#and now i'm angry over corporate greed all over again

[mythicalmangos]

.

[imperiuswrecked]

Can you please talk about why you think Namor has BPD? (At least I think you said that you believed Namor had BPD, it may have been another condition.)

I've spoken about Namor + Mental Health Issues many times in the past, but I can put it all in this post to make it an easier read rather than going through my older posts. I do state that I believe Namor has BPD (Borderline Personality Disorder) but I will also go over other stuff that have come up in the comics.

General Disclaimer: I'm not a mental health professional, and comics are not good at accurate representation of mental health disorders, and this meta is just my thoughts on the matter of Namor's personality, and mental health issues (MHI). Also content warnings for mentions of mental health issues, suicide, genocide, and rape.

I think the Mental Health Issue that gets discussed the most is Bryne's 90s Namor run where he claims that Namor has Bipolar Disorder. Forgive my long winded response but let me explain the situation behind it and why I personally believe this is a terrible way to use MHI in comics, but of course if people feel represented by a superhero/anti-hero who has the same issues as them then that's good for them and I'm personally not out here to argue with anyone about MHI representation in comics.

Bipolar Disorder

It's the 90s, Namor has been bouncing around books all throughout the 80s after having his 60-70s series canceled, the character has been married twice and widowed twice (Dorma - 1st Wife, Marrina - 2nd wife) he's had one 4 issue mini series and a limited 12 issue series, Saga of the Sub-Mariner, before having his own solo title again; Namor, the Sub-Mariner (1990) and a new look was needed for the Prince of the Seas, so Terry Kavanagh & John Bryne decide to play up the 90s Business Man angle, and Namor is turned into a Corporate Eco Warrior, this time deciding to fight those who harm the oceans and its creatures in the board room rather than the seas. Saga of the Sub-Mariner (1988) sets up Namor for the 90s, with a recap of all the character's history but anyone reading Namor knows that Namor isn't a superhero like Captain America or Superman, who lean towards a lawful good character, instead he's had time spent as a villain and hero, as Marvel puts it "Namor was the first hero-villain" and is the Archetype Anti-Hero and this is very important and I stress this very hard that because of Namor's Anti-Hero characterization it would be impossible to make him a lawful good hero like Captain America without losing important parts of the character. Namor isn't an american or surface world hero, so how does he now work in the surface world? How does a writer take a morally gray character like Namor and make him the hero of his own title?

You would think perhaps they might lean into WHY Namor is angry all the time, WHY Namor hates Americans and other surface dwellers, WHY would he constantly be fighting against them. You would think a good writer would love to play around with plots of morality, human greed and the willful destruction of the earth's oceans with a character whose upbringing/morals don't match the general typical hero type, and the tropes of a vengeful entity seeking justice.

But that would be asking too much of writers.

Instead Bryne blames all of Namor's past misdeeds on "he's crazy" and thus begins my most hated, over used, writing trope for Namor which I've dubbed "The Mad (as in crazy) Sea King Trope" you see this pop up many times in Namor's comics. So now whenever Namor is evil or doesn't fall in line with the surface heroes thinking/wanting to do things, its not because Namor has some actual grievance with the surface world, no he's just got a chemical imbalance in his brain and he needs to take a dip in the ocean or a walk on land.

Namor, the Sub-Mariner (1990) #1

"And my studies have led me to the conclusion that your occasional periods of almost homicidal rage are directly the results of your mingled bloodlines. --- Too long underwater and you begin to suffer from oxygen starvation. Too long on the surface and the reverse occurs. In both cases the result is a kind of Intoxication. You become irrational... insane!"

And with this comic Bryne has irrevocably hurt Namor's character forever. The damage this comic has done will never be undone nor will Namor's character ever have a chance to really dive into Why he's so Angry at the world without Marvel coming back around to this comic. Namor was the original "Angry Young Man" of comics, because Everett said he put some of himself, his own youth, his anger, into Namor's character. If I come across that statement/interview again I will definitely post about it, I just feel that this post is already too long and don't want to sidetrack getting deeper into Namor's design/character.

Namor's extreme hostility and anger is not a character flaw, its by design that he harbors such great resentment towards the world his father came from.

"The Original "Angry Young Man" - The Sub-Mariner" art by Bill Everett

Namor isn't angry because he's crazy, he's angry because severe injustice has been done to his people and home and he wants to avenge that. Everything about Namor is about him trying to navigate two worlds and the anger he feels at the harm one side has done to the other. Namor means "Avenging Son" for a reason.

However with this Bipolar explanation Bryne has neatly swept up all of Namor's complicated emotions and issues with his human half and the human world into a tidy pile and then tossed it out.

I would rather Namor be held accountable for his actions than for them to be forgiven (and why should he CARE about human forgiveness anyways???). I would rather Namor hold a mirror up to the human world and call out their sins which is why he does what he did in the past rather than this half assed "oh, its not really his fault, so its all ok now" writing. This is why I think Bryne's Bipolar Namor hurts the character because it takes away any agency or consequences for the main theme of the character and his world. And it's boring. It's so utterly boring that I want to cry. Perhaps because I love complicated plots, any explanation that absolves a character without putting the work in makes me dislike that writing. Bryne was trying to redeem Namor and in my strongest and unhumble opinion, Namor does not need redemption. Nor should Namor care about human laws or seek to be absolved by subjecting himself to their rulings.

He's not the hero for surface dwellers, he's the hero for atlanteans, and if people actually took the time to see things from Namor's point of view instead of trying to shove the character into the traditional hero mold then they could understand why Namor attacked the surface world.

Trial of the Sub-Mariner - Namor, the Sub-Mariner (1990) #13

"But the fact remains, Namor has never been brought fully to account for many of early crimes against humanity-- including declarations of war and the actual invasion of New York!" "Reed! You sound as though you think Namor should be found guilty of the charges! Yet we know now many of his rages against the world were caused by a blood imbalance due to his mixed racial heritage."

Bryne resolves Namor's past actions by writing that he is guilty of his crimes but by way of insanity in a throwaway speech bubble that if people were less of an intense reader might miss and forget instantly but I'm too much of an obsessive reader, lol. So Namor has to serve a 100 years of probation (again this isn't brought up ever again in any future issues, he literally never does his probation) monitored by Captain America who is his parole officer, Steve plays the part of Jiminy Cricket to keep him on the path of good and Namor is free to be the Good Guy who doesn't hate America/Surface Dwellers. This also leads into another grievance I have with Marvel writers who use Steve as the Moral Right to Namor's Immoral Wrong, but again that's a post for another day.

