked in with my arms, face, neck, and legs literally black from dirt, and reeking to high heaven, I’d fucking get laughed out of the place. My dad still refuses to get a real job and insists on hauling scrap or doing shit for people who won’t pay at all, or want to pay less than it’s worth. And guess what’s due this week? You got it, my first loan payment. 

I can’t figure out how much I have to pay, work on getting it lowered or delayed, or even access my account info because there’s an issue with my birthday apparently, and they can’t find it even though they have my name and social and keep emailing me. I’ve been telling him this for months, and he still won’t come with me to try and sort it out. Because what he needs has to taken care of then and there and everything else can fuck all. He blew up at me the other day about it, blaming me for going, leaving him with payments, for my mother walking out 20 years ago even though they hated each other, and pretty much for being born. Because he resents having to take care of kids he made the choice to have. Not like I asked to be born, and I’ve been wishing I was dead since I was 9, but whatever. 

Anyway. 

So, the neighbor’s dad was diagnosed with lung cancer over the summer. Like 2 weeks later, he was dead. And she’s struggling just as much. We’ve been trying to help her and she’s been trying to help us. But her ex was paying her rent and some of the other bills until she found a job because they have a young son. But he started refusing to do that, which I honestly wouldn’t be surprised it if was the landlord’s doing cause they were talking. And he was telling her to “pull the plug” on us. And his wife started harassing her about rent like 2 weeks after her father died. Then, she went to Domestic relations earlier this week and then like the day after she goes, her ex somehow gets an emergency custody on the little guy. They came for him yesterday. 

She’s most likely going to have to move, which means that we’ll be losing power and internet unless we can figure something out to get our power back on. But even then, the bill’s supposedly at least $1300, and that won’t fix the internet problem. 

So... Needless to say, if I disappear suddenly in the near future, that’s why. I don’t want to go. I’ve spent too much time here, made too many friends, and put too much work into my muses. But everything is going to shit all at once. It’s just been building and building for the last 3 years, especially the last year, but my dad refuses to see and do anything about it. Instead, he’d rather blame everything on me and expect me to fix it. As if my mental health wasn’t bad enough from childhood abuse and being sick and stressed all the time. Now I’m too fucking scared to leave the house. I haven’t been outside since the midterms when I went to vote. But I honestly don’t know what’s going to happen now. And I just wanted everyone to know that I love them. And even if I do disappear, I still plan on keeping my muses and coming back when I can. Granted Tumblr doesn’t die before then. In which case the only blog i’m worried about losing is Elizabeth’s because of all the worldbuilding, metas, and headcanons I’ve done.

[samtheflamingomain]

carrot, not the stick

I chose to quit smoking weed on January 1st for several reasons.

First, my finances. Can’t afford 2 addictions (I’m also an alcoholic). 

Second, my throat. When I go a long time smoking daily (it’s been about 4 months now, previously it was 9 months, then 3 years) my throat starts getting scratchy - too scratchy to sing well.

Thirdly, timing. See, weed is actually legal in Canada now - but the only way to get it legally is to order it online, to be received in 2-3 business days. Knowing that, in 2-3 business days, I’ll be kicking myself in the ass for ordering weed, I won’t do so when I have a craving in the moment. This is actually my own personal grand achievement: I haven’t contacted any of my illegal dealers either, who can usually get me weed in a day or less.

But soon, I believe by the summer, I’ll be able to get on a bus, go downtown, buy weed and go home in an hour. And if that becomes a possibility, I know I’ll never be able to quit. I live a 1-minute walk from both a bar and a beer store and I absolutely believe my ability to easily acquire alcohol has enabled my alcoholism.

I used to live with my parents, who had their own grow-op because they chain-smoked joints from 6am to midnight every day. Needless to say, there were ALWAYS several HUNDRED POUNDS of weed in the house. I took whatever I wanted and they never noticed, because again, literally hundreds of pounds.