Imo Byrne is a terrible writer. I won't say I hate the 90s run because there are parts of it I greatly enjoy, but I do criticize how badly this effects Namor's character to this day. It makes no sense logically nor is this how Bipolar disorder works.

Next is Zdarsky's writing.

Where do I begin. I first want to point out that I don't know how Zdarsky would have written Namor if he hadn't been told "No" to a Namor solo series which prompted him to change his story to include Steve and the Invaders but going by the plot of Invaders (2019) I am very glad that this wasn't a solo Namor series. If you haven't read that series the main summary is Namor gets his mind messed with a lot, by Professor Xavier, by the Serpent Crown, by a mental entity taking the distorted form of his old friend, Machan. Which prompts Namor to decide to make all surface dwellers into water dwellers and the Invaders try to stop him. So basically Zdarsky tries to stay true to the previous writing of Bryne's Bipolar disorder but also throws in way too much interference. In the comics it's almost a joke just how many times Namor is possessed or driven mad or insane or has amnesia and it happens once again this series. While it was interesting to see someone attempt to fill in the blank Amnesiac years (the time period between Namor disappearing from Atlantis after the War until the time Johnny Storm finds Namor keeps getting longer as the years go by, what used to be maybe 6 years of an Amnesiac period has now become decades), I just feel that adding more brain trauma and possession for a plot that is ultimately forgotten by now didn't help Namor's character or actually explore his psyche more.

That's not to say I hated it completely, I'm just a very critical reader, and there are very good moments that do explore Namor's psyche like when Professor X is in Namor's mind, and Namor says "I cannot be fixed. There is murder in my heart Charles." Invaders (2019) #4

Or Namor showing Steve how he feels as a super human among humans in issue 1. "Do you have any idea what this is like for me? Look how weak you all are! I could crush this man's head like you would crack open an egg! I run around on your battlefields trying to -- to protect bags of water from being punctured by other bags of water!"

In the end this series employs the same tropes from older comics: - The Mad Sea King (Namor is insane) - Steve is the Moral Right to Namor's Immoral Wrong - Nothing is in character for Namor and Namor's ooc-ness is directly tied to mental interference but Namor is blamed for it as though this is all in character. < this trope also applies to the Phoenix King Namor of the Phoenix Five.

However this series does try somewhat to showcase Namor's PTSD, but more on that later in this post.

So to wrap this up, Namor's bipolar disorder was written as a way to excuse Namor for his shady past and bouts of madness and/or to have a chance to write Namor as Evil or an Antagonist without having to deal with the issues that make up Namor's character or have to blame the surface world for their compliancy in those issues. So you can see why I highly dislike and often ignore the "Namor is bipolar" writing.

Suicidal Thoughts

After the death of Marrina, his second wife, Namor contemplates throwing himself into a swirling whirlpool of perhaps certain death in Marvel Comics Presents (1988) #57

PTSD

While Zdarsky tried to include PTSD as a plot point in Invaders (2019) in my opinion he didn't go far enough into that aspect of Namor's MHI, and instead pivots back to Serpent Crown/Machan possession/Xavier's mind manipulation. Invaders (2019) was so close but ultimately I have to give the real recognition of Namor's PTSD coding/writing to these other comics, especially Marvels Snapshot.

Namor's first real interaction with the surface world comes at the beginning of WWll, at this point Namor is 18 years old, so he's very young for a human and even younger for an Atlantean. As a teenager going off to fight a war in another land he came back with PTSD however in older comics it's more coded than stated.

Marvel Team Up (1997) #8 - Namor finds he cannot breath underwater and manages to make it to safety on a bridge in New York where a frightened human runs away from Namor and into a cop who begins to beat the man. Namor witnessing this has a mental break and believes himself to be back in WWll.

Doctor Strange stops Namor and bring him back for treatment relating to why Namor came to him in the first place and why he can't swim in water but I found this interaction to be very interesting, because this could easily be seen as Namor having a ptsd moment and dealing with the aftermath and not just about Namor's inability to swim underwater and mental burdens.

"It happened again. The Son of Atlantis does not embarrass easily, Doctor. But I foolishly thought you had cured me." "It's not your fault, Namor. I've completed my diagnosis and I've concluded that you are a very sick individual."

Another moment that I also believe is coded PTSD is in Namor, the Sub-Mariner (1990) Annual 1 - Never Again. This comic deals heavily with Namor's past in WWll, the holocaust, genocide and has many flashbacks.

However it wasn't until Marvels Snapshot: Sub-Mariner (2020) that we finally and truly get our first story that actually dives into the fact that Namor has PTSD and is very much affected by it, they do not call it PTSD instead the terms were "Shell Shock" or "Combat Fatigue" are used because this is set during an era where PTSD was not named/recognized. This story is told from the POV of a character who's loved ones have PTSD. Betty Dean witnesses her brother Lloyd's hands shake, his short temper and his drinking as a way to deal with his ptsd. She talks with her other brother about Llyod.

I really love this story because I feel it's so accurate as to how someone would react towards the situation; Betty doesn't understand why Llyod isn't happy the war is over, and Frank tells her "The war's not over for everyone, Betts." I really cannot recommend this comic enough for how it deals with Namor and Betty dealing with the aftermath of the war and how a partner/loved ones struggle with MHI hurts those around them because they are unable to help them. If I could I would post this whole comic here but again, post long, time to move on.

You see Namor react to triggers such as bullet shot sounds. His hands trembling like her brother's.

It's well known that Namor loathes Nazis, and this was another trigger for him to remember his time in the war.

In the end Betty consoles Namor but cannot get him to accept that he isn't well, and he needs help. So yes, it's canon Namor has PTSD and the Rage he had before the war is only exacerbated further because of his war trauma.

Coping Mechanisms/Addiction

As seen in Snapshot, Namor refuses to seek any therapy which was a headcanon I had a long time ago and was pretty pleased to see how spot on another writer understood Namor's inability to ask for help.

"And I don't ask for help. I'm a King dammit." - Dark Reign: The List - X-Men

So as Llyod turned to drinking/alcohol to cope with his ptsd, throughout the comics Namor is seen drinking after he loses a battle/is unable to deal with loss - Fear Itself: The Deep (and avengers but I hate Aaron's avengers so I'm not posting the Namor going in a drinking binge page here but it's there) and Namor also drinks with T'Challa in Avengers when he believes all hope is lost. (Also not to sidetrack again, but someday I really really want to talk about how Namor seems to really only open up to people like Stephen, and has less trouble asking Stephen for help than others. The Defenders team dynamic is one of my favorite things.)

But another coping mechanism is that Namor has used drugs in the past - Bucky Barnes: Winter Soldier (2014) #1 and I've run out of the allowed images on a single post so I linked my older post where I mention this.

Amnesia/Mental Possession

When Marvel began it's Silver Age, the world exploded into creation with the arrival of the Fantastic Four in 1961. At this point in the real world Namor had been out of print since 1955. Now Kirby & Lee could have just kept going without bringing in any of the older characters from the Golden Age but Stan Lee loved Namor's character very much and wanted to bring him back and what started out as a plot point in Fantastic Four (1961) #4 to explain where Namor had been for a in universe few years turns into a and overused cliché in Namor comics. I have no issues with Fantastic Four (1961) #4 using this plot, in fact its a very good and simple plot, the Pauper that was actually a lost Prince of a fantastical realm.

Namor is the first character to bridge the divide between the old golden age heroes and the new silver age heroes. The way amnesia is used as a tool to help explain and bring in the character is very contained however many times after this writers seem to love to use Amnesiac Namor as a plot device and it's happened many times in his comics. In fact Namor seems to get amnesia from literally anything, wheter it's Master Khan stripping Namor of his memories in Namor, the Sub-Mariner (1990) #25 or Namor becoming an train bound amnesiac hobo over the grief of losing his father in The Sub-Mariner (1968) #47

Meanwhile the other often used trope of Mental Possession comes up many times too, from the Puppet Master controlling Namor in Fantastic Four (1961) #14 and again in Tales to Astonish #78 to explosions leaving Namor an amnesiac and under the control of the hooded man of the secret empire in Tales to Astonish #83, etc. This is of course an incomplete list of times Namor has either lost his memories or is under another's mental control. Note: The Serpent Crown is also another recurring plot where Namor or others are controlled by the crown.

Of course I can't leave out the Phoenix King. Phoenix Five Namor is the one most people know but again most do not acknowledge that he was possessed and under the control of a cosmic entity. Even though there are two comics that talk about how much Namor hated his agency and control being taken away from him by the Phoenix.

AvX: Consequences #4 & Jean Grey (2017) #3

I bring up the instances of Namor's amnesia/mental possession and how it relates to his MHI issues because these sort of plots are present in many comics but most writers really don't take the time to go into how badly these constant bouts of loss of self affect Namor's character, which is understandable in comic book writing world because every writer wants to move onto the next plot and next action scene. However these does bring me to the next topic.

(Also if you want a good amnesia Namor comic then read Tales of the Marvels: Inner Demons, it's told from a side characters pov but it's one of my favorite comics)

Mental Resilience

Now if a writer wants a thing to happen in a comic then it will happen and explanations or consistency be damned. However I do find it very amusing how Namor is constantly shown to have an extremely strong personality and remarked to have very strong mental fortitude that not even Emma Frost can break, is shown to be strong enough to stand against The Purple Man's powers and Namor has had literally everything from tanks to bombs thrown at him and brushed it off, yet sometimes he can't resist whatever flavor of the week villain's mental powers or stop waking up with amnesia every 5 seconds.

So Namor is the most hard headed recurring amnesiac to ever live in comics. I sincerely worry he's got massive amounts of brain damage with how many times this has happened to him.

Mental Instability

I'm sure there are times when Namor just cracks under the massive amounts of constant trauma and pressure but comics don't really show that however there is a moment right after Llyra rapes Namor, he finds out, and then she lies to him, telling him she is pregnant with his child (at this point in the comics Namor was canonically sterile), and Namor just cracks, with Johnny and Ben saying Namor has "lost it". Namor, the Sub-Mariner (1990) #50

Borderline Personality Disorder

Now everything I've spoken of up until this point is supported by comic examples. However my theory of Namor having Borderline Personality Disorder came about from me rejecting the Bipolar Disorder explanation and then trying to figure out what type of MHI Namor would really have if writers cared at all to understand the character. Most of this comes from me seeing the commonly shared traits between Namor's character and the signs of BPD. I wrote this out before but here's the list again:

An intense fear of abandonment, even going to extreme measures to avoid real or imagined separation or rejection

A pattern of unstable intense relationships, such as idealizing someone one moment and then suddenly believing the person doesn’t care enough or is cruel (see: namor hounding susan storm for years, idolizing her, but it wasn’t actually a relationship)

Rapid changes in self-identity and self-image that include shifting goals and values, and seeing yourself as bad or as if you don’t exist at all

Periods of stress-related paranoia and loss of contact with reality, lasting from a few minutes to a few hours

Impulsive and risky behavior

Wide mood swings lasting from a few hours to a few days, which can include intense happiness, irritability, shame or anxiety

Ongoing feelings of emptiness

Inappropriate, intense anger, such as frequently losing your temper, being sarcastic or bitter, or having physical fights

Most of these traits are things you see throughout the comics, but nothing that's ever stated as BPD. You see Namor struggle with his self-identity, be paranoid that Lady Dorma has abandoned/betrayed him, his wanderings throughout the oceans during his periods of grief or loneliness etc. it's really just a lot of little things that I feel contribute to this headcanon.

The Sub-Mariner (1968) #4

To me Namor having Borderline Personality Disorder clearly explains Namor's rapid shifts of mood better than "oh he's bipolar and its because he's half human/atlantean and needs oxygen or he goes insane", and IF Marvel was to give Namor some kind of mental diagnosis then imo he would not be Bipolar.

Namor has so much external pressure, from the way the Atlanteans have ostracized him, and the politics of the surface world vs the atlanteans, the way he's constantly pushed to war with the humans while at other times trying to prevent war between his two people. The pressures of being a king, and the internal pressures of his inner self, his conflicts of being half human/atlantean, personal life, and losses. It's enough to make anyone crack. Let alone a character who has endured this for decades.

Atlantis Attacks (2020) #1

In conclusion, get this sea king some therapy and let him nap. He really needs it.

[brackets002]

I wanna talk about my homemade Spider-Man universe.

Not that I've been exactly mum about it before now--I've got a whole-ass sideblog for it, @ask-spider-man-61610. But that's an in-character askblog; it filters everything through the often-biased viewpoint of Peter Parker himself. I'm gonna start talking about the project on main, too. Should be easier to engage with readers that way. And I'm gonna start with talking about Peter.

(Art by @sirwolficus.)

This version of Peter Parker was born in 1994. In 2009 he attended a scientific exhibition and was bitten by an experimental, genetically-altered, radioactive spider. And in the years since then he's grown up into probably the best superhero on the planet...but not without stumbling along the way, and not without making a lot of mistakes.