And my final reason for quitting now and not later: the old adage that it takes about 3 weeks to kick a habit. I used to believe that was bullshit, but I’ve quit things before, made it three weeks, and then went on to be sober of it for months at a time. 

Also, I watched my father quit smoking cigarettes in literally one week, cold turkey, WHILE my mother still chain-smoked 2 feet away from him all day. I absolutely hate my father, but that is one VERY IMPRESSIVE achievement that I’ve always wished I could do. When people ask him, he says the same thing: “I read online that after the first week, cravings only last 90 seconds or so, and I can find something to do for 90 seconds to make that time pass.” My problem is that I *don’t* have a 90-second distraction - for me, it’s just 90 seconds of agony.

While I’m not as zen about it as I’d like to be, I have been able to distract myself now and then. There are moments where I’m face-down on the bed weeping, wishing I had even just a tiny roach. But they pass, whether I distract myself or not.

So why 3 weeks? My birthday is the 23rd. If I haven’t spent a dime on weed before then, I’m buying myself a Nintendo Switch.

At first I didn’t really think that would help. But I’ve tried quitting where my only incentive was “spending less money” and it doesn’t work. 

I’ve been trying to quit via the stick - negative reinforcement - rather than the carrot - incentive. 

I know that, technically, since a Switch is $400 and I maybe spend $200/month on weed in a bad month, this month would be a loss financially - but if I have a weed-free February as well, then that Switch is paid for.

It’s been a week today. 2 more weeks of terrible cravings and wishing for something to break up the day. But the worst is over, that much I know - the first 2 days are always agony, but it gets easier every day. At least for me.

I actually was going to talk more about addiction and how my weed addiction is so different to my alcohol addiction, but I’ll save that for another post.

To wrap up, one more thing. I know I’m serious this time. When I had to quit EVERYTHING for at least a week before surgery, it was agony every day, because I was waiting for the 2-week post-op mark when I could start smoking again. Now that I’m not waiting for anything, now that it’s just me choosing to not contact people with weed or order it... the fact that it’s been a week and I’ve been able to weather it, I’m actually kinda proud. That’s another sign - usually I don’t even think about giving myself credit for *not* doing something. And even still a part of me goes “oh wow a whole week, you wanna cookie?” but I know firsthand how fucking hard it is and y’know, I do wanna cookie.

Stay Greater, Flamingos.

[britishchick09]

Count your blessings, Igor told us   

And the world's tallest man was a blessing to Rochester, columnist Steve Lange says

By:  Steve Lange | 8:00 am, Aug. 24, 2021                                                

Igor Vovkovinskiy -- America’s tallest person -- at 7-foot-8 -- who moved from Ukraine to Rochester in 1989, at age 7, died on Friday night at Saint Marys Hospital, with his mom and brother at his side.

Igor left behind a legacy much bigger than his size.

He left behind numerous friends and admirers. He was a guy who took the time to pose with people. To talk to kids. To tell his story -- always, it seemed, with the hope it would help someone else.

We'll miss him for that.

I've had the honor of interviewing Igor over the years.

Here's one of those interviews, an excerpt of a "10 (Or So) Questions" from 2016. Rochester Magazine (butchering the Ukrainian language): Yak spravy (How are you doing)?

Igor Vovkovinskiy: Good. It’s getting better. I’m walking more. I spent nearly 14 months non-weight bearing after the last surgeries on my feet. I’m weak on my legs. I’m beginning to walk more. It’s getting there, very slowly.

RM: Vy rozmovliajete ukrajinikoju (Do you speak Ukrainian)?

IV: I speak mostly Russian. My mom speaks Ukrainian. I don’t know how that works, but we understand each other. I speak a little Ukrainian, but I’m more comfortable speaking Russian. In Kiev, the school I went to was Russian language.

RM: When you moved here — as a 6-foot tall, 200-pound, 7-year-old—you thought you were coming here for a month of Mayo Clinic visits.