See, you know how most modern adaptations of Spider-Man try to compress basically his entire history into his high school years? Peter here reflects that, in the sense that he went through dozens upon dozens of adventures as a student of Midtown High. Dozens of supervillain encounters. Dozens of desperate fights for his life. Dozens of failures, almost all of which killed someone--sometimes someone he knew. All before the age of eighteen.

Specs--I call this Peter "Specs" because the spider bite didn't fix his eyesight--has a pretty severe case of post-traumatic stress disorder. He's prone to horrible flashbacks and panic attacks. He's hypervigilant, to the point that his spider-sense has grown into a constant, unpleasant alert of even the most minor hazards. He obsesses over his mistakes, his guilt, and his "responsibility." He has nightmares so often that he's afraid to sleep, and routinely stays awake for days on end.

And he's so, so angry.

But he's also smart, and remarkably mature. Uncle Ben died when he was fourteen, and Aunt May's cardiorespiratory illness meant that a full-time job was essentially impossible for her. To help pay for rent and medication, Peter got a paid internship with the Daily Bugle, where he photographed everything from press conferences to breaking news to--yes--himself in action as Spider-Man. And it was through that internship that he came to understand the hold that corporate greed, organized crime, and political agendas have on the world. Spider-Man stopped being a simple crime-fighter and started becoming a tool for weakening that hold.

(Art by @enby-scientist/@scribbling-scientist.)

Peter's been Spider-Man for a little over a decade now. (The "present day" of his universe is permanently a few years behind ours.) In that decade he's grown into a highly competent photojournalist, a detective, a chemical engineer, and an outspoken proponent for social change. His skills in combat and disaster response have become first-rate, as has his understanding of corporate and political corruption.

He doesn't always do the right thing. And very rarely does he respect anyone's authority but his own. But he's helped many, many more people than he's hurt over the years (though he himself struggles to see that), and his efforts have pushed large sections of his world a few steps back from the brink.

The life of a superhero is nightmarish even as an adult, of course. Peter still winds up half-dead and scared out of his mind on a regular basis. People still die if he isn't fast or strong enough to save them. And he's still got a rogues gallery, and finds himself growing increasingly frustrated to fight the same thirty guys or so time and time again. The cyclical nature of the hero-villain feud gets center stage in this version of the Spider-Man mythos. Peter dwells on it a lot, and is desperate to break that cycle before it can finish breaking him.

But none of this should undercut the silver linings of Specs' life. As he's matured over the years, and despite his abrasive nature, he's gained a small collection of friends, allies, and found family. He's grown close to, courted, dated, and married Mary Jane Watson, the strongest woman he's ever known. Through his repeated journeys into the multiverse he's met countless other spider-based vigilantes, including alternate versions of himself, and their friendship has massively lessened the feeling of isolation his career creates. And he's made a real, tangible difference in the world around him. A change for the better, however small. He'd keep being Spider-Man even if none of this was true--he's a stubborn bastard like that. But all this makes his grief feel worth it. Even when he can't see the light at the end of the tunnel, all this lets him carry a little light with him.

(Art by @SpiderWitHyphen on Twitter.)

[watchyourdigits]

Falloutober Day Six

Monument

SIBLING FLUFF! This day serves as another look back into Frankie's past, to when he was little. We get a snippet of his relationship with his three older sisters. More specifically, his relationship with Elizabeth, who basically ends up raising the three others after they move to Texas following their mother's passing ~4 years prior. Lots of ranches in the West Texas/Panhandle region were bought up by oil companies in the '50s and Frankie's father isn't too pleased about the whole thing. Frankie is very young and doesn't understand his father is (mostly) speaking metaphorically and ends up a bit traumatized. Next prompts will actually be post-War this time lol Ages: Elizabeth (16), Jane (13), Mary (9.5 - the half is very important!), and Frankie (just turned 6) Word Count: 1.4k Warnings: alcoholism, corporal punishment, childhood neglect, religious themes

"What's that they're doin' over there, Pa?"

The sun had risen high in the August sky. A halo of light shone around his father's head. Frankie had to squint up at him where he sat on the porch in his favorite rocking chair, staring angrily at the horizon.

"Settin' up more of them oil rigs."

His voice bore the tone he took when he was angry about something or other. Frankie watched as his father picked up an empty beer bottle and brought it to his lips. He spit a thick, brown liquid into it with a sound that made Frankie's face scrunch up in disgust.

Frankie turned his attention to where his father was looking. The men on the rigs were mere specks compared to the looming metal infrastructure surrounding them.

"What's an oil rig 'n why're they buildin' so many of 'em?"

"All you gotta know 'bout 'em is that they're monuments of greed, built up by the kind of man that don't believe in leavin' God's creations alone."

"They worship the Devil?"

"Yeup."

"Who let 'em do that?" Frankie asked, appalled.

"'Member that old feller who up and died a year or two back?"

"No."

"Well, his kids was s'posed to take care of the place. They sold it to some company and now they're doin' this nonsense," he said, gesturing off into the distance with his bottle before spitting into it again.

"Why'd they go 'nd sell it, Pa?"

He grumbled something under his breath.

"You're askin' too many goddamn questions, boy. Get me another beer then go play with your sister's inside."

"But I don't wanna play inside - all they do is mess with their dolls! I wanna play cowboys and Injuns with Wyatt, Buck, 'nd them."

"Do I have to whoop you like last week?"

Frankie's eyes widened as his father leaned down to glare at him. Swallowing hard, he shook his head furiously.

He still had bruises on his bottom from where his father's belt had welted the skin there. It had been his eldest sister, Elizabeth, who had snagged some ointment for him from the school nurse's office.

Frankie scurried off without another word, moving as quickly as possible to grab his father another beer from the fridge. He brought it out to him in silence. His father grunted as he took it, not looking down at him.

Frankie sulked his way back into the house. His sisters were in the living room, as expected. Elizabeth, his eldest sister, was sitting on the couch. She was listening to a radio show while she carefully stitched away at something in her lap.

"I can't believe you ripped my Raggedy Ann doll," Jane said, accosting the youngest of the three, Mary. "Are you slow or somethin'?"

Mary shook her head, tears welled up in her eyes.

"I ain't slow! 'Nd I said I was sorry!"

"Knock it off, you two," Elizabeth said sharply. "I'm fixing it right now, just gimme a minute."

Frankie passed the two girls on the floor and pulled himself onto the couch beside Elizabeth. He watched quietly as she stitched away, but he grew restless.

"Hey, Lizzie? How do you make it so the string don't come out when you're done?"

"Doesn't come out," she corrected. "All you gotta do is tie a knot. See, watch."

Frankie paid close attention as Elizabeth tied off the end of the thread. She brought the whole thing up to her mouth and used her teeth to rip off the excess. She showed Frankie the finished product and he ran his finger over the stitches.

"Good as new?" he asked, looking up at her.

She smiled and nodded, bringing a hand up to ruffle his hair.

"Yup. Good as new. Here, Jane," she said, tossing the doll to her.

Jane examined her handiwork and gave an approving nod.

"Thanks, Liz."

"Any time. Now quit bein' so mean to poor Mary."

"Yeah! Quit bein' mean to poor me!" Mary parroted, sticking her tongue out at Jane.

"What're you doin' today, Frankie?" Elizabeth asked, taking to ignoring her sisters as they continued bickering.

"Nothin'," he said with a sigh. Elizabeth gave him a knowing look, so he continued, "Told Pa I wanted to see Wyatt and Buck, but he said for me tuh go inside and play with y'all instead."

Elizabeth rolled her eyes and then leaned down to whisper in Frankie's ear.

"Don't tell them I said this, but Pa's been a real ass lately, even to me. It's 'cause of all that booze he's drinkin'."

Frankie giggled as her breath tickled his ear. He pushed her off playfully.

"Maybe we play cowboys and Injuns instead?" he asked, eyes lighting up.

Elizabeth shrugged, a smirk gracing her lips.

"Don't see why not."

"I wanna be a cowboy," Jane announced, having overheard their conversation.

"No, me 'nd Frankie are the cowboys," Elizabeth said firmly. "You 'nd Mary are the Injuns."

"That ain't fair and you know it!" Mary protested, crossing her arms in a huff.

"Try bein' born first next time, then we'll talk."

The rest of the afternoon went by in a blur, with Frankie and his sisters switching off between various games as they found ways to entertain themselves. At some point, their father stumbled in from the porch and demanded they clean up, ending the fun.

Later, Jane heated up some leftover chicken for them and they ate dinner together while their father slept on the couch in the living room.

"Who wants to say Grace?" Elizabeth asked.

"I do!" Frankie said, raising his arm high above his head.

No one disputed his claim, so they clasped hands and bowed their heads.

"Thank you God and Jesus for the food you have given us. Thank you for keeping us safe. Please keep blessing us and our food like you do every day. And please make those Devils next door go away forever. Amen."

"Amen," the girls said in unison, dropping their hands.

Later that evening, Frankie couldn't fall asleep, the metal screeching and groaning keeping him awake as the sounds rolled across the flat land between the properties. He got up and put on his slippers, creeping through the halls to Elizabeth's room.

She was tangled in her sheets, dead asleep, a book open beside her on the bed. Frankie tip-toed over to her and pulled her sheets up like she did for him most nights. He grabbed the book and made sure to dog-ear it before placing it on her nightstand. As he tip-toed away, Elizabeth stirred.

"Frankie? What're you doin' up so late?" she said groggily, groaning as she rolled over to block the light streaming in from the hallway.

"Sorry, Lizzie," Frankie whispered back sheepishly, feeling guilty for waking her up. "I couldn't sleep. Those Devil money rigs are keeping me awake."

He watched in the dim light as Elizabeth sighed and scooted over, patting the bed. He wasted no time clambering in beside her, pulling the sheets up to his neck for comfort.

"What is all this about?" she asked, rolling onto her back now so she could turn her head to face her younger brother. "You said all that stuff at dinner…"

"Pa said the oil rigs are made by evil men who aren't scared of God. They use them as monuments to the Devil! Then I keep hearin' the sounds they make… They're like demons hollerin’. What if they-"

"Don't be scared of some dumb machines. They can't hurt you all the way over here."

"But Pa said-"

"Pa don't so much as know what day it is… Speakin' of which, we got mass in the mornin'."

"Yeah, yeah, I know… Pa goin’ with us?"

“Naw, he slept on the couch. His neck’s bound to be hurtin’.”

“Maybe we can ride the tractor to church instead of the truck,” Frankie suggested, wiggling a little in his excitement.

“Sure. I’ll even let you sit on my lap and steer a little if you hush up ‘bout it.”

Frankie nodded firmly and squeezed his eyes shut, trying his best to fall asleep.

A minute or so passed before he realized he'd forgotten something important he'd wanted to say. His eyes shot open in a panic and he poked at Elizabeth’s arm.

"Lizzie… Psst… You awake?"

"Hmm?"

"I forgot to say I love you."

"I love you, too, Frankie. Now please get some sleep, a'ight?"

"Okay. 'Night."

"G'night."

[sigritandtheelves]

ok for the 5 headcanon prompt thing (And i'm horrible at coming up with these honestly) ummm: mulder has a hidden disability of some sort and scully finds out about it and is super supportive

This was a tough prompt, but I decided to interpret it in relation to Mulder’s alleged “brain disease” in season 7. In other words, what if the show had actually dealt with it as a Thing? Sorry, I don’t think it actually really fits the request, but it’s something?

1. They have just returned from Los Angeles, where she wooed him with magic and he kissed her while no one was looking on the Santa Monica Pier. He has more magic in mind as he tosses their bags onto the floor of her apartment. He doesn’t think about the thing in his brain that wants to kill him, but it waits. It hums like white noise, omnipresent. He has months, maybe. He is determined to make every moment of his life count. Like now. And now. Right now.

She’s wearing blue. He loves her in blue. He tickles the hem of her shirt, works his fingers under it while she feigns interest in sorting her mail. She is smiling, but pretending not to. It is a game

“Anything good?” He asks.

“I’m pre-approved,” she says, holding up a solicitous credit card envelope.

She drops it to the table when his whole hand slides under her shirt and then his lips are on her neck and then…

And then he is looking up at her. He is looking up because he’s on the floor and she is crying and tugging with one hand at his chest and saying his name over and over and oh Scully, your hands in my hair can’t heal what’s wrong, he thinks.

2. She is livid. She is enraged. She is pounding her fist into a pillow to keep from losing it all together.

“But why, Mulder? Why wouldn’t you tell me?” There are tears, she is so angry. And more tears because she is sad.

“It wouldn’t—I thought…” His eyes are closed and he’s leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. She’s pacing her living room now. They’ve just come from the hospital. “I wanted to wait… so you didn’t have to suffer as long.”

She’s stopped in front of him, fists at her hips, still in her travel clothes. Her blue that he loves. “Jesus fuck, Mulder. I’m a doctor. I’m your—your partner. You need to tell me.” And then she is dropping onto her knees and the anger is gone but the tears are not. “You need to tell me,” she says again, quieter this time. She is shoving her face into his neck and grabbing at his shirtsleeves with both hands like she can shake the disease out of him and her sobs are all like little knives in his heart.