IV: Yes. But Rochester has been my home since we moved here at age 7. We’ve been back to Ukraine at least seven or eight times.

RM: Your heart is still in Ukraine?

IV: I don’t think it’s something that will ever go away. When my mom and I visit, we get so emotional. Leaving is so hard. We cry for days. It’s something that pulls you over there. It’s a different culture. A different way that people treat each other. Something about it, we deeply miss.

RM: Is this the house you first moved into?

IV: We built this house in 2000. We have the tall doorways, the cathedral ceilings. In the basement the ceiling is at least tall enough that I can walk through it. I can’t stretch my arms, but I can walk. And I have a custom shower.

RM: Your mom, Svetlana, is a nurse at Mayo?

IV: She’s an ICU nurse at Mary Brigh. She loves working with patients. Patients love her. She always fights for the rights of the patients. She’s really a patient advocate.

RM: What’s one characteristic you got from your mom?

IV: I hope it’s caring for people.

RM: You've told me that you spend a lot of time trying to take lessons from your own life. What's something you’ve learned?

IV: People take everything for granted. Even simple things. I can’t go anywhere with my friends in their car. I can hardly go to anyone’s house because I’m afraid I’ll break their furniture. Their ceilings are low. Their doorways are low. The pain I have is pretty much 24 hours a day. Sometimes it’s so bad I can’t do anything useful. I try to think about something else. Read a book. Skype with my friends from Ukraine. ... So, I think that even for the simple things in life, people should be more grateful. Especially because you live in America. Really count your blessings. Really appreciate all of the little things you have.

Steve Lange is the editor of Rochester Magazine. His column appears every Tuesday.

READ MORE ABOUT IGOR:

After death, America’s tallest man and Rochester’s adopted son Igor Vovkovinskiy wants you to listen

Mike Dougherty: What was biggest about Igor? His heart

10 (or so) questions with...Igor Vovkovinskiy

Igor Vovkovinskiy, Rochester's tallest adopted son, dies at     38

[peachywise]

Hey everyone, so I’m writing this post to outline my brief history on my mental health, how certain things started, and how I deal with said certain things. I’m currently writing this at 1 o’clock in the morning, dead tired, but unable to fall asleep because as soon as I shut my eyes, my brain starts to panic, my arms lash out, and I’m left in this utterly frustrated, unforgiving position.  I’m hoping that writing this down will somehow be therapeutic, and maybe offer insight to others as to what exactly my day to day life is like with social anxiety, general anxiety, and panic disorder. I always know I feel a little better hearing about some of your guys’ stories, knowing I’m not alone and learning new tips on how to deal with it. Who even knows if and when I’m going to post this, but read under the cut for a rather long synopsis on life with Lucy.

So, I think generally everyone used to think I was a shy kid during my elementary school years, but I knew I wasn’t. With friends, I was often the most outgoing of the bunch, but with new social situations and new people, I would shut in on myself, nervous about saying the wrong thing, or overstepping and causing trouble or my parents getting upset with me. I grew up in a household with a mother who was a teacher, and a father I used to write diary entries about how much I hated him. My dad has a lot of anger issues, and would lash out at nearly anything our family said if he was having a bad day, or was progressively getting annoyed. I feel the need to point out it wasn’t exactly verbal abuse, but it bordered it. (I have a much better relationship with my father today then when I was a kid.) Me and my older brother of two years talked a lot about how we thought they would end up getting a divorce, until I graduated high school, for a clearer picture.

I am still afraid of bothering my parents and keep to myself a lot of the time with what I’m feeling or dealing with.