She is crying so hard that it makes him cry too, and then he mumbles “I’m sorry” into her hair.

His knees come to the floor, to the outsides of hers, denim against cotton, so he can fold his whole body around hers. She slumps against him. He slumps against the floor. He kisses her. He makes love to her there, right there on her rug between the armchair and the couch. He tells her this is all he’s ever wanted. She asks how long he’s known.

“That this is all I’ve ever wanted?”

She frowns. Did you only love me because you were dying? she wants to ask. She doesn’t. It is too cruel.

3. When his mother dies it is too too much. It is a grave omen. It is a future echo of what might come.

Mirrored, then, in his apartment not hers, they come apart in exactly the same fashion only now it is his head at her breast, his coffee table shoved aside, not hers. They come apart and then they come together.

Days later, when he tells her he saw his sister, when he tells her he saw them all in starlight, her face crumples because she doesn’t want to doubt him, but she does. Because she thinks it might be a sign that things are worse.

She has traded blue for black leather.

4. Out of desperation, (a cure for everything, he promises) she follows an enemy and almost loses her life. Now it is Mulder’s turn to be livid. He hovers like a thundercloud. He storms like the sea. He has so little time—he will not spend it without her. How dare she almost take herself away?

Don’t you understand? She wants to scream. Wouldn’t you do anything? Didn’t you do everything?

They eye each other across a room so thick with desperation and regret and fear and love and relief and anger and Jesus how could you? that they can almost taste it like warm metal.

He nearly reads her mind. He would, but he doesn’t have to.

“I’d never forgive you if you died for me,” he says.

She pushes herself off of her couch and walks to him. “What can we do?” She asks as she lifts her palms to his face. He doesn’t touch her. He can’t. Not yet. But then he does because how can he not? She smells like fresh air and danger. He smells like fearsweat. “I can’t do nothing, Mulder,” she says into his sweater, and his arms come around her.

5. Is it a miracle from God or a gift from the devil? Some hellish combination of mad science and corporate greed conspire to rip his lungs to shreds and in doing so, strap him down to a North Carolina hospital bed. Scully is tracking down his other records, his brain scans, when they administer the nicotine or it never would have happened. She’s not there when he is poisoned back to life, but first to death. She never would have left him but… His heart stops for a moment. For a moment he is dead. A moment. Then a minute. A full minute. And then it beats again.

When he is alive (You act like you’re surprised.) his death seems to have cured his other death. Deaths? There are no more beetles. There are no more dark gray tendrils in his brain. Something miraculous (devilish, impossible, nefarious) has happened. What disease is cured by death? What monster would design such a thing?

He is dead-alive. But mostly he is alive. He lives to go back to L.A., to see this stupid movie, to tumble already half naked into the hotel sheets with his love, tipsy on Champagne.

They are suddenly so present, so perfectly aligned with the universe and each other, they are bursting. They are swollen with life and promise. Her fingers are always always in his hair. “Your beautiful brain, Mulder,” she says.

He sighs, dramatic. “You only love me for my brains,” he says. He is lying on his side, naked now, trailing a hand along the skin of her back. She laughs, rolls over, pulls him on top of her: red hair on the pillow, tiny cold toes on his thighs.

“Show me what else you’ve got, then,” she says, and he pulls her hips toward him.

He has his whole life, he thinks.

-end-

I’ll leave it up to y’all what happens next but psst I’ll give you a hint, he doesn’t go to Oregon the second time 😉😘

[anitabyars]

Title: A Perfect Lie

Author: Lisa Renee Jones

Release Date: May 14, 2019

ABOUT A PERFECT LIE

Secrets. Lies. A man. There's always a man. And there's always a truth to be told.

I'm Hailey Anne Monroe. I’m twenty-eight years old. An artist, who found her muse on the canvas because I wasn’t allowed to have friends or even keep a journal. And yes, if you haven’t guessed by now, I’m that Hailey Anne Monroe, daughter to Thomas Frank Monroe, the man who was a half-percentage point from becoming President of the United States. If you were able to ask him, he’d probably tell you that I was the half point. But you can’t ask him, and he can’t tell you. He’s dead. They’re all dead and now I can speak.

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EXCERPT

“Can I join you?” he asks, motioning to the table.

There’s interest in his eyes, the kind a man has for a woman, but who knows, maybe it’s real or maybe it’s not real. Maybe he knows who I am and sees a path to power and fame. The way Tobey wanted me for money and power, right up until the moment I’d called his number aka his agenda; thus, he has not called me since I left. Maybe Harvard will lie even better than Tobey did. Maybe Harvard will at least kiss better than he did, and the lies would taste like temptation rather than convenience. At least then, if I’m used, I’ll enjoy being used.

Whatever the case, it’s clear I might actually be angry with Tobey and that aside, the interest that Harvard has shown in me, must be controlled before my Denver sanctuary is destroyed. “You can join me,” I say, “but only because I’m trying to save the rest of the place from the attorney in the house.”

I am pleased when Harvard laughs, where Tobey would have scowled, proving that Harvard has a sense of humor, which is rare for those in my life. I’ve barely completed this thought when he moves forward and claims the seat next to me, not across from me, settling his briefcase on that chair instead. In the process, his leg brushes my leg and for the briefest of moments, I’m transported back to the place that I’m now trying to forget: to Austin, to Drew’s leg next to mine, his wink, and I do now what I did then. I jerk back. If Harvard notices he doesn’t react. “Since we haven’t been formally introduced,” he says, resting his naked hands on the table. “I’m Logan. Logan Casey.”

“Logan Casey,” I repeat trying to ground myself in the present, at least for now, but some part of me is still swimming in that memory, which naturally has me wondering if this man is a shark in the water around me. “Two first names,” I add. “Sounds like your parents fought over who got to pick your first name. Did they draw straws for which choice became your middle name?”

“You’re actually right on target,” he says, laughing again, and it’s a nice, masculine laugh, and oddly this thought feels familiar while Logan does not. “No one has ever guessed that,” he adds. “My mother won the name war. The women always win. Speaking of names. Do you have one?”

“Hailey Anne Pitt,” I say, “and in my house, my father won the name war.” Because in my father’s world, I add silently, the women don’t win the wars. At least, not that he knows, not in an obvious way. I’ve learned this well.

“Well then, Hailey Anne Pitt,” he says, “what’s a Stanford girl like you, doing in a place like this? You’re a long way from school.”

I’m smacked in the face with a lesson I’ve long ago learned and forgotten with this man; strangers do not always remain strangers and all offhanded remarks can come back to haunt you. “That was a joke,” I say, shutting the door connected to my real life, and a path that leads to my father. “I hate attorneys, remember?”