When I went into middle school, we moved from an extremely small town (I’m talking I went to a k-7 school with 200 people in it) to a very big city with a grade 7-9 school with over 800 people in it. My high school grad class alone was the biggest in my province at the time, of all time, with well over I think 1000 people. I was very shut in, but had an amazing group of friends but got heavily tormented and bullied pointedly by multiple people in our class. I think in grade 9 I realized I really had a lot of issues connecting with people, and I couldn’t understand why people who were “shy”, like actual literal shy people, didn’t understand what I meant when I said I was constantly afraid I was annoying my friends, and I truly believed everyone hated me, but if they talked to me, they were pretending just to be nice.

I think highschool really was when I was like “Oh. This is anxiety.” Because I was a lot more aware of what that really was, and how it played apart in my life. I knew I would go through depressed bouts, but I never really wanted to say I had depression because it wouldn’t necessarily stay, and I knew what it looked like with friends who suffered from it. I now realize, with the help of my doctor, that those bad depression bouts are just symptoms from my anxiety when I’m getting bad and shutting in on myself.

I’m twenty years old now, and I’ve never been in a relationship. Never kissed anyone minus a couple of dares and a recent stint in the play Sense and Sensibility where I had to mack with the dude playing Edward Ferrars.  I lose friends often simply because I am awful at keeping in touch (this is more or less my inability I seem to have at replying to facebook/text messages, I’m a lot better with just hanging out in person and catching up that way). My closests friends understand that even if we don’t talk for awhile, I’m still very much invested in their lives. I have two very very very close friends, Georgia and Isobel, who I’ve known for about 8+ years who are my core group and family. They are the two people I trust most in the world, could tell anything to, and without them, I think I would be a very different person, unable to work through problems. I know for a fact I can lean on them.

Now, I’ve learned to really accept the fact that yes, I have anxiety. I’m okay with it, and I am very open in telling people right off the bat. “I’m sorry if I come across as cold at first, I have issues communicating, getting to know people ect.” I only make room in my life now for those who understand, or at the very least make an effort to, because it saves me from a lot of pain in the future

ON TO MY PANIC DISORDER:

I developed this when I was eighteen years old. I had dealt with anxiety near my whole life, but minus a couple of small hard to breathe moments in my final year of high school, I’d never suffered a panic attack.

My first one triggered it, I assume.

I’ve mentioned on here a couple of times that my biggest fear is my brother dying. We aren’t by any means best friends, but he’s family, and as a kid, I would have reoccurring night terrors that my brother would die. Even now, the only nightmares I have that even scare me a little are one’s where he dies. I’ve had to leave sleepovers before because I would wake up sobbing.

In 2016 my brother and I went to a concert in a city a few hours away. I brought a friend, he brought a friend, and our parents came with. The morning after when we were supposed to leave, we decided to quickly stop by the mall and a couple of cool shops. When we were at the mall, my brother had been saying he wasn’t feeling great, just feeling off. When we went into a comic book store an hour later, I was behind a shelf looking at some stuff when I heard a crash and ran over to look. My brother was on the ground, and all I saw was blood running down his face as he had a seizure, and I immediately turned away and started panicking as the store clerk and my parents rushed over. My mind had registered the blood as him crying blood, and I honest to god thought I was witnessing my brother dying right before my eyes.

It was a long seizure, over five minutes, and when it finally stopped he was unconscious for I think a minute or two before he woke up as the paramedics started helping him. He couldn’t remember anything, thought we still lived in our old town. When we went to the hospital, we waited to see what was happening, but no tests gave us any answers. He finally got his memory back, however, but he still doesn’t remember the seizure which really isn’t uncommon I think.

Oh, and the blood on his face was from a cut on his forehead, because when he began to seize and he dropped, he slammed his head on the glass counter.

He was discharged later that night, and we went home the next day. They think it was a seizure brought on by stress.

Seizures now are unfortunately a trigger for me. It’s taken me a long time to even be able to watch them happen on TV. I was recently at a concert, The 1975, when a girl behind me had a seizure and I immediately had a panic attack and had to leave the venue.

My first panic attack after that was in my first year of college on public transit (public transit had always been a stressor for my anxiety, I had only just started using it that year).