He narrows his eyes on me, and for no reason other than instinct, I believe he’s looking for a lie that he won’t find. I’m simply too well-taught from birth, too skilled at being more than one person to allow such a detection. Well that, and the fact that I really do hate attorneys, which is why I’ll be a good one.

“That was a joke?” he confirms.

“Yes,” I say. “Are you amused?”

“Yes, actually. I am. What does a lawyer-hating smart ass like yourself do for a living?”

“When not busy taunting those who went to law school,” I say. “I’m an aspiring artist.” Both honest answers, if you put a “was” in front of the “aspiring artist” which I’d thought that I’d come to terms with, but the knot in my stomach says I have not.

Logan motions toward the art room. “Your career explains why you ended up here.”

“I guess it does,” I say, as this place serves me well to reconnecting to the Pitt part of my life, which is a place I really need to be right now, for all kinds of reasons.

“Are you good?” Logan asks, as if he’s read my mind.

My father’s words answer him in my head. Art is useless unless you’re famous, he used to say often, because of course, it was inconceivable that I might be good enough to be famous. “Art is like movies and food,” I say, shoving aside that bad memory. “Good is subjective.” I don’t give him time to reply. I ping the conversation back toward him. “What kind of law do you practice?”

“Corporate,” he says, and this time he pings back to me. “Do you live in the neighborhood?”

“Yes,” I say simply. “Do you?”

“I bought a building a few years ago where I live and work which means this is my home turf, and why I know you’re new here.”

“I am,” I say and since he’s clearly going to ask for details, I quickly preempt with an on-the-fly story. Actually, it’s the suggested story, Rudolf included in my file. “I came here for a job, and my new boss owns a house he’s rented to me for dirt cheap.”

“And what does an artist do but create art for a living?”

“I’m working for a private art acquisitions firm. I now hunt for treasures for a living.” This lie is actually my dream job that I’ve never been allowed to entertain.

The horror flick loving waitress delivers my coffee and brownie. “Thank you,” I say, because every politician’s daughter has manners beaten into her.

“No problem,” she says, “but if you come to your senses and want a better version of that coffee, just shout.” She eyes Logan. “I already know you want a crappy tasting coffee, on endless pour and a chocolate chip cookie. Coming right up.”

“Thanks, Megan,” he says, giving her a wink that I don’t classify as flirtatious, just friendly, and Megan is gone.

“Obviously you’re a regular,” I comment, “and they even like you.”

“And they like me,” he confirms, “despite knowing I’m an attorney.

“Because you’re good looking and use it to your advantage.”

He arches a brow. “You think I’m good looking, do you?”

“Oh, come on,” I say, crinkling my nose. “Everyone thinks you’re good looking. I’m simply stating a fact. We use what we have and those of us that are smart, know what we have.” I move on from what is really quite inconsequential. “Why work here, not at home, or in the office?”

“I find I get a lot of work done with a cookie, coffee, and no access to streaming television,” he explains.

No one in my D.C. crowd would make an admission of being human and distractible. Some people in my situation might take comfort in that fact, but I don’t. Logan’s an attorney, and my gut, which I’ll confirm with research, says he’s a powerful one, the kind that radiates toward my father. Maybe that’s a coincidence and maybe it’s not. Maybe he’s testing how well I execute my cover story. The possibilities are many. Though in all fairness to Logan, perhaps I’d lean toward his innocence, if not for the laundry list of recent events such as Tobey being gay and the FBI agent, who is likely working for my father, that I slept with to prove I was a) still desirable and b) not a killer.

ABOUT LISA

New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Lisa Renee Jones is the author of the highly acclaimed INSIDE OUT series.

In addition to the success of Lisa's INSIDE OUT series, she has published many successful titles. The TALL, DARK AND DEADLY series and THE SECRET LIFE OF AMY BENSEN series, both spent several months on a combination of the New York Times and USA Today bestselling lists. Lisa is also the author of the bestselling WHITE LIES and LILAH LOVE series.

Prior to publishing Lisa owned multi-state staffing agency that was recognized many times by The Austin Business Journal and also praised by the Dallas Women's Magazine. In 1998 Lisa was listed as the #7 growing women owned business in Entrepreneur Magazine.

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My Review!

5 ⭐️

Riveting!!!

Wow! This is a riveting, suspenseful, mystery that is about greed, destiny, betrayal, secrets, lies, power, money and ambition. It’s about what some powerful people may do to get ahead. But is also the story of a young woman Hailey Anne Monroe whose father has political aspirations to become the President. A father who appears to be disdainful of rules, of laws and of ethics. Raised from infancy to be the perfect daughter, Hailey tells us her story, as she searches for answers, and finds out what she is truly made of. Written in past and present tense it takes you on her journey of what she says is the truth. But is it? Or could it be the perfect lie?

This story took me on a wild ride, making me question every single character and situation the whole way through. There were little hints along the way that built this story, so many little things that started to tick off this list of what was real and who was behind all of this. I spent most of the chapters mentally keeping track of all the big and small clues. My mind constantly racing trying to figure out where this was all leading next. Because we have learned that in politics and life that lies can and are avoided by the many versions of the truth.

Lisa Renee Jones did a phenomenal job crafting this story, and I was held captive until the end. I loved its fast pace and unexpected turns. So clear your schedule. Bring a snack. This will keep you reading late into the night. I couldn’t put it down. I highly recommend this story.

I voluntarily read and reviewed an advanced reader copy of this book. All thoughts and opinions are my own.

[the-amalgam-house]

With everything that's been happening irt family and finances, I've been in a horrible depressive episode for what feels like many months now. Maybe it's only been a couple, idk, but it seems longer. I had to drop D&D again indefinitely and it's just. Like I know I don't have the mental capacity for it but it still bums me out, you know?

I asked my mom how everyone is doing over there after the last incident and she says it's not too bad, kinda stressful but things look to be working out. She also told me to put my trust in God and pray, as she always does. Even after I've made it clear that I'm not a Christian anymore, she still tries. Which I'm not like mad at but I'm really not ready for any type of major religion or whatever, and especially not the one that caused me the most sorrow and trauma.

I don't NOT believe in God. In fact I believe that all gods do exist. Maybe not all on the same plane of existence, but they do all exist in some form, beyond normal human perception. But the church and the beliefs of the people are what burned me. And technically that one isn't god's fault, it's human being human and showing their capacity for evil. It's mistranslations and personal bias being written into religious law by self-righteous god-kings and pastors/deacons/wannabe saints...etc. It's how humans set up the religion and told everyone it's God's will that really fucked me up. It's those people who hurt my friends and family so badly they never want to believe in anything beyond ourselves because something having that much power over humanity is terrifying and infuriating when all you want is to be left alone in peace.