My panic attacks basically make me think I’m about to have a seizure. My head gets these weird tingles, I can’t feel my hands or feet, I start shaking, and I honest to god feel what I can only describe as an overloading static in my brain. I thought I was going to have a seizure and die on that bus.

After about the fourth panic attack, I went to my doctor and got prescribed Ativan. It took me forever to actually take it when I had a panic attack, because I was too nervous to start a new medication. That’s anxiety for ya.

I took it once, but it didn’t work too well, and I never took it again and just kind of suffered through them. I still do.

I still have times when I walk through a mall or a crowd and I start to feel faint and panicky, and need to leave as soon as possible. I also have troubles staying in hotels or going to a big city.

At the start of last May, my night panic attacks started. Every time I closed my eyes, I would freak out and spend four hours or more shutting my eyes, having a panic attack, waking up, and repeating that over, and over, and over. That’s what tonight is.

My parents ended up having to take me to the doctor after we went to stay in a larger city to visit my grandpa after surgery, as the entire time I was panicking, unable to turn it off. The. Entire. Time. They almost had to take me to the hospital the first night because I was in the hotel room crying and freaking out, unable to fall asleep, get enough water, etc. It happened the next nigh too, until I left.

I got prescribed an anti-depressant, meant to knock me out at night. It gives me really bad dry mouth however, and makes me feel weird and makes me dissociate more than I already do. My doctor suggested I try taking  gravol instead, since most over the counter sleep aids are just that. It works wonders, and it’s the only thing that can knock me out in up to 45 mins - 1 hour when I have these bad nights.

Here are some tips for falling asleep at night as well, if you have panic attacks but don’t have anything like melatonin around;

I find background noise helps. I noticed that my big issue when I have to sleep alone at night is the quietness and feeling so alone. I have a television in my room, so I turn on the home channel at a very low volume. The light the TV makes and the voices kinda trick me into thinking it’s sort of day time, that people are up and moving, so I can sleep.

If you don’t have a TV, I suggest finding an audio book on youtube or Spotify and turning that on. Focus on the words, trust me, your body is tired enough that it will clonk out as soon as you stop focusing on your panic.

I can’t sleep in silence. On nights when I’m not feeling anxious at all, I turn on my sleep playlist with bon iver and stuff like that. If I’m feeling a teeny anxious, I turn on my film score playlist, with pretty instrumentals. If I’m feeling hella anxious, like I may have a rough night ahead of me, I turn on ocean or rain sounds on an app I use.

Stay hydrated. If you feel anxious, drink some water, make some tea (no caffeine.)

I also feel I’m way more susceptible to panic attacks if I have caffeine in my system. I can’t drink coffee at night or in the mornings. Afternoon is typically fine since I’m at my least likely to panic during that time, but morning and evenings are a no no. It makes me way too hyper aware of my surroundings and everything starts to kinda blur together.

I feel the need to point out that I’ve never gone to a counsellor, but I know I should. My doctor keeps telling me I should, so I can get prescribed something more daily that will help me with my general anxiety. My mom hasn’t been the most understanding of my mental health, there are a lot of issues with our relationship. A lot. But, it’s gotten to the point where she’s seen me have these breakdowns, seen me have these weeks where I am asleep all day, unable to even talk to anyone. The next time I’m in a bad spot, she’s going to take me to a counsellor.

I think that’s it.

Yeah.

I highly doubt anyone read this long, and I’m not even sure how coherently put all this was, and I’m sure I’ve missed a bunch of other key details, but I think that’s it.

Please know that if any of this sounds familiar to you, I’m always here to talk, to understand, to listen. Still to this day, I really can’t open my mouth and say something without immediately regretting it. I fear that every snapchat I send, every message I make, annoys someone and they hate me. I fear my friends all hate me. I register the fact that these are irrational thoughts, not true, but hey. Feelings are feelings.

Thank y’all for reading this.

[baileymacias]

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