I guess I still get a little mad. I've asked her not to get preachy at me before when I was really angry. I know she does it with good intentions, but I still roll my eyes when I'm told I should pray about it and show reverence to a god that people always told me would send me to hell just for being me. A vindictive and jealous war monger who shuns anyone who's a little different and tells their followers that their children are better off dead than living in sin. A very "do as I say, not as I do" mindset that never did come off as the type of deity that encompasses "love" but demands it through fear.

I'm tired of hearing it. I'm tired of being told that's the only way. I'm tired of trying to justify my existence and my worthiness to some man-made version of a "kind" and "loving" god who, according to his followers, has already deemed me an abomination destined to eternal torture. For what? What in my entire life could I have possibly done to deserve that? People who commit the worst global scale atrocities known to all creatures on the planet are praised as godly and just people, but a truly kindhearted human who just happens to be trans or gay or mentally ill in an undesirable way has to face utter destruction and despair into infinity? All while those corporate greed CEO oil drilling slave labor capitalist literal taint cheese manifested into a wicked simulacrum of a parody of a human are allowed to rise to idol status and sainthood in the eyes of the church.

I want absolutely ZERO part of that. I don't even want to be remotely associated with that by proxy. I want it so fucking far away from me and my life except I have to live in it, wading up to my nostrils in the fucking doo-doo swamp that is American Christian capitalist culture. The denomination doesn't matter, they're all fucked up. Baptists, Presbyterians, Protestants, Catholics, Mormons, Witnesses, there's like a thousand of them I can't remember them all and any time a sect tries to be any kind of progressive in any way the vast majority condemns them as not being real Christianity and just...

Like fuck off. Fuck off forever. Most humans don't deserve to suffer but the idea that one day there will be no more humans is somewhat soothing tbh. Fifth or sixth mass extinction event happening cause of these rich white cis straight greedy mega church evangelical tech bro assholes not giving a shit about the planet and the people and creatures on it.

Please I hate being here so much. I hate money. I hate mainstream Christian culture. I hate the nuclear family model. I hate technology enabling crypto bros and art theft. I hate that all our amazing technological advancements are all put to use in war and suppression instead of healthcare and infrastructure. I hate everything about this country and the state of the world currently and please I don't want to BE here anymore!!!

[cuddlyclaws]

I'm angry, I’m ready to scream

I am so frustrated. I hate my skin and it makes me hate myself and this makes me hate myself and my skin even more.

For about 2 weeks my skin has slowly been in decline. It has been 2 years of fighting myself, questioning everything and struggles. When I am in a flare up like this there is nothing else. I want to curl up in bed and make the world go away. I want to lie in a warm bath and drift away. It is my moment of reprieve. A time when everything silences and calms. When I enter the water I feel the sting. I feel every little raw spot. Once the sting goes I melt away. I don't let anybody part touch another as this breaks the illusion that everything is ok. Then I run my hands over my forehead I feel the sting again. When I run my fingers over my chest and shoulders I feel all the bumps. My skin feels like I imagine a crocodile’s would. It is no longer my skin, it is a torture device. I am in a prison. I search for a key, I follow the rules and still more of this and worse.

I am tired, I am cold, I am angry and I am deflated. I do not want to see anyone. I am ashamed of how I look and feel. It is only superficial but it steals my soul.

For a couple of weeks now I have been doing light treatment sessions. I showed the dermatologist my rash before this session and he calmly stated it looks like eczema. This is not my normal eczema though. I recognise my normal eczema. I complete my light therapy session and collect my script on the way out the door. More steroids. Prednisone course this time. 

I come home, have breakfast while watching videos of the Las Vegas massacre. It makes me sick how greed and politics can run over common sense. America is so screwed up how big corporations and organisations such as the NRA can control the agenda so heavily. I am equally appalled at the sorry state of the American health system for the same reasons. And this is my mood. Issues, problems, anger, hatred all boiling away. I believe I am normally a positive person. I despise how my skin robs me of this. I normally have energy and enthusiasm. I only feel like curling up into a ball and feeling sorry for myself.

The massacre. Nobody at that event was ready to die. My wife is courageously battling terminal cancer yet still I fall into my black hole and feel sorry for myself. This is not right, this is not me. I am privileged to live in this country, to be loved, to have a purpose, to have friends and family. Right now all I feel is itch, dryness, frustration, pain, anger and despair. 

I took our dog Ailbe to the vets for a check-up as he was a little unwell yesterday and shaking this morning. He was fine and had his shots etc. During this trip, I must have got his saliva on me when scratching subconsciously or something. On the drive home I was gradually spiralling into an itchy mess. I am so sensitive right now that now things are affecting me when they don't normally. My neck was red and swollen. It snowballed so fast. I was a blur of hands as I scratched and rubbed. both trying to scratch and not at the same time. My inner monologue started quietly saying stop, don't, and soon was yelling stop scratching, you are stronger than this, you are only making it worse, you are damaging yourself, all while I continued to scratch and weep. I want to scratch my skin from my body but at the same time know the pain, frustration and further healing this would require. God, it would feel so good and so right in this moment.

In a fit of frustration and sanity, I break out and whipped on the taps, dash downstairs and grab a new bottle of Pinetarsol. A bright green bath additive to help calm red and inflamed skin. There was a protective cap under the lid I roughly stabbed with the handle of a toothbrush and poured it in. I splashed the Kermit green water on my face from the running bath and felt that familiar sting of skin damage. White remnants of moisturiser coat my wet hands. As soon as possible I sank into the bath. Under from head to toe in my own private tiny quiet world. Eventually, only my lips break the surface to allow me to continue to live in my wee world away from my body. 

Getting out is something I have to psych up for. The towel hurts, the resulting drying hurts my sensitive, broken skin. I dry only my hair and smear my self in greasy steroid creams. Like an addict getting a taste or the forbidden elixir, I soak it up. Relaxing into the ointment pushing back the guilt. Remembering the feeling of artificial healing and relief. I coat myself and the world has calmed a little. Like the eye of a hurricane I know it is only temporary but I will take it.

I sit here in my boxers as I am too greasy to put on clothes. I am also scared any clothes may irritate my heightened skin or soak away my relief. I apologise if this makes little sense, I have literally just dumped my frustrations out onto this page. It will come right. I know this, but constant repair and steroids is not a viable long-term strategy. I have made an appointment with a touchy-feely place tomorrow on the recommendation of my dad. I have been down this road before. We shall see